the knock on the door of your flat is sudden, completely unexpected because who would possibly be showing up in the middle of the morning on valentines? you've been sitting on your couch all morning, sipping languidly from the nasty herbal tea you've been making to try and feel a bit more productive and put-together. your book rests in your hand and you're reading the lines over and over, trying to take it in to no avail; it's another habit you've been trying to implement after your divorce.

thankfully, now you have a reason to stop reading this stupid self-help book and drinking your gross tea.

setting those aside, right onto the coffee table you rightfully won in the divorce, you pad over to the front door. for whatever reason, not bothering to even check the peephole.

well, curiosity did kill the cat.

before you realize it, you're face-to-face with the man you spent three years dating, ten months engaged to, two years married to, and now, four months divorced from. the last time you spoke was a month ago, a night spent drinking wine and talking all night til you both passed out on the couch, waking up in a very compromising position.

he stands there now with a bouquet of flowers tucked in his arm, a postcard with a stamp as if he was planning to send this by mail, and a blush on his face so deep it looks as if he painted it on.

neither of you speak. his lips remain in a pressed line, eyes darting between yours and the floor, while you stand there, mouth agape, taking in the sight. what do you even say in a situation like this? oh, hello, my ex-husband! how lovely to see you! oh, flowers and a card? for me? wow, come on in! or do you slam the door in his face and later get so drunk you forget how bad you wish you'd accepted it?

this is insane. your ex-husband should not be at the door, especially not with a bouquet of flowers and a card and a blush that makes him look so handsome stupid.

there's so many thoughts running through his head and your silence only spurs them on. why would this ever be a good idea? going to your ex-wife's apartment for valentines? this divorce must've driven him mad. "i should go, this is- is stupid," he mutters under his breath, immediately turning to head right back down the hall with shame.

but you stop him. you don't know why, you don't know what deep-down, simmering little feeling is making you feel like the best idea right now is compelling you to keep him here. maybe it's the thought you just had about what will happen if you don't keep him here for at least enough time to get five words in, about the wine and the regret.

"kento." it's all you can say. he, like an obedient dog of some sort, stops at the sound of your voice. he's never been so... shy, abashed. vines of suffocating fear hold him hostage, holding him back from doing anything more.

his eyes meet yours again, staying on them this time without leaving, as if you're communicating telepathically or in a language only you and him understand. "come in," you say, eyes dropping to the floor when you step back, opening your apartment to him.

your apartment is different than the house you two shared, he notices. much different, like you're rebranding yourself. it's meticulously put together, not homey like it was with him. your favorite blanket is neatly strewn along the back of the couch, not messily along the love seat with your phone on top and your wine glass on the table. you aren't even drinking your usual, you're drinking some kind of tea which he knows you hate.

everything comes back to him at once.

it's not like he ever forgot. how could he? but now it's at the forefront of his mind. the way you would scrunch your nose when he wakes you up early, your favorite wine and the decorated glass you loved it in, how you'd kiss him and get desperate enough to dry-hump him like a horny teen. he misses all of it. every little thing, even the arguments. that's why he's here.

the notion seems to bring back his confidence, letting his shoulders straighten and his face to untwist from that abashed grimace. then he's inside, standing in your doorway and waiting for your direction. the gifts sit in his arms like a cradled baby, a weighted reminder that you haven't even accepted the proposal yet.

the sound of the door shutting pulls his attention to you, watching as you turn to him, eyes meeting again with so many unsaid words it hurts. "you can sit if you'd like," you suggest, hand splayed out to the meticulously decorated sofa. he nods, heads over, sits stiffly like he's going to break the couch if he moves even a bit. he sets the flowers and card on the table and they're the least of his worries.

kento watches you walk over to him, your yoga leggings fit you very well, he notices. he has no desire to look at your body right now though. your face is much more interesting. you seem to be glowing, actually. your eyes shimmer in a way that's unlike how they did when he watched you move your things out of the house.

"how've you been...?" it's all you can think to say. a straight up what the hell's this supposed to be? and a pointed look at the gifts wouldn't be polite, but maybe neither is your ex-husband coming to ask you to be his valentine. he hums, shrugs, watches you sit down.

"better now that i'm here," he says thoughtlessly. there it is, that unassuming, casual charm that just slips off his lips without him thinking. you barely think about it. it's a natural thing for the both of you; a subtle flirt and your inevitable giggle. he watches the way your eyes light up, somehow shining brighter than before, not realizing how it makes him grin. "sorry, sorry," he mutters, unable to stop himself from smiling. you can't help but lean into it, despite the situation.

you can't help but burst out into full-blown laughter at nothing really. it's always been like this with him, easy and silly and dopamine-inducing. "no, no, you're just a charmer, huh? so natural for you." then you're both laughing, your head tipping back and his gaze unable to stay off the column of your throat and the way your mouth is wide open with pure laughter.

you're sure if anyone else saw this they'd think you're both crazy.

"how are you then?" he asks when the laughter dies down, silently thankful that basic politeness a given so he's able to distract himself.

"well," you begin, sucking in a breath through your nose, "my ex-husband just came to the door with a card and flowers and is now on my couch laughing with me. so, however that should make someone feel, i guess."

the air is thick again. you hear him swallow, then a muttered apology. you probably shouldn't have mentioned that, you realize. sometimes you need to face the reality of the situation.

"i didn't mean to disrupt your day... if you have a date or anything, i apologize. i hope you know i would never mean to inflict discomfort—"

"i don't," you interrupt, "i don't have a date."

he doesn't say anything, instead he watches you, lips parted like he's about to say something but won't yet.

"i haven't been with anyone since..." remembering what happened between the two of you is one thing, but talking about it, especially in front of him, is like putting salt and lemon and something else acidic into an open wound.

"me neither."

neither of you will look at the other. your gazes meet in the same spot on the couch, where your knees just almost touch. he can't help himself but let it happen, as if to say he knows how hard it is to speak about.

"i guess these are for me then?" you ask, breaking the silence. your hands reach for the gifts, picking them up as you rise from the couch. the loss of contact makes him jolt. kento hums affirmatively, standing with you, following you over to your kitchen and watching you grab a vase from beneath the counter.

the sound of the running water from your sink fills the room just as it fills the vase. the flowers are gorgeous you notice while waiting; a light, peachy-colored bouquet of your favorite garden roses, wrapped in a angelic paper with a gold tinsel holding the bundle together. they're similar to the ones you held at the altar.

kento stands awkwardly as he watches you cut off the stems and neatly place the flowers into the water. the elephant in the room is gluttonous with its effervescent awkwardness.

"i want to... reiterate. i don't mean to cause you discomfort, and i dont want you to believe im expecting something of you—"

"kento, please—"

"but you have to understand the reason i'm here. i'm not going through some emotional rollercoaster or some hazy panic to not spend the rest of my life on dating apps after such a premature divorce."

you can only stare, barely paying attention as you set the flowers down, facing him with your backside against the sink, the cool tile pressed into the skin like a freshly clean knife just there to make you remember this isn't you. you don't wear tiny tank tops around the house, ones that expose you to the cool air. you don't drink tea, especially not gross, herbal ones. and you certainly don't let the love of your life become the loss of it.

"i can't spend every day of my life without you. that's why i'm here. i hate seeing your life through shoko's posts, and through awkward passings when we see our mutual friends. i did everything i needed to. i went to therapy, i took less work hours, i even did the calming coloring books you enjoy so much. i know what you're thinking: kento, you should've done that when we—"

he can't get the last stanzas of his rant out when your lips find his. it's messy, it's desperate and needy and everything you both crave. the holistic influencers would hate to see you giving into your carnal desires, wouldn't they? hedonism, am i right? but, unfortunately for you, kento is everything you desire and you've never given up a good offer.

it's a clash of tongues and spit and teeth and so much desire you could explode with it. he's grabbing everywhere he can, hands squeezing your ass, then your hip, other hand on your ribs, trying his best not to overstep despite the situation, always the gentleman he is.

"honey—" it's all he can get out between kisses and something you haven't heard since your marriage. you're too caught up in the feeling—the taste, the essence—of him to even register anything but. his fingers slide into your hair, gently pulling at your scalp to pull you back.

"bedroom," he murmurs, eyes on yours, heavy and hungry, only showcasing his self-restraint. you're taking a minute to register and he's got his hand tangled in your hair still and nods your head for you.

as soon as you're in the bedroom, he's stopping you from pulling off your tank top, hushing your neediness and telling you to savor it. "it's been months," he murmurs, breath warm against your neck while his big palms glide splayed over your arms, "months since i've gotten to have you. let's savor this, my love."

he can't fathom how one can be this beautiful. the warm sun of the upcoming noon shines through the window and tints your skin, highlights every freckle and makes your eyes glimmer more than ever. he tells you how much he's missed this and how sorry he is for how things ended, all while letting his hands slide up and under your top.

his hands find the elastic of your sports bra, letting the fabric stretch over his fingertips and ride up over his wrists when he gropes your breasts. they're heavier than before, he thinks, or perhaps it's that he hasn't felt their weight in months. when you croon against his mouth as it finds yours, he can't help himself but to see how prettily you'd react if he'd touch your nipples.

some things never change; your nipples, before he even gets them between his fingers, harden with need, just like they always did. it's pathetic and full of hormones and partially related to the fact that you're ovulating. "look at that," he coos before pinching at the peaks, rolling them so slow just to make you whine.

"ken, please, i just- ngh—"

he watches the way your head throws back, how your hips lift to try and rub against his knee, how your eyelashes flutter when he purposely adjusts his leg to hit right against your clit. you're soaked. he can feel it through his pants, warm and wet on his knee. there's no way you're wearing panties.

if he doesn't touch you soon you'll cry, you're sure of it. you tell him through broken moans something about needing it so bad and getting filled. he's not cruel. after so long, how could he deny you? his suspicion is confirmed when he slides down your yoga pants. soaked all the way to your mid-thigh, no panties in sight, so much heat and desperation radiating off of you as if you'd been getting edged for hours.

"jesus, honey..." is he salivating? the thick swallow that follows gives him away. if he was starving and given the choice between a delicious, warm meal and your cunt, he's sure he'd pick the latter. who wouldn't?

kento drags a finger through your folds, grazing your clit as he slides his thumb back and forth. the slick gathers on his thumb, dripping down his wrist like he's running his finger through the best wine. "such a pretty pussy," he says huskily as he crawls down your body, head settled between your thighs. then he's feasting.

either it's the time apart reminding him how good you taste or somehow you taste even better than the last time because he's in pure bliss right now. he can barely focus on you, on your sweet moans or anything outside of this sweet spot that serves as a permanent treasure for him to rediscover.

you're grasping at the sheets, nails almost puncturing the fabric from pure force. you're pretty sure kento is too blissed out to realize you're shaking. sex after months of abstinence will do that for you. his lips clasp onto your clit, sucking and tweaking it with his tongue over and over while you grasp at his hair.

"fi-fingers—please, baby," you whine, hips bucking into his face insistently. in no time, he's got two fingers inside of you, doesn't even bother to open you up. you don't think you've ever been so horny in your life. he's prying you open so you know he's going to fuck you into oblivion. four plus months without pussy? yeah, you're fucked. literally, physically, metaphorically. religiously? probably.

you're gripping the mattress, crying out like there's nothing more you can do but pathetically warn him you're going to cum. the finger-mouth combination on that man should be illegal with the way it has you squirting and ruining your new sheets, soaking his face. your juices drip off his mouth, on his undershirt, on your sheets, down his neck, making a total mess but he couldn't care less.

then hes crawling back up your body as fast as he crawled down, his mouth finding yours to make sure you taste the same sweetness he's been going to therapy to improve himself for.

his eyes don't leave yours when he unbuckles his belt, pushing off his pants quickly, along with his boxers. "are you sure you want this? not just the sex, all of it."

the question brings you back to reality, the haze in your mind dissipating. you're nodding before you can think, slow and hesitant at first, gradually quicker and sure of yourself. then his almost-arrogant grin transforms into something else. the same one in the photos at the beach from your trip in malaysia, the photos that would hang on the wall of you shared home back then. you can't help but kiss him again, and suddenly it almost feels like your honeymoon again.

his hands slide up the back of your thighs, pushing your legs up before lining himself up. god, the stretch burns. he knows it does. the way you hiss, move your hands to his bicep and let your nails dig into them. he kisses you through it, making sure you know he's not going to rush it.

who knew celibacy made you feel like a virgin after so long?

"my sweet wife." the words are familiar, exactly what you realize you wish you could hear every day; only from his lips, only with his voice. you're sure you'd rather die than give up this moment.

when he's fully sheathed, you feel every vein, every throb, all of his warmth. his hips pull back experimentally, gently slamming back in, letting his balls hit your other hole, only adding to the pleasure. his hands are shaking with restraint, you feel them when they wrap around your torso, holding you flush against his chest.

he's got his head in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, breath warm and heavy against it like he's worn out already but still craving more. you watch the way his back muscles flex when he thrusts, sure as ever that this is what he needs.

"k-ken," you whine, hands grabbing at him almost frantically, making him hush you so gently, telling you that he's going to take care of you. you're bucking again, the friction between his hips and your cunt making the pleasure almost unbearable.

most of it probably comes from the fact that neither of you have gotten laid in months, but also just the fact that you're so warm and tight and he's never felt so in love. well, fuck.

one of his hands slides up your back, cupping your nape while he lets his cock rut into you, rub against your cervix like it's trying to fuck that too, like he needs to be as deep as possible to make sure you never leave again.

you clench so hard he almost cums right then and there. "don't," he practically pleads, "i need this to last." then he's fucking you like he's going to breed you. the lack of a condom is more of a risk than either of you'd like to admit, partially because he doesn't know if you're on birth control anymore and partially because he isn't going to pull out unless you tell him to.

his back rolls rhythmically as he grinds into you, trying to make sure you're completely full. he feels you grab at the hair on his nape, plead for him to let you cum and he can't help but let you. god knows he needs it just as bad.

kento lifts his head, letting his lips meet yours, but not until he whispers, "i love you." it's a silent message. one that says that no matter what happens, he's always yours.

then he's bottoming out, letting his tip hit your sweet spot, grinding against it without breaking contact. his load is heavy and so potent you're sure it could knock you up even with birth control. his groans turn from groans to broken cries, heavy breathing into your mouth with his forehead pressed against yours.

before you even realize it, a tear is trailing down your cheek, dripping into your hair. you don't know why it's there, but kento's thumb comes up as he pulls back a bit, swiping it away and kissing your nose.

the knock on the door of your flat is sudden, completely unexpected because who would possibly be showing up in the middle of the morning on valentines? you've been sitting on your couch all morning, sipping languidly from the nasty herbal tea you've been making to try and feel a bit more productive and put-together. your book rests in your hand and you're reading the lines over and over, trying to take it in to no avail; it's another habit you've been trying to implement after your divorce.

thankfully, now you have a reason to stop reading this stupid self-help book and drinking your gross tea.

setting those aside, right onto the coffee table you rightfully won in the divorce, you pad over to the front door. for whatever reason, not bothering to even check the peephole.

well, curiosity did kill the cat.

before you realize it, you're face-to-face with the man you spent three years dating, ten months engaged to, two years married to, and now, four months divorced from. the last time you spoke was a month ago, a night spent drinking wine and talking all night til you both passed out on the couch, waking up in a very compromising position.

he stands there now with a bouquet of flowers tucked in his arm, a postcard with a stamp as if he was planning to send this by mail, and a blush on his face so deep it looks as if he painted it on.

neither of you speak. his lips remain in a pressed line, eyes darting between yours and the floor, while you stand there, mouth agape, taking in the sight. what do you even say in a situation like this? oh, hello, my ex-husband! how lovely to see you! oh, flowers and a card? for me? wow, come on in! or do you slam the door in his face and later get so drunk you forget how bad you wish you'd accepted it?

this is insane. your ex-husband should not be at the door, especially not with a bouquet of flowers and a card and a blush that makes him look so handsome stupid.

there's so many thoughts running through his head and your silence only spurs them on. why would this ever be a good idea? going to your ex-wife's apartment for valentines? this divorce must've driven him mad. "i should go, this is- is stupid," he mutters under his breath, immediately turning to head right back down the hall with shame.

but you stop him. you don't know why, you don't know what deep-down, simmering little feeling is making you feel like the best idea right now is compelling you to keep him here. maybe it's the thought you just had about what will happen if you don't keep him here for at least enough time to get five words in, about the wine and the regret.

"kento." it's all you can say. he, like an obedient dog of some sort, stops at the sound of your voice. he's never been so... shy, abashed. vines of suffocating fear hold him hostage, holding him back from doing anything more.

his eyes meet yours again, staying on them this time without leaving, as if you're communicating telepathically or in a language only you and him understand. "come in," you say, eyes dropping to the floor when you step back, opening your apartment to him.

your apartment is different than the house you two shared, he notices. much different, like you're rebranding yourself. it's meticulously put together, not homey like it was with him. your favorite blanket is neatly strewn along the back of the couch, not messily along the love seat with your phone on top and your wine glass on the table. you aren't even drinking your usual, you're drinking some kind of tea which he knows you hate.

everything comes back to him at once.

it's not like he ever forgot. how could he? but now it's at the forefront of his mind. the way you would scrunch your nose when he wakes you up early, your favorite wine and the decorated glass you loved it in, how you'd kiss him and get desperate enough to dry-hump him like a horny teen. he misses all of it. every little thing, even the arguments. that's why he's here.

the notion seems to bring back his confidence, letting his shoulders straighten and his face to untwist from that abashed grimace. then he's inside, standing in your doorway and waiting for your direction. the gifts sit in his arms like a cradled baby, a weighted reminder that you haven't even accepted the proposal yet.

the sound of the door shutting pulls his attention to you, watching as you turn to him, eyes meeting again with so many unsaid words it hurts. "you can sit if you'd like," you suggest, hand splayed out to the meticulously decorated sofa. he nods, heads over, sits stiffly like he's going to break the couch if he moves even a bit. he sets the flowers and card on the table and they're the least of his worries.

kento watches you walk over to him, your yoga leggings fit you very well, he notices. he has no desire to look at your body right now though. your face is much more interesting. you seem to be glowing, actually. your eyes shimmer in a way that's unlike how they did when he watched you move your things out of the house.

"how've you been...?" it's all you can think to say. a straight up what the hell's this supposed to be? and a pointed look at the gifts wouldn't be polite, but maybe neither is your ex-husband coming to ask you to be his valentine. he hums, shrugs, watches you sit down.

"better now that i'm here," he says thoughtlessly. there it is, that unassuming, casual charm that just slips off his lips without him thinking. you barely think about it. it's a natural thing for the both of you; a subtle flirt and your inevitable giggle. he watches the way your eyes light up, somehow shining brighter than before, not realizing how it makes him grin. "sorry, sorry," he mutters, unable to stop himself from smiling. you can't help but lean into it, despite the situation.

you can't help but burst out into full-blown laughter at nothing really. it's always been like this with him, easy and silly and dopamine-inducing. "no, no, you're just a charmer, huh? so natural for you." then you're both laughing, your head tipping back and his gaze unable to stay off the column of your throat and the way your mouth is wide open with pure laughter.

you're sure if anyone else saw this they'd think you're both crazy.

"how are you then?" he asks when the laughter dies down, silently thankful that basic politeness a given so he's able to distract himself.

"well," you begin, sucking in a breath through your nose, "my ex-husband just came to the door with a card and flowers and is now on my couch laughing with me. so, however that should make someone feel, i guess."

the air is thick again. you hear him swallow, then a muttered apology. you probably shouldn't have mentioned that, you realize. sometimes you need to face the reality of the situation.

"i didn't mean to disrupt your day... if you have a date or anything, i apologize. i hope you know i would never mean to inflict discomfort—"

"i don't," you interrupt, "i don't have a date."

he doesn't say anything, instead he watches you, lips parted like he's about to say something but won't yet.

"i haven't been with anyone since..." remembering what happened between the two of you is one thing, but talking about it, especially in front of him, is like putting salt and lemon and something else acidic into an open wound.

"me neither."

neither of you will look at the other. your gazes meet in the same spot on the couch, where your knees just almost touch. he can't help himself but let it happen, as if to say he knows how hard it is to speak about.

"i guess these are for me then?" you ask, breaking the silence. your hands reach for the gifts, picking them up as you rise from the couch. the loss of contact makes him jolt. kento hums affirmatively, standing with you, following you over to your kitchen and watching you grab a vase from beneath the counter.

the sound of the running water from your sink fills the room just as it fills the vase. the flowers are gorgeous you notice while waiting; a light, peachy-colored bouquet of your favorite garden roses, wrapped in a angelic paper with a gold tinsel holding the bundle together. they're similar to the ones you held at the altar.

kento stands awkwardly as he watches you cut off the stems and neatly place the flowers into the water. the elephant in the room is gluttonous with its effervescent awkwardness.

"i want to... reiterate. i don't mean to cause you discomfort, and i dont want you to believe im expecting something of you—"

"kento, please—"

"but you have to understand the reason i'm here. i'm not going through some emotional rollercoaster or some hazy panic to not spend the rest of my life on dating apps after such a premature divorce."

you can only stare, barely paying attention as you set the flowers down, facing him with your backside against the sink, the cool tile pressed into the skin like a freshly clean knife just there to make you remember this isn't you. you don't wear tiny tank tops around the house, ones that expose you to the cool air. you don't drink tea, especially not gross, herbal ones. and you certainly don't let the love of your life become the loss of it.

"i can't spend every day of my life without you. that's why i'm here. i hate seeing your life through shoko's posts, and through awkward passings when we see our mutual friends. i did everything i needed to. i went to therapy, i took less work hours, i even did the calming coloring books you enjoy so much. i know what you're thinking: kento, you should've done that when we—"

he can't get the last stanzas of his rant out when your lips find his. it's messy, it's desperate and needy and everything you both crave. the holistic influencers would hate to see you giving into your carnal desires, wouldn't they? hedonism, am i right? but, unfortunately for you, kento is everything you desire and you've never given up a good offer.

it's a clash of tongues and spit and teeth and so much desire you could explode with it. he's grabbing everywhere he can, hands squeezing your ass, then your hip, other hand on your ribs, trying his best not to overstep despite the situation, always the gentleman he is.

"honey—" it's all he can get out between kisses and something you haven't heard since your marriage. you're too caught up in the feeling—the taste, the essence—of him to even register anything but. his fingers slide into your hair, gently pulling at your scalp to pull you back.

"bedroom," he murmurs, eyes on yours, heavy and hungry, only showcasing his self-restraint. you're taking a minute to register and he's got his hand tangled in your hair still and nods your head for you.

as soon as you're in the bedroom, he's stopping you from pulling off your tank top, hushing your neediness and telling you to savor it. "it's been months," he murmurs, breath warm against your neck while his big palms glide splayed over your arms, "months since i've gotten to have you. let's savor this, my love."

he can't fathom how one can be this beautiful. the warm sun of the upcoming noon shines through the window and tints your skin, highlights every freckle and makes your eyes glimmer more than ever. he tells you how much he's missed this and how sorry he is for how things ended, all while letting his hands slide up and under your top.

his hands find the elastic of your sports bra, letting the fabric stretch over his fingertips and ride up over his wrists when he gropes your breasts. they're heavier than before, he thinks, or perhaps it's that he hasn't felt their weight in months. when you croon against his mouth as it finds yours, he can't help himself but to see how prettily you'd react if he'd touch your nipples.

some things never change; your nipples, before he even gets them between his fingers, harden with need, just like they always did. it's pathetic and full of hormones and partially related to the fact that you're ovulating. "look at that," he coos before pinching at the peaks, rolling them so slow just to make you whine.

"ken, please, i just- ngh—"

he watches the way your head throws back, how your hips lift to try and rub against his knee, how your eyelashes flutter when he purposely adjusts his leg to hit right against your clit. you're soaked. he can feel it through his pants, warm and wet on his knee. there's no way you're wearing panties.

if he doesn't touch you soon you'll cry, you're sure of it. you tell him through broken moans something about needing it so bad and getting filled. he's not cruel. after so long, how could he deny you? his suspicion is confirmed when he slides down your yoga pants. soaked all the way to your mid-thigh, no panties in sight, so much heat and desperation radiating off of you as if you'd been getting edged for hours.

"jesus, honey..." is he salivating? the thick swallow that follows gives him away. if he was starving and given the choice between a delicious, warm meal and your cunt, he's sure he'd pick the latter. who wouldn't?

kento drags a finger through your folds, grazing your clit as he slides his thumb back and forth. the slick gathers on his thumb, dripping down his wrist like he's running his finger through the best wine. "such a pretty pussy," he says huskily as he crawls down your body, head settled between your thighs. then he's feasting.

either it's the time apart reminding him how good you taste or somehow you taste even better than the last time because he's in pure bliss right now. he can barely focus on you, on your sweet moans or anything outside of this sweet spot that serves as a permanent treasure for him to rediscover.

you're grasping at the sheets, nails almost puncturing the fabric from pure force. you're pretty sure kento is too blissed out to realize you're shaking. sex after months of abstinence will do that for you. his lips clasp onto your clit, sucking and tweaking it with his tongue over and over while you grasp at his hair.

"fi-fingers—please, baby," you whine, hips bucking into his face insistently. in no time, he's got two fingers inside of you, doesn't even bother to open you up. you don't think you've ever been so horny in your life. he's prying you open so you know he's going to fuck you into oblivion. four plus months without pussy? yeah, you're fucked. literally, physically, metaphorically. religiously? probably.

you're gripping the mattress, crying out like there's nothing more you can do but pathetically warn him you're going to cum. the finger-mouth combination on that man should be illegal with the way it has you squirting and ruining your new sheets, soaking his face. your juices drip off his mouth, on his undershirt, on your sheets, down his neck, making a total mess but he couldn't care less.

then hes crawling back up your body as fast as he crawled down, his mouth finding yours to make sure you taste the same sweetness he's been going to therapy to improve himself for.

his eyes don't leave yours when he unbuckles his belt, pushing off his pants quickly, along with his boxers. "are you sure you want this? not just the sex, all of it."

the question brings you back to reality, the haze in your mind dissipating. you're nodding before you can think, slow and hesitant at first, gradually quicker and sure of yourself. then his almost-arrogant grin transforms into something else. the same one in the photos at the beach from your trip in malaysia, the photos that would hang on the wall of you shared home back then. you can't help but kiss him again, and suddenly it almost feels like your honeymoon again.

his hands slide up the back of your thighs, pushing your legs up before lining himself up. god, the stretch burns. he knows it does. the way you hiss, move your hands to his bicep and let your nails dig into them. he kisses you through it, making sure you know he's not going to rush it.

who knew celibacy made you feel like a virgin after so long?

"my sweet wife." the words are familiar, exactly what you realize you wish you could hear every day; only from his lips, only with his voice. you're sure you'd rather die than give up this moment.

when he's fully sheathed, you feel every vein, every throb, all of his warmth. his hips pull back experimentally, gently slamming back in, letting his balls hit your other hole, only adding to the pleasure. his hands are shaking with restraint, you feel them when they wrap around your torso, holding you flush against his chest.

he's got his head in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, breath warm and heavy against it like he's worn out already but still craving more. you watch the way his back muscles flex when he thrusts, sure as ever that this is what he needs.

"k-ken," you whine, hands grabbing at him almost frantically, making him hush you so gently, telling you that he's going to take care of you. you're bucking again, the friction between his hips and your cunt making the pleasure almost unbearable.

most of it probably comes from the fact that neither of you have gotten laid in months, but also just the fact that you're so warm and tight and he's never felt so in love. well, fuck.

one of his hands slides up your back, cupping your nape while he lets his cock rut into you, rub against your cervix like it's trying to fuck that too, like he needs to be as deep as possible to make sure you never leave again.

you clench so hard he almost cums right then and there. "don't," he practically pleads, "i need this to last." then he's fucking you like he's going to breed you. the lack of a condom is more of a risk than either of you'd like to admit, partially because he doesn't know if you're on birth control anymore and partially because he isn't going to pull out unless you tell him to.

his back rolls rhythmically as he grinds into you, trying to make sure you're completely full. he feels you grab at the hair on his nape, plead for him to let you cum and he can't help but let you. god knows he needs it just as bad.

kento lifts his head, letting his lips meet yours, but not until he whispers, "i love you." it's a silent message. one that says that no matter what happens, he's always yours.

then he's bottoming out, letting his tip hit your sweet spot, grinding against it without breaking contact. his load is heavy and so potent you're sure it could knock you up even with birth control. his groans turn from groans to broken cries, heavy breathing into your mouth with his forehead pressed against yours.

before you even realize it, a tear is trailing down your cheek, dripping into your hair. you don't know why it's there, but kento's thumb comes up as he pulls back a bit, swiping it away and kissing your nose.

satoru's head perks up, chin tilting up instinctively at the sound of your keys jingling in the lock. the apartment had been silently buzzing with your absence all day, forcing him to fill his time without you there. but he's forty now, doesn't fight anymore, retired from the school. he has too much time and too much money on his hands.

the magazine in his hands is long forgotten, tossed on the sofa and filling in his own absence as he stands. he doesn't take a moment to stretch, doesn't give you a second to do anything yourself. after a long day of driving yourself around from class to class, studying and learning and filling your beautiful brain, he can't let you handle anything at home.

he can feel the weight of the day radiating off of you. the physical weight of your bag down to your undergarments must be overwhelming, as if each individual thing on you has an extra ten pounds added just from your stress. his face remains neutral, only showing a hint of his worry so you don't feel inclined to put the extra effort to speak and comfort him. your bag and coat come off first, then he drops to his knees and pulls off your shoes, setting each thing so perfectly in its designated spot.

satoru lets you walk in front of him as he stands up, one hand on your nape like a possessive, mentor-like comfort to let you know he will take care of everything.

all you want right now is to change into something less tight and presentable because you're tired of performing today, tired of sitting up straight with great posture and trying to get every question your professor asks right. he gets that, satoru really gets that. being the strongest is full of performing and he'd never want his darling to think she has to do that for him.