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yeyinde · 4 months ago

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my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around.

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry.

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long.

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare.

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for.

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried.

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could.

Domineering. Grossly possessive.

He has you already, but that's not enough.

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be.

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse.

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out.

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life.

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous.

Dismissive.

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe.

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only.

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm.

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time.

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy.

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time.

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away.

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content.

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him.

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile.

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce.

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut.

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable.

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct.

Good girl.

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye.

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

#*infidelity but does it really count when your wife is getting in the way of your family 🙄#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #while i def have my suspicions that white ariana is the anti-christ i did listen to needy on repeat while writing this #captain john price #john price #captain price #pricefics

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white-poppie · 21 days ago

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Status upgrade ?! ⎯ ft. jjk men

feat ⎯ satoru, kento, suguru, sukuna 'n toji

synopsis ⎯ you accidentally refer to your boyfriend as 'husband' !

a/n ⎯ I was giggling the entire time writing this, also sukuna is not the king of curses here because I said so.

✶ ࣪˖ GOJO SATORU

You can't seem to be able to catch your breath with him, not enough air fills in your lungs as you stare at him with clenched fists and a taut jaw.

"What part of 'I didn't want you to take on that mission' did you not understand 'Toru?" you say, exasperated, your voice cracking in sheer frustration after having gone back and forth the same topic infinite times, all ending with 'you know I have to, it's not like I want to,' or something like that.

But you are tired, you really are, the kettle whistling cacophonically when the two of you finally found time for an intimate little movie night, interrupted by a call on his phone and then him subsequently teleporting away like it was nothing. Like you were a fool, feeling all giddy for just finally being able to spend time and woosh, he's gone.

"I'm sorry baby, you know I have no choice, there are people who depend on me." His pretty face crumpled in guilt and annoyance all the same. And every time he says this, it's like his way of shutting you off, because how do you even respond to people's lives being dependent on him?

Its too much, it really is too much sometimes. Somehow, all of these discussions end with you feeling like the douche.

"I hate when you do this," you choke, "I can't even have a little time with my husband now." It leaves and you don't even register it, but Satoru does.

He takes in a deep breath, his own throat in brambles while his heart stutters. A little slip off the tongue and it hits him harder than ever.

"Your husband?" he says, trying so desperately to not let his muscles twitch into a wide grin, but he can't help it. And so against the situation, his eyebrows soften down and little smile appears on his face.

There is a tender feeling in his chest that seizes his entire being, somehow, that one word makes all of it feel so tangible. Your concern, endearing then, seems heartfelt now. A sudden strike of accountability that perhaps stems from the little future he imagines within that few-second interval when you call him your 'husband.'

"Whatever," you bristle, annoyed, embarrassed at the slip of the tongue, turning around to walk away from him, before two muscular arms find their way on your waist and you freeze. His weight against your back, nose nuzzling into your shoulder, tufts of white hair tickling against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into your shoulder flesh, hot breathing fanning against the skin. His arms tighten around your waist as though holding your back from moving, to keep you planted as you are, in his arms, forever. "I'm sorry, I promise I'll say no, I promise I'll try to reject the missions I can." He whispers out, planting kisses against the expanse of your neck causing you to shiver against his broad frame.

You sigh deeply, hand coming to caress his face. "Okay," you breathe out.

"And as your husband — I should really stick to you like glue, yeah? More so if I wanna make it into reality," His large hand sprawls on your tummy and you can hear that damn smirk on his face.

Your cheeks turn red and you try desperately to backtrack, "It just slipped out of my mouth—"

"Yeah, yeah, as I was saying, do you prefer a pear-cut or a marquise-cut diamond?"

God he is so obnoxious.

✶ ࣪˖ NANAMI KENTO

You're sleepy, so damn sleepy that you could just fall into sleep the instant you find a surface to lay on.

"You look exhausted," Kento comments, his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he looks at your weary form. You peer to look at him through the mirror on your vanity. He looks like a dream. His reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, a classic novella in his hands as he leans against the bedrest.

"Come here, love," he pats the space on the mattress, right beside him and you feet move before you can think, climbing onto the bed, you bury yourself against his side, curling in.

A soft smile graces his lips as he pulls you closer against his side with his free arm, his fingers carding through your hair.

"Tough day?"

"Mmh, it was so tiring," he nods at your reply, taking in a deep breath.

"Yeah? Tell me about it."

"Well for starters, I worked like a dog and then stayed for overtime, my favourite lipgloss finished and when I wanted to treat myself nice; they put too much sugar in my drink." You huff.

"Oh that sounds tiring," he murmurs, "why don't you get some sleep, hm? We can plan a little get-away this weekend." he whispered out, leaning over to keep his book and switch off the lights so they don't burn as sharply against your sleepy eyes.

When he settles back, he's met with a tender quirk of your lips, "You're amazing, Kento," you murmur, letting yourself be shifted carefully against him as he lays down from where he was sitting.

A deep, dulcet chuckle leaves him at that, "Really, what did I do?"

"Nothing, you just are perfect, the perfect husband a girl could ask for," it leaves your sleep-addled mouth before you can even comprehend it, and Kento freezes for just a second, his hand that was brushing your hair pauses in its tracks. On any random day he would have been flattered beyond words, but right now he is flattered and dumbfounded.

"Your husband?" he replies, trying his absolute best not to laugh and wake you up.

You blink, slowly as the realisation sets in and bury yourself against his chest in embarrassment. "Kentoooo" you groan out.

Nanami chuckles and shakes his at your embarrassed antics, utterly endeared, and presses a soft kiss on your forehead.

"Why are you embarrassed, love? Its good you are already getting a habit of it, because it's not that distant of a future."

✶ ࣪˖ SUGURU GETO

The girls started calling you 'mom.' It happened slowly, gradually as you eased your way through the household.

Suguru was still 'Mister-Geto', but you were mom. That was enough for him, that meant everything, to watch the girls find solace in your presence.

A Sunday outing, one of the few rare days Suguru got free time from his cult and the way he spends it is to spend time with Nanako, Mimiko and you. You're seated at the girl's favourite restaurant, the girls on one side and the two of you on the other.

"I'll have a burger," Mimiko chimes "and fries."

"Why are you copying me? I said burger in the car first," Nanako looks at her with a sort of distressed expression.

"No but I thought of it before you said it."

"And I-I thought of it, yesterday."

And apparently they thought of the burger and fries the day before and the day before that, and the day before the day before...

"Girls, calm down," Suguru sighs with a soft chuckle, placing the menu down. "You can both get burger and fries."

"But do you really want to get the same thing everytime, there are other options on the menu too," you suggest, hoping to calm the tension down. "Like Chicken nuggets."

"I'll get Chicken nuggies." Nanako quickly suggests, earning a very obvious side eye from her twin. Suguru sighed, calling for the waiter at that.

"Uhmm, one chicken nuggets meal, a burger with fries and I'll have Aglio Olio and so will my husband." You mutter and the waiter nods, taking your order, and you are met with three curious, wide-eyed people back on your table. Suguru, Nanako, Mimiko; everyone's gaze stuck at you, making you very obviously aware of your blunder.

And for a second you wish you could melt into the seats.

"Are you married to already Mr Geto, mom?" Mimiko speaks out, slightly surprised and you can't help but groan in embarrassment at the innocent curiousity on her face.

"Not yet," Suguru breaks through the awkwardness, answering for you. His soft eyes reaching over to look at you, his fingers intertwining with yours under the table.

And you notice him share a glance with girls, as though a secretive pact you don't quite understand but they do.

"So we still need the rin⎯" Nanako tries to utter, to which Mimiko quickly places her hand on her mouth...yeah its going to be one interesting day.

✶ ࣪˖ SUKUNA

Sukuna has a staring problem and everyone notices it, including your coworkers at your 'stupid work-party' as Sukuna likes to call it. And he draws eyes, everywhere. Its hard to not notiuce him when he's towering everyone, standing in a corner all broody. He's eyeing everyone in the room, staring down at everyone who talks to you. If he were a dog, his damn ears would stiffen if he say anyone walking close to you.

"'Kuna, you are making people scared," you sigh at your boyfriend who's form fills the two piece suit like a damn glove, frankly you want to peel it off him, but that's a conversation for another time.

"Good," he mutter, sipping at the rum in in his glass, his hand slowly caressing the small of your back through your dress, his warmth anchoring you through the flurry of loud interactions.

"Is that woman who keeps bitching about her cheating husband instead of leaving him?" He mutters, languidly pointing of of the fingers of the hand that is holding his glass, a little too loud in your opinion.

"Sukuna!" you hiss to him, a warning, but he just shrugs and smirks, taking yet another sip.

"What, I'm just confirming all you 'tea' is about the right person."

You sigh, internally regretting bringing him as your plus one. your eyes land to your manager walking upto you and you immediately straighten up, putting on the corporate smile.

He walks up, raising an eyebrow towards Sukuna, before he looks expectantly at you for the introductions.

"Sukuna, this my manager, Mr Lim and Mr Lim, this is my husband, Sukuna." You introduce, and notice a bit too late Sukuna's grip around your waist tightens and you look upto with a nervous expression, realising how awkward it would be if he corrects you.

Instead, Sukuna smiles, extending his hand for a handshake "A pleasure."

Soon your manager leaves upon being called and youi feel Sukuna's warm breath on your ear, "Didn't know you were going around introducing me as your husband to people." He whispers.

"I-"

"No need, I like it, wife."

✶ ࣪˖ TOJI

Its three in the damn morning when Toji wakes upto the sound of vegetable chopping.He can't help but groan at the absence of your warmth on your side of the bed, reaching over to sling an arm, but he's met with the cold sheets instead of your sleeping form.

He decides against falling asleep again like an asshole and instead begrudgingly pads to the kitchen, barefoot, scratching his head. "Babe its four in the morning, why are chopping vegetables at this time?" he sighs with a yawn, his voice all sleep-addled and deep. Toji walks upto behind you, nuzzling his face against the crook of your neck as he wraps his arms around your form.

"I was hungry, 'Ji," you murmur. "And craving ramen." You add before he could protest with, 'why didn't you just eat cup noodles?'

"You and your damn cravings," he snorts, watching you stir the mix before he peels himself off you and gets cup noodles.

You look up at him wuth a raised eyebrow, questioningly, wasn't he criticising your random cavings just a minute ago?

"What? Seeing you eat is making me hungry too," he grumbles, boiling water beside you.

"This is nice," you comment with a fond smile, stirring at the makeshift recipe of instant noodles and veggies.

"What is?"

"Just this, cooking together...well not really cooking, but sort of spending time together like this with my husband⎯" You say without paying much attention and do a double take, slowly you turm your head towards Toji to see his reaction and to your surprise he smiles, a soft smile on his face as he watches the water boil.

"Yeah, I like it," he replies, his tone betraying a hint of fondness. "Maybe even as a forever sort of a thing."

Masterlist ⎯ 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

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