#thegoods

Your husband—Suguru Geto, a beautiful man with a kind smile and evil, evil hands—had you spread pretty on his lap, his knees tucked under yours to keep your thighs pinned open for him. He was careful not to tie the pretty, purple ropes around your arms too tight, but after this long, you were convinced there’d be red marks ingrained into the plush of your skin in ringlets. The diamond-weave arm-binder tie he’d wound you up in was designed to distribute pressure and ease any pinching, as he’d been happy to inform you while he kept a knee pinned to your back and roped you up, but one could only handle so much restraint for so long. Your continuous writhing and wriggling certainly exacerbated the agitation. 

It’s not like you were resisting! Not anymore, at least; you’d given up on wrestling your way out of this after the fifth or sixth orgasm he’d wrenched out of you with his expert fingers. No, at this point, it was simply a biological reaction to a sensation you couldn’t pinpoint as pain nor pleasure. The need not to escape, per se, but to work the building energy out of your body by any means necessary. 

Whatever the reason for your squirming, it didn’t deter your dear husband in the least. He knew you had an easy out if you really wanted it; one, simple word spoken, and everything would come rushing to a halt. In fact, you had a sneaking suspicion your jerkiness only fueled his greed for your pleasure, if the way his aching cock jumped against your lower back had anything to say about it. 

At first, you’d thought his mouth was the real villain. He’d sank to his knees after every few climaxes to clean up the mess between your legs, those pretty eyes of his—glittering the same amethyst as the ropes he’d bound you with—staring up at you with equal parts amusement and devotion. He’d start with a firm press of his tongue to the base of your slit, draaaagging a path all the way up to your poor, throbbing clit, before lowering back down to pull another languid stroke along your folds. Once he’d drank up everything along your thighs and lips, that mean tongue of his would dip in to gulp down the rest in lecherous slurps. You could never be sure whether the low moans he let off were meant to torture you with the vibrations, or if they were genuine responses to how much he enjoyed your taste dripping down his throat.

But even if he had you squirming and crying for him to stop teasing every time he used his mouth to work you up again, that tongue of his couldn’t compare to the brutal dexterity of his long fingers. 

Suguru had memorized every sweet spot on and in your body a long time ago. He often knew you better than you knew yourself, working his fingers along the soft spots of your thighs and making you gasp until the stimulation had you wet enough for him to slip in knuckle-deep without resistance. Tease that he was, he’d usually use his extensive knowledge of your body to dodge those spots on purpose until you begged for mercy. He’d work you up slowly every time, savoring the sweetness of your need until it exploded from the slow-cooking pressure. Then he’d have you watch as he drank you off of his fingers, sometimes even sharing the taste with you from his own lips. He’d often give in to your cute begging after making you cum two or three times, finally sinking himself into your heat and reaching a pinnacle of pleasure in sync with each other. 

There was almost a comedy in the way he always did all the work. Suguru had always preferred to be in control in most aspects of his life, and your pleasure was no exception. But his strict nature didn’t temper your own need to approach your life with a hands-on attitude. Part of what had drawn him to you in the first place was how determined you were to take charge of your own narrative, after all. 

Of course, he also recognized the danger of this little habit of yours. You struck your story while the iron was hot just like he did, and he admired your ambition, but you lacked the discipline to know when to let the heat simper and to catch your breath. He often found you burnt out and overworked, forgetting to take breaks at best and forgoing entire meals at worst. It was a chore to pull you away from your passions when the fire consumed you like this. He often needed to use a touch of conniving forcefulness—a cut wifi signal here, your favorite meal’s scent wafting under the door there. On the worst days, he’d physically remove you from your workspace and drag you toward your basic human needs. 

When he’d been especially busy for the last two days—a tension headache of his own creeping in and separating him from his work—he’d been hoping to slip into bed beside his already-sleeping wife. Instead, he’d walked in on you, hunched up at your desk with terrible posture, dressed in the same clothes as the day before, surrounded by nothing but empty cans of some caffeinated garbage and a few wrappers denoting quick snacks. 

You’d been scruffed before you knew what was happening.

It started in the shower. He’d stripped you with a fervor, wrestling you under the hot water and replacing any protests on your lips with his own tongue. He’d caged you against the shower wall with his imposing figure, one hand pinning your wrists to the wall while the other slipped between your legs. One of his thick thighs pinned your legs open while he worked you to the brink faster than ever before. He’d made it his mission to target all of your weak points first until you were seeing stars in record time, spasming around his long digits in the way he could never get enough of. He didn’t stop even when his fingers pruned, when his joints ached, when his knuckles rubbed raw against your greedy pussy. He didn’t stop until you were squirting all over his thigh and collapsing against him as your body gave out.

“There we go,” he purred, offering the first words he’d spoken since he found you in such a sorry state. “There’s my pretty girl. What were you thinking, sweetheart? Did you even eat a single meal while I was out? And those chunks of garbage you call ‘snacks’ don’t count.”

You could barely wheeze out a response as he cleaned you and scolded you in equal measure, limp on the shower floor where he’d lowered you to sit against the wall while his devoted hands dragged suds over your skin in methodical strokes. 

Perhaps it would’ve been better if you hadn’t caught your breath. Foolishly, you’re interrupting his gentle tirade with a mumbled protest of your own, “Th’deadline’s soon, Sugu. I gotta keep workin’ on it tonight—mmph!” You didn’t get much further when he stuffed two of his non-soapy fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue in warning. Your stubborn streak got the better of you, and you’d gnawed on his digits in retaliation just a little, trying to justify your actions around the thick intrusions clogging your words. 

He’d left you in the shower soon after with the curt instruction to dry off. Guilt warred with indignation; you may be his wife, but he had no right to tell you how to live. You were a grown woman with a job to do, and if he didn’t like it, then maybe he shouldn’t have married someone with such a strong work ethic. But as you dried off and entered the bedroom, steeling yourself for an unpleasant conversation—perhaps even an argument—he’d pinned you face-down in the sheets before you could blink. You felt the ropes before you saw them, and equal parts dismay and arousal flushed through your body when you realized exactly what kind of fight you’d be having—and losing.

And here you were, two hours later, as boneless and tear-streaked and pliant as he wanted you, reaping the consequences of your own foolishness. Your lack of self-preservation had put you in the jaws of the most dangerous predator you’d ever met in your life. And yet, not a mere inch of you could pretend to want to escape anymore. 

“So good f’me,” came your husband’s sultry purr against the shell of your ear, low and breathy in the way he knew you loved. Soothing, almost, if not for the blissful cruelty of his hands. “My pretty girl, all sweet an’ needy. This is how my wife should be treated.” 

He leaned in to lick a stripe up the side of your neck, letting out a low trill of amusement when the motion made you hiccup and clench around him. Mumbling into your pulse point, “She should be loved. Revered. Pleasured… Worshipped.” 

Suguru’s sharp canines bit into your skin just enough to leave stinging red brands behind, sucking your flesh between his lips and adding another purplish mark to the menagerie he’d littered you with. His free hand kneaded at your chest, groping the swell in slow pulses before giving the peak a little pinch. His lips were over yours again before you had a chance to moan. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he groaned into your mouth. “You’re doin’ so well, my wife. Isn’t it better like this? Letting your husband ruin this perfect body with pleasure, instead of ruining yourself with all that work and exhaustion?”

The last remaining slivers of your sanity wanted to bark at him, to remind him how he had no room to talk, to spit right into his mouth and make him check himself. But those slivers dissipated with another quick tap-tap-tap to your pulsing clit, and suddenly you were lolling your head forward and drooling and letting out some garbled sound of need.

Suguru only cooed, tugging you back against him to rest on his chest with your head tucked into his shoulder. “Shhhhh,” he soothed, though the hand orchestrating your downfall didn’t slow in the slightest. He pet tenderly over your skin in broad strokes, soothing your frayed nerves while he kissed far too sweetly at your temple for all this bullying. 

“It’s okay, sweet girl.” Suguru’s tongue trailed lightly up your cheek to collect an errant tear, reaching up to turn your head just enough to drink up the drool on your chin, too. “I’m here. You’re doing so well. It feels good, yeah? This is where you belong.”

He’d done well to alternate back and forth between focusing on your clit and your g-spot, giving each tender area a break between each climax just enough to prolong the amount of rounds he could force out of your pliant body. But even with his calculations, you were reaching your limit.

He hadn’t even cum once. 

“S.. Sugu,” you managed to mumble. It took conscious effort to roll your eyes out of your skull to look at him, half-lidded and teary and fucked out beyond repair. He hummed in response all the same, kissing along your cheek before pressing his forehead to yours with a patient smile. “What is it, my sweet girl? Tell me what you need.”

Your hands, bound squarely against your back where your arms had been pinned, reached out just enough to graze against his cock throbbing against your tailbone. He flinched at the contact and creased his brows.

“Naughty girl,” he mused through gritted teeth. “Trying to distract me? I have a very important mission, you know. If my wife can still think enough to plot against me, then we’re not done here yet—”

“S’not that,” you whined against his lips. You could barely recognize your own voice in its breathless pitchiness. Perhaps you’d be embarrassed if he hadn’t already fucked all the logic and awareness out of you. “Jus’ need you inside.” 

The hand torturing your folds halted. 

“…Fuck, sweetheart,” Suguru laughed against your lips. Hoarse. A little crazed, maybe. You could feel his cock jump against your fingers as you continued to reach for him in vain, just barely able to graze your fingerpads against his pulsing shaft. “You’re too good t’me.” 

“S’not f’you,” came your jumbled correction. “I jus’ wan’ it.”

It was hard to accuse you of being bratty when your drunken slurring was so earnest. He let his forehead drop into your shoulder with another laugh mixed up in a groan of blissful anguish. Sticky pre dripped over your fingers, coating you in a needy sheen despite barely being able to touch him at all. 

It was a night for firsts, apparently; you’d never once seen your Suguru so sensitive.

You expected him to switch positions. He often liked to have you on your hands and knees where he could glue himself to your back and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, or lay you down face-up so he could watch you fall apart beneath the curtain of his silky hair, veiling you both in a curtain and tunneling your vision. Always looming over you, always consuming your senses until you were trapped in a world of pleasure with him and nothing else.

But perhaps this extended ordeal had snipped at his patience as much as it had burned yours to ash, because large hands found your hips and lifted you up with minimal effort. He lined his tip up with the slick mess dripping from your folds and pushed an inch in without warning, choking a sob out of your lungs just as he hissed into your shoulder.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Suguru growled against your skin, grateful to be able to hide his unsightly snarl from view. “So good. Too fuckin’ good.” 

That ‘too good’-ness didn’t stop him from rutting up in shallow thrusts, chasing an overdue high deep within you. He’d been working you open for hours now, but it didn’t stop the way you clenched around him on instinct alone, fluttering weakly along each inch disappearing inside of you. It took several upward jerks until you felt stuffed full. A quiet, foggy part of your mind recalled how he never quite fit all the way; he surely could if he tried, but Suguru greatly preferred focusing on ruining you rather than chasing his own pleasure, and he’d never seen the point in going through all that extra prep when you already felt so perfect around him.

But he’d apparently shattered his own awareness, too. Tired, frustrated, and wanting his wife since long before he’d returned home, not to mention how long he’d held back in order to carry out his vindication, the leash of self-control he often prided himself on had pulled too taut and snapped! clean in half.

“Fit,” you heard him repeatedly hissing into your skin. One of his large hands slid up to grip and grope at your chest like he was trying to ground himself while the other dug into your hip enough to leave a handprint, keeping you steady with each vicious drive of his hips into yours. “Fucking fit.”

“S-Sugu—?” you tried to coo, a flush of worry dampening the fuzz laying thick over your mind. But he fucked that out of you, too, right alongside your withering sanity. Both of his hands slid up under your arms and snaked behind your head, locking his fingers together against the back of your scalp. He pushed you down and rammed his hips up in sync, knocking the gentle words out of your lungs and replacing them with wanton sounds of pleasure. His name stayed on your lips, of course, but it took on the sweet, needy cadence he loved to drag out of you. 

One particular thrust finally had him slapping flush against your heat all the way down to his hilt. He let out an odd noise between a whine and a curse, his beefy biceps flexing hard against you before going limp and sliding down to hug around your waist. You felt something wet hit your shoulder where his forehead rested, large hands shaking just slightly against your heated skin. 

Suguru would sooner die than let you acknowledge him crying in bed, though. 

Your chest squished against the plush mattress before you registered him flipping you over while still buried inside, your spent legs hanging uselessly off the edge of the bed. He wasted no time in reestablishing a brutal pace, pressing the contour of his muscular form flush against the arch of your spine, hugging you tight to him and panting into your shoulder.

“You’re so p-perfect, my wife,” he rasped, slamming long, harsh drags from hilt to tip with every thrust, like he was marveling at your ability to take him in full. “I love you. I love you. You’re everything. M—mmgh. My perfect girl.”

And surely, he would deny ever having stuttered later when his senses returned, using your own broken state against your recall despite the sly, knowing curl of his lips giving him away. But for now, he hardly had the mind to care. One diligent hand slipped down between your legs and pressed on your poor, oversensitive clit, swirling rapid circles around it and tensing up your body in a rapid surge of overwhelming pleasure-pain. 

“One more,” Suguru hissed into your ear, just a little too commanding to be pleading. “You can give me one more, my wife.”

“I-I can’t—!” you tried to sob, but his free hand tugged your chin to the side to meet his lips, tonguefucking the denial right out of you until you were too dizzy with breathless pleasure to doubt yourself. His ministrations against your sensitive spots sped up until, in defiance with your own exhaustion, another high built and built and built up under your skin from head to toe. Suguru pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, “Cum.”

You were seeing white a moment later. You might’ve blacked out, in fact, because one moment it felt like you were being fullbody tackled by overstimulated bliss, and another you’re blinking awake laying on your back with your arms untied. The lack of binding doesn’t seem to change a thing, though; you can’t lift a finger without your whole body screaming in protest. 

Your husband exited the bathroom with a warm washcloth in hand. He practically glowed with satisfaction as he sank between your legs. His usual voice—soft, warm, lacking the unfamiliar desperate edge from a few minutes ago—met your ears, “Can I clean you up, my love?”

You felt cement clogging your throat. It took all of your strength to muster a nod clear enough for him to see, and you earned a gentle, proud smile in response.

There’s no pleasure to be had when a finger slipped in to gently work the mess out of you. It’s all tingles and discomfort now, but Suguru was careful, moving with slow drags and frequent check-ins to make sure he wasn’t hurting you in the process. It was almost soothing despite the sensitivity, the way he spoke quiet words of praise and pride against your thigh all the while. Once he’d cleaned you out and wiped you down, Suguru carried you back into the shower. He was much gentler with the way he bathed you this time; rather than pinning you to the wall and working you into submission beneath his hands, he ran a soft stream over your skin in attentive reverence, bathing and rinsing you from head to toe in his lap on the shower floor much more thoroughly this time. You were in and out of sleep the whole way through, but he didn’t seem to mind, humming his sweet praises to you like a lullaby. 

At some point, you found yourself in bed—naked, dry, and thoroughly spent—tucked against Suguru’s body as he soothed you to sleep with little kisses to your face and gentle pets down your back. “Tomorrow, we’re having breakfast together,” he informed you too sweetly to sound like the demand it was, “and you’re eating real food.”

A/N: i wasn't sure if you wanted cult leader sugu, sorcerer sugu, or a non-sorcerer au flavor, so i did my best to keep it vague and just focus on the character dynamics instead o////o;