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kentoruuu · 2 days ago

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Specialized Release

cw: heavy explicit smut, dubcon, power imbalance, dirty talk, ass play, assjob, cunnilingus, fingering, forced blowjob, power imbalance, size kink, blindfolded gojo!! etc

masseur!gojo x reader

everything is dark, the only light a soft golden glow from the salt lamp in the corner. the air smells like sandalwood and rain, and beneath that, the clean, expensive scent of him. you’re face down on the massage table, a thin towel the only thing covering you, its terrycloth roughness a stark contrast to the slick, warm oil he’s been smoothing over your skin for the past hour.

you don’t know his name. you’d booked a deep tissue massage to deal with the knot between your shoulder blades, a permanent resident from hunching over a laptop. the man who showed up was… not what you expected. blindingly white hair, eyes hidden behind a sleek black blindfold he never removed, a smile that was all sharp, white teeth. he was too big for your apartment, his presence swallowing the space. but his hands… his hands were magic.

they’d worked the tension out of your muscles with a firm, knowing pressure, until you were a boneless, sighing puddle on the table. that’s when it changed. the professional kneading slowed, became something else. something slower. more intimate.

his palms, slick with more warm oil, slide down the length of your spine, not to work muscle, but to feel. to appreciate. they glide over the swell of your hips, his thumbs pressing circles into the small of your back.

"so tight everywhere," his voice is a low murmur, a vibration you feel more than hear. it’s not the soothing tone he used before. this is darker, laced with something that makes your stomach clench. "all locked up. such a good thing you called me. i specialize in… release."

his fingers drift lower, skimming the top of the towel where it’s tucked just above the curve of your ass. you hold your breath. this isn’t part of the massage. this is—

"shhh, just relax. you’re doing so well for me. letting all that stress just… melt away." his palms are on your ass now, not over the towel, but under it, his skin shockingly warm against yours. he pushes the towel aside, bunching it at the top of your thighs, exposing you completely to the cool, dim air of the room. a gasp catches in your throat.

"such a pretty shape," he whispers, his voice dropping even lower, becoming conspiratorial, filthy. his hands are no longer massaging; they’re sculpting. he kneads the flesh of your ass with a greedy reverence, his thumbs pressing into the crease where your thigh meets your cheek. "so soft. perfect handfuls. bet they jiggle so nice when you get fucked, huh? bet someone’s told you that before."

you shake your head, mute, your face burning against the leather of the table. you should tell him to stop. you should get up. but your body is leaden, a traitorous heat pooling low in your belly. his words are a poison, seeping into you, making you pliant.

"no?" he sounds amused. his thumbs stop their circling and begin a slow, deliberate journey inward, tracing the shadowed divide between your cheeks. "liar. but that’s okay. i like it. makes this more fun."

his touch is impossibly light now, just the very tips of his fingers tracing your most intimate places, making you shiver. he leans over you, his chest brushing your back, and his mouth is right by your ear. you can feel his breath, warm and moist.

"you’re all slick down here," he whispers, and the crudeness of it, the sheer intimacy, makes you jerk. "for me? already? fuck, you’re a natural. just born to be spread open, aren’t you? born to have some big hands on you, pulling you apart."

one hand leaves your ass and you hear the soft sound of him slicking more oil onto his palms. the scent of sandalwood intensifies. when he returns, both hands are dripping. he spreads them over your cheeks, pulling them apart with a gentle, inexorable pressure. you are utterly exposed. the air hits your most private skin, and you flinch, a small, helpless sound escaping you.

he goes very still above you. "oh, wow," he breathes, the word full of genuine, awestruck hunger. "look at that. you’re hiding the prettiest little secret back here."

his hold on your cheeks tightens, keeping you spread wide open for his hidden gaze. you feel impossibly vulnerable, displayed. you can feel his stare like a physical touch.

"fuck, your pussy is right there," he groans, his voice thick. "just peeking out at me, so pretty. looks so fucking edible. is that for me, too? you getting this wet just from me playing with your ass?"

you can’t form words. you’re trembling, a fine, constant shake that you have no control over. he leans his weight on top of you, pinning you to the table. you feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock, still confined in his trousers, press against the back of your thigh. he rocks his hips once, a slow, grinding motion, and the friction is electric.

"gotta feel this," he rasps in your ear, his voice ragged. "just for a second. gotta feel my cock against that pretty, wet little pussy."

you hear the frantic rustle of his clothes, the sharp zip of his fly, and then the hot, bare skin of his erection is against you. he’s huge. the thought is distant, fuzzy. he’s slick with his own spit, you realize, as he rubs the head of his cock through your slickness, coating himself in you. a low, animal sound rumbles in his chest.

then he positions himself between your cheeks, his cock nestled in the tight, hot channel they create. his hands are still on your ass, holding you open, holding you together for him.

"fuck, fuck, that’s it," he chants, his hips beginning to piston slowly. it’s not penetration, but it’s somehow more degrading, more intimate. the head of his cock catches on your clit with every forward thrust, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through you. the wet, slick sounds of his assjob are obscenely loud in the quiet room. his balls slap against your exposed, spread pussy with every movement.

"gonna make you cum like this," he grunts, his rhythm becoming frantic, desperate. "gonna make you squirt all over my cock while i fuck your ass cheeks. you’d like that, wouldn’t you? being my little fucktoy? my personal stress-relief doll?"

his thrusts are losing their rhythm, becoming jerky, wild. you can feel the tension coiling in him, the inevitable snap. you’re clenching around nothing, so close to the edge yourself, dizzy from the friction and his filthy words.

but he suddenly slams to a stop, his whole body rigid above you. a pained, guttural groan is torn from his throat. he holds himself there, trembling with the effort of stopping. his cock is throbbing violently against your skin.

for a long moment, there is only the sound of both of you panting. then, he lets out a shaky laugh.

"almost lost it," he says, his voice rough. he gives your ass a playful, possessive smack. "but that would be skipping the best part. the package," he leans down, licking a stripe up your spine, "includes pussy massaging as well. can’t believe i almost forgot. i’m a professional, after all."

he pulls out of the warm, slick space between your cheeks, and you feel a bizarre, cold emptiness. before you can process it, his hands are on your hips, flipping you over with an effortless strength that leaves you breathless.

you’re on your back, completely naked, the towel gone. the dim light paints your skin gold. he stands over you, his cock jutting out, hard and glistening with your combined wetness. his blindfolded gaze feels like it’s burning into you.

"fuck, you’re even prettier from the front," he murmurs, his hands coming up to cup your breasts. his thumbs swipe over your nipples, making them peak into hard, aching points. he pinches them lightly, rolling them between his fingers. "such perfect tits. just the right size to fit in my mouth."

he bends, his white hair tickling your chin, and he does just that. he takes one nipple into his hot, wet mouth, sucking greedily, his tongue lashing it. he switches to the other, worshipping your body with a hungry, noisy fervor. he bites down gently, and you cry out, your back arching off the table.

"you taste so good," he moans against your skin, his mouth traveling down your stomach, littering you with open-mouthed kisses and sharp little nips. "sweet. like i could just eat you up."

he settles on his knees on the floor at the end of the table, pushing your legs apart. he looks up at you, that sharp smile playing on his lips. "and now… for the main event."

he doesn’t touch you with his hands. he just… looks. his head tilted, devouring the sight of your exposed, wet pussy. "inspection time, baby. gotta make sure everything’s in working order. gotta make sure you’re gonna cum so hard you see stars."

he spits. directly onto your clit. the act is so vulgar, so shockingly intimate, that you jolt. the cool glob of his saliva hits your heated flesh and trickles down.

"there. better." he leans in, and his tongue follows the path of his spit. it’s not gentle or exploratory. it’s ravenous. he eats you out like a man starving, his tongue flat and broad, licking up your entire slit from bottom to top before zeroing in on your clit. he sucks it into his mouth, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

you’re moaning, your hands fisting in his soft hair, not sure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, a strong arm across your pelvis, pinning you in place for his feast.

"so fucking good," he grunts, coming up for air, his chin glistening. "you’re dripping all over my face. you wanna cum, don’t you? wanna squirt in my mouth?"

before you can answer, two of his fingers slide into you with no warning. they’re thick, stretching you, curling inside you to find that spot that makes you see white. he scissors them, stretching you open.

"gotta get you nice and open for me," he whispers, his fingers working in and out of you in a steady, cruel rhythm. "gotta see all of you."

he pulls his fingers out and uses both thumbs to spread your pussy lips wide open, holding you achingly exposed. he leans in close, his breath hot on your sensitive, swollen flesh. "fucking perfect. look at you. clit’s all hard and begging for me. pussy’s blinking, trying to suck something back in. you’re a dream. a filthy, wet dream."

the combination of his words, his visual violation, and the relentless, skilled attention pushes you over the edge. your orgasm crashes into you, a silent, shocking wave that seizes your entire body. you convulse around the emptiness, a broken sound ripped from your throat.

he watches it happen, a predator studying its prey. as your tremors begin to subside, he stands up. he’s not done. not nearly.

"c’mere," he says, his voice hoarse with desire. he moves to the side of the table, pulling you by the hips until your head hangs off the edge. the world tilts, blood rushing to your head. he looms over you, his cock level with your face. it’s red, leaking, enormous.

he doesn’t ask. he guides himself to your lips, rubbing the head against them. "open."

you’re too dazed, too used, to refuse. your mouth falls open.

he slides his cock inside, the length of it hitting the back of your throat. you gag instantly, tears springing to your eyes. he doesn’t pull back. he holds your head in place with one hand, the other going between your legs, his fingers finding your oversensitive, throbbing clit.

"suck it," he commands, his voice a dark growl. he starts to fuck your face with shallow, brutal thrusts. "suck my cock while i play with your pretty little used pussy. that’s it. take it. you love this, don’t you? being my pretty little slut."

you’re choking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. his fingers on your clit are relentless, circling, pinching, dragging another orgasm from your spent body. it’s too much, a painful, overwhelming overstimulation. your body seizes again, a weak, pathetic shudder around his invading fingers.

feeling you clench around nothing, hearing your choked gags around his cock, is what sends him over. with a final, deep thrust that stuffs your throat, he groans, a raw, broken sound.

"swallow it," he grunts, his hips stuttering. "swallow every fucking drop."

the hot, bitter taste floods your mouth. you have no choice. you swallow, again and again, until he’s spent, until he’s soft, until he finally pulls out of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop.

he looks down at you, your head still hanging off the table, tears on your face, his cum on your lips. he smiles, that blinding, wicked smile. he runs a thumb over your bottom lip, collecting a stray drop and pushing it back into your mouth.

"good girl," he purrs. "see? total stress relief." he pats your thigh. "you should come by, sometime."

i hope u guys enjoyed this :3

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kentoruuu · 2 days ago

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mrs. gojo’s terrible, horrible, no good, very good night

pairing — satoru gojo x female reader

synopsis: you’re hiding in the hotel bathroom on your wedding night, having what might be the world’s most elaborate anxiety-induced spa routine while your new husband satoru waits patiently (or not so patiently) in bed. when you finally emerge after two and a half hours of over-conditioning your hair and stress-scrubbing with vanilla body wash, you discover he’s been very much awake and has some opinions about your extended absence. turns out being mrs. gojo comes with certain husband-related benefits that make all that nervous energy very much worth it.

wc — 13.7k ෆ tags -> modern au, fluff, smut, humor, established relationship wedding night, first time, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, mild dacryphilia, multiple rounds, missionary, cowgirl, aftercare, scrumptious art by @/_3aem

a/n: i actually spent this whole weekend writing this beast, so pls clap 😋 very proud of myself for the sheer detail and immersion (and for once, no squirting—personal growth!!). hope you enjoy being wrecked by satoru as much as i enjoyed wrecking my digital keyboard 🫶🏻

you’re going to die in this bathroom.

not from anything dramatic, mind you. not from slipping on the marble floor or drowning in the stupidly deep hotel bathtub. no, you’re going to die from pure, unadulterated cowardice, and they’re going to find your pruney corpse clutching a bottle of complimentary vanilla body wash like it’s a lifeline.

the bathroom has become your fortress of solitude, complete with overpriced hotel toiletries that you’ve been methodically working through for the past—what, hour? two hours? the little clock on the marble counter stopped making sense around the time you started your third full-body scrub routine.

husband. the word sits heavy in your chest, all warm and terrifying and impossible. you keep catching glimpses of the ring on your finger in your peripheral vision and your heart does this stupid stuttering thing every single time.

you’ve washed your hair twice, conditioned it three times, exfoliated until your skin could probably reflect sunlight, and you’re currently working on what might be your fourth round of the complimentary body wash that smells like vanilla and false confidence. the mirror keeps fogging up from your unnecessarily long shower, which is perfect because you don’t particularly want to look yourself in the eye right now and confront whatever expression you’re probably making.

“just making sure i smell good,” you mutter to the pristine tiles, your voice echoing slightly in the marble sanctuary, fingers trembling as they work the lather across your shoulders for what has to be the dozenth time. as if they asked. as if anyone asked. as if satoru isn’t out there probably wondering if you’ve dissolved into the drain or escaped through the bathroom window like some kind of anxious rapunzel.

which, honestly, you’ve considered. you’ve even eyed the window measurements.

the thing is, you love him. love him so much it makes your teeth ache and your hands shake and your brain short-circuit at the worst possible moments—like now, when you’re supposed to be out there being a proper wife instead of hiding behind a locked door like you’re sixteen and scared of your first everything.

because that’s what this is. your first everything that matters.

god, you’re so pathetic it’s not even funny.

another thirty minutes pass in a haze of unnecessary beauty routines. you’ve moved on to deep conditioning your hair (for the second time), applying a face mask you found in the complimentary spa kit, and having a philosophical debate with your reflection about whether it’s possible to die from embarrassment. the water’s been running cold for the last ten minutes, which feels like the universe’s way of telling you to get your act together, but you’re nothing if not committed to your terrible coping mechanisms.

“he’s probably asleep anyway,” you whisper to your pruney fingers, working some expensive hair oil through the ends of your definitely over-conditioned strands. your voice sounds small in the echoing space, almost lost against the gentle patter of water droplets. “it’s late. he had a long day. all that dancing and smiling at your weird relatives and pretending your dad’s jokes were funny. he’s definitely asleep by now.”

you cling to this possibility like it’s the last life raft on a sinking ship.

finally, finally, you run out of bathroom-related tasks to perform without actually dissolving into the marble floor. the robe is fluffy enough to hide in, you smell like a vanilla cupcake, and your skin is soft enough to probably qualify as a health hazard. you take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing for your shot nerves, your hand hesitating on the door handle as your pulse hammers against your throat, and slowly crack open the door like you’re checking for monsters.

the room is dark. quiet. peaceful.

your heart does this stupid little leap of relief mixed with something that might be disappointment but you’re absolutely not examining that feeling right now because that way lies madness.

satoru’s lying on his side of the bed—his side, like you’re actually married now, like this is real life and not some elaborate stress dream—his moon-pale hair catching the faint city light like spilled starlight, each strand gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence that makes your chest tight. his breathing appears even, peaceful. one long arm stretched across the space where you should be, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp, like he fell asleep waiting.

the guilt hits you like cold water.

“oh thank god,” you breathe, practically melting with relief as you pad across the stupidly expensive carpet, your bare feet sinking into the plush fibers with each careful step. the hotel room is all warm lighting and soft edges, designed for romance, which makes your neuroses feel even more ridiculous. “i’m so sorry, ’toru,” you whisper to his sleeping form, your voice barely audible as you settle carefully on the very edge of the bed like you’re afraid it might collapse under your anxiety. “i know i took forever. i was just... scared, i guess. which is stupid because it’s you, and i love you more than anything, and i trust you completely, but my brain is just completely broken apparently and i—”

his arm shoots out like a striking snake.

you yelp as you’re suddenly yanked down against his chest, tumbling in an ungraceful heap on top of him, your damp hair cascading around both of you like a curtain. your hands shoot out to catch yourself and suddenly you’re braced against his bare chest, faces inches apart, close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light. his other arm comes around to trap you against the warm solid length of him, and oh—oh, you can feel everything. the hard planes of his chest, the way his breathing has gone shallow, the heat of him seeping through the thin robe.

his eyes are bright and very much awake in the darkness, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you with the most devastatingly shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. those impossible blues gleam like summer lightning, electric and dangerous and completely focused on you. there’s something almost predatory in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s a cat who’s finally caught the canary after a very long, very entertaining chase.

“scared?” he purrs, voice rough with what you now realize was completely fake sleep. his thumb traces along your lower lip with deliberate slowness, and you can feel your breath hitch, feel the way your pulse jumps under his touch. “of little old me?”

you’re suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that you’re straddling him. that his hands are spanning your waist with possessive certainty. that there’s nothing but a loosely tied robe between you and—

“you—” you start, face immediately burning hot enough to power the entire hotel, your voice catching as his fingers flex against your ribs. your voice comes out breathier than you intended, barely more than a whisper. “you were awake this whole time?”

“baby,” he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re pressed against him, and you can feel the vibration of it everywhere your bodies touch, sending tiny sparks along your nerve endings. his eyes never leave yours, drinking in every micro-expression like he’s been starving for the sight of you, like he’s been counting every second you were apart. “sweetheart. light of my life. did you really think i’d fall asleep on our wedding night? while my wife—” he says the word like he’s savoring something exquisite, his grip on your waist tightening possessively “—was having what sounded like a full spa day in there?”

wife. every time he says it, something flutters dangerously in your chest, made worse by the way his eyes darken every time the word leaves his lips, like it affects him just as much as it affects you.

“i wasn’t having a spa day,” you protest weakly, very much caught and definitely guilty as charged. you try to push yourself up, to put some distance between you and the intensity of his gaze, but his hands keep you exactly where you are with gentle but immovable strength.

“mm-hmm.” one hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your definitely-too-soft cheekbone while his eyes track the movement with laser focus, like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. “just really, really committed to personal hygiene. for two and a half hours.” his other hand slides up your spine with agonizing slowness, fingers tangling in the damp ends of your hair, the touch sending shivers cascading down your back. “while i was out here going slowly insane, listening to every sound, imagining you in there all wet and—”

“it wasn’t two and a half hours,” you mumble, but you’re pretty sure it actually was, and the way his chest shakes with barely contained laughter beneath you confirms your suspicions.

“i’ve been lying here listening to the water run and trying not to go insane,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw and hungry in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch in your throat and your skin prickle with awareness. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you in place so you can’t look away from the intensity burning in those crystalline depths. “do you know what that does to a man? knowing his wife is naked and wet just twenty feet away? hearing every little sound and imagining—”

you make some kind of strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words, your hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as heat pools low in your belly.

“and now you’re here,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. “and you smell—” he shifts beneath you, pulling you down so he can bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. you feel his lips brush against your pulse point and your entire body goes liquid, melting against him like honey. “—like you bathed in sugar and sin and everything i’ve ever wanted.”

his teeth graze your throat and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily, pressing you closer against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the terry cloth.

“how am i supposed to be normal about this?” he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each touch of his lips leaving trails of fire. “how am i supposed to be patient when you’re shaking on top of me and making those little sounds?”

your brain has officially left the building. “i was nervous,” you admit in a voice smaller than a whisper, and you can feel him smile against your throat, soft and fond and devastatingly tender.

his expression gentles immediately, but his hands don’t stop their slow, torturous exploration of your waist, fingers tracing patterns that make you shiver and arch into his touch. he shifts beneath you with careful precision, rolling you both over so you’re lying side by side, and suddenly you can breathe again—or maybe breathing becomes even harder when he’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with those impossibly expressive eyes full of something soft and hungry and completely devoted.

“hey,” he murmurs, free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw with reverent touches, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like it’s something precious. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can just sleep. or talk. or i can go back to pretending to sleep if that was working better for your anxiety.”

the sincerity in his voice, combined with the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him, makes your chest tight with affection so intense it almost hurts.

you huff a laugh despite yourself, some of the overwhelming tension melting into something warmer, more manageable. “you’re impossible.”

“impossibly patient,” he corrects with that crooked smile that makes your heart skip, then grins, and there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes again, playful and dangerous and entirely focused on you. “impossibly understanding. impossibly good-looking.”

“impossibly annoying.”

“mm,” he hums, leaning down to brush his nose against yours in the most devastating display of casual intimacy, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips, “you married me anyway.” his smile goes soft, private, the kind of expression that’s just for you—vulnerable and wondering and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “so what does that say about your judgment?”

“that it’s terrible,” you whisper, but you’re smiling now too, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

“the absolute worst,” he agrees solemnly, then leans in to brush his lips against yours. soft, questioning, sweet, like he’s asking permission for something you’ve done a thousand times before. but somehow this feels different. more weighted, more significant, like you’re crossing some invisible threshold together.

“better?” he asks against your lips, and you can feel his smile, can taste the hint of champagne still lingering from the reception.

you melt a little, like you always do when he kisses you like you’re something precious. “getting there.”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand threading through your damp hair to cradle the back of your head with infinite care. you sigh against his mouth and he takes it as permission, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sound of surrender. the kiss turns heated, desperate, all the restraint he’s been showing finally starting to crack around the edges like ice beginning to thaw.

his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours. you make a soft sound into his mouth and he groans in response, the noise vibrating through both of you like a tuning fork.

“you taste like toothpaste,” he murmurs when you break apart, both of you breathing hard. his pupils are blown wide and his hair is mussed from your fingers, those silver-white strands catching the low light like captured moonbeams.

“i brushed my teeth like six times,” you admit, embarrassed, but he just laughs—warm and fond and completely gone for you, the sound rich and delighted.

“i noticed,” he says, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch against him. “very thorough. very minty. very you.”

“shut up,” you breathe, but you’re kissing him back now, properly, desperately, the way you couldn’t quite manage to imagine doing an hour ago when you were having your breakdown in the bathroom.

his hands find the belt of your robe, fingers playing with the knot but not undoing it, just threatening to, his knuckles brushing against your stomach in a way that makes your breath hitch and your skin burn. he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face in the dim light with an intensity that makes you feel completely seen.

“this okay?” he asks, voice gone lower, rougher, and you can feel the restraint in the careful way he’s touching you, like he’s holding himself back from just devouring you whole.

you nod against his neck, then realize he probably can’t see you properly in the dark. “yeah,” you whisper, then, quieter, more vulnerable: “i don’t really know what i’m doing though.”

something shifts in his expression—hunger mixing with tenderness in a way that makes your chest tight and your core clench with want. “good thing i do,” he says, voice like honey and sin, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he finally, finally tugs the knot loose with careful, deliberate movements.

the robe falls open and satoru goes very, very still above you.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, and his voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking with the weight of his want. his hands hover just above your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you, like you’re something holy that he doesn’t deserve to worship. his eyes roam over you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, taking in every curve, every shadow, every inch of exposed skin like he’s trying to memorize you.

you want to cover yourself, want to hide from the overwhelming way he’s looking at you—like you’re a miracle he never expected to witness—but his expression stops you cold. he’s staring at you like you hung the moon and stars specifically for him, like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered in the dark.

“you’re so—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for words, tries again. “god, look at you. you’re perfect. you’re so fucking perfect i can’t—”

his hands finally settle on your waist, warm and sure and slightly trembling, thumbs tracing reverent patterns on your skin like he’s painting prayers across your flesh. you’re both breathing hard now, the air between you electric and charged and ready to snap.

“can i—?” he starts, hands still hovering, asking permission for everything, and the careful restraint in his voice makes something molten pool in your stomach.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely audible but it’s enough, more than enough.

his control finally snaps.

his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and desperate and full of months of wanting, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—tracing the line of your spine, mapping the curve of your ribs, learning the shape of you with a patience that makes your chest tight and your head spin. every touch is careful but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you and claim you and worship you all at once.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach.

“nervous,” you admit, because there’s no point in lying now when you’re spread out beneath him like an offering, your skin flushed and sensitive under his reverent attention.

his mouth pauses against your skin. “want me to stop?”

“no.” the word comes out more desperate than you intended, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging at those soft strands until he groans against your throat. “no, don’t stop. i just—i don’t know what to do with my hands.”

he laughs, warm and fond and completely wrecked, the sound vibrating against your skin. “you don’t have to do anything,” he says, lips trailing down to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “just let me take care of you, yeah? let me make you feel good.”

his mouth finds that spot that makes your back arch and you gasp, pressing involuntarily against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, feel him smile against your skin when you make a soft, needy sound.

“there we go,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel, rough with want. “just like that. you sound so pretty when you—”

his teeth graze your throat and you’re gone, completely gone, arching beneath him like you’re trying to get closer, always closer. his hands are mapping every inch of exposed skin with reverent touches, and when he looks up at you through his lashes—those ridiculous white lashes that frame eyes like captured lightning—eyes dark with want and something deeper, you think you might actually die from how much you love him.

“’toru,” you manage, and his name comes out shakier than you intended, like a prayer torn from your very soul.

“right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear that makes you shiver and arch into his touch. “not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me now, wife.”

and god help you, but when he settles more firmly between your legs with that hungry, adoring look in his eyes—like he’s about to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what you’ve been missing during your bathroom crisis—you think you might actually be looking forward to finding out exactly what being his wife is going to mean.

he shifts lower with agonizing deliberation, his hands—strong, warm, capable of wielding infinite power but now gentle as they handle you like spun glass—spreading your thighs wider with slow, purposeful pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, each molecule a sharp contrast that sends a shiver rippling through you, goosebumps blooming like tiny constellations across your flesh.

his gaze, those piercing eyes like arctic ice lit from within, pins you in place, making your heart race with a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that leaves you breathless. but then he tilts his head, looking up at you through those infuriatingly long lashes that should be illegal, his eyes absolutely wicked with mischief and unrestrained want, and that familiar, devastating grin spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your surrender.

“you know,” he says, his voice low and conversational, dripping with that teasing cadence that makes your toes curl, as his thumbs trace maddeningly slow, lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each brush igniting sparks of electricity that pulse straight to your core, making your muscles quiver with anticipation. “i’ve been thinking about this for months. lying awake at night, restless, imagining what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make when i—” his words trail off, deliberately unfinished, letting your mind spiral with the possibilities as his thumbs press just a fraction harder, sending a wave of heat through you that makes your hips shift restlessly.

“satoru,” you breathe, his name a broken whisper as your face flushes with warmth that spreads from your cheeks down your neck like wildfire, and he laughs—low, rich, and utterly unrepentant, the sound vibrating in his chest like a predator’s purr, sending a thrill through you that settles hot and heavy between your thighs.

“what? we’re married now. i’m allowed to tell my wife all the filthy things i’ve been dreaming about her.” his mouth presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm and slightly damp, the contact searing as it lingers, branding your skin with heat. then another kiss, higher, closer to where you’re already aching for him, each touch leaving a trail of tingling embers that make you squirm against the sheets. “and trust me, baby, i’ve been dreaming about everything.”

your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the quiet room, when his mouth reaches the delicate crease where your thigh meets your hip, his tongue darting out with a slow, deliberate swipe, the wet heat of it making your toes curl and your fingers clutch desperately at the expensive sheets. he hums appreciatively, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through your flesh like a current, as if you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted. his lips linger, brushing softly, teasingly, before he pulls back just enough to let his breath ghost over the damp patch he’s left, cool against your overheated skin.

“gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sinks into your bones like a sacred vow. his hands slide under your thighs with deliberate care, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts them, draping them over his broad shoulders with a slow, reverent motion. the position opens you completely, baring you to his gaze, every inch of you exposed in a way that feels thrillingly intimate, your core pulsing with anticipation that borders on desperation. “gonna make you fall apart so many times you forget your own name. think you can handle that, wife?”

you open your mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, the sensation overwhelming—wet, warm, and impossibly perfect, sending shockwaves through your entire body that make your vision blur at the edges. pleasure radiates outward like ripples in still water, making your fingers clench the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, your hips lifting instinctively toward his wicked mouth. he groans in response, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against you, and your hands fly to tangle in his hair, tugging at those soft, impossible strands as you surrender completely to the sensations he’s creating.

“fuck, you taste even better than i imagined,” he breathes against your slick skin, his voice rough with desire, the cool exhale making you shudder and whimper his name like a broken prayer. then he dives back in with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin, his tongue working you with methodical precision, like he’s studied every sensitive spot and planned exactly how to unravel you.

he’s thorough—alternating between broad, flat strokes that make your entire body tense with electric pleasure, and focused attention on your clit, his tongue flicking and circling with devastating accuracy until you’re writhing beneath him, hips bucking greedily against his mouth. occasionally, he dips lower, his tongue plunging into you with obscene, wet sounds that make your cheeks burn and your core clench around the intrusion, every nerve alight with pleasure that builds in relentless waves.

when you’re teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head like leaves in a storm, your voice a broken chant of his name echoing off the hotel room walls, he pulls back just enough to fix you with those predatory eyes—twin flames in the darkness that seem to see straight through to your soul. his chin glistens with your arousal, a wicked grin curling his lips as he drinks in your desperate whimper, the loss of his mouth agonizing, your clit throbbing and swollen with need. “not yet,” he says, his voice smug and teasing, relishing your need like fine wine. “told you i was gonna take my time.”

he does it again. and again. each time, he builds you up with that sinful mouth, pushing you to the very brink until you’re sobbing with need, tears of pure want streaming down your cheeks, your body so wound up it feels like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. the denial sharpens every sensation—each touch of his lips, each flick of his tongue feels electric, amplified by the sweet torment of being held at the edge. your breaths come in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the overwhelming desire consuming you from the inside out.

“please,” you gasp, your hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it has to hurt, tugging until he moans against you, the sound low and filthy, as if the pain only drives him wilder. your voice breaks, raw and desperate, a plea torn from the very depths of your need. “satoru, please—”

“please what?” he asks, his tone wickedly innocent as he presses a soft, teasing kiss to your clit, the brief contact sending a jolt through your oversensitive flesh that makes you cry out. the slight suction of his lips is nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building inside you. “use your words, sweetheart.”

“let me come,” you beg, too consumed by need to feel any shame, your hips bucking up desperately, chasing his mouth with single-minded desperation. your slickness makes everything wet and messy, dripping down your thighs in a way that would embarrass you if you had any coherent thoughts left. “please, i need—i can’t—”

“there’s my good girl,” he purrs, the praise dripping with satisfaction that makes your core clench with want, and finally, finally, he gives you what you crave. his mouth seals over your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, sucking in a rhythm that’s both perfect and utterly devastating, sending you screaming his name as the first orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s blinding, your vision whiting out as pleasure explodes through every nerve, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. his tongue continues its relentless assault, working you through the aftershocks with a ferocity that sends you spiraling into overstimulation, your body so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear. you’re pliant, completely at his mercy, your hips lifting to meet every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, your moans turning into soft, broken whimpers as you surrender to the intensity. “satoru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe and desperation, your hands tugging at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, wanting more despite the overwhelming sensation.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your swollen clit and making you cry out as the sensation sends fresh sparks through your overloaded nervous system. “love how you just take it, how you let me do whatever i want to this sweet cunt.” his enthusiasm is infectious, making you arch into him, your body greedy for every touch, every stroke, as he dives back in with renewed fervor.

the second orgasm builds faster, your body already primed and hypersensitive, every nerve singing with electric pleasure. when it hits, you’re crying openly, tears streaming down your face from the sheer intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming it feels like it’s rewriting your very dna. you’re pliant, melting into him, your body arching off the bed in a perfect bow as the climax rips through you, your walls fluttering with desperate need even as you shake and sob, completely undone.

“look at you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork, his voice thick with awe and barely restrained lust. you catch your reflection in his blown-out pupils—wrecked and radiant, your face flushed with pleasure, lips parted as you struggle to breathe, eyes glassy with tears of bliss. his chin glistens with your arousal, his lips swollen and wet, and the sight is so obscene it makes your core clench with renewed want. “crying from how good i make you feel. you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

he slides two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate ease, your body so eager and wet that they slip in effortlessly, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flutter of pleasure. his fingers feel impossibly long, thicker than your own, reaching deeper and brushing against spots that make you gasp sharply and see stars behind your closed eyelids. he starts a slow, torturous rhythm, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, each movement sending electricity shooting through your veins. his thumb circles your oversensitive clit with feather-light touches, the barest pressure enough to make you jolt and whimper.

“one more,” he says, his voice low and commanding as he adds a third finger, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that makes you keen, your body eagerly accommodating him. you can hear the obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you, your slickness coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, making everything messy and perfect. “give me one more and then i’ll give you my cock. you want that, don’t you? want me to fill you up?”

you nod frantically, words beyond you, your mind too scrambled by pleasure to form anything coherent beyond broken moans and gasps of his name.

he grins, absolutely feral with satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, needy mess. “can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, his voice a low growl that makes your core clench around his fingers.

“yes,” you sob, your voice hoarse and broken from all the sounds he’s pulled from you, “yes, want it, want you—need you inside me—”

“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers pick up speed, each thrust hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision while his mouth returns to your clit, the dual assault pushing you toward the edge with terrifying speed. the third orgasm rips through you like lightning, your body convulsing, walls clenching around his fingers as you gush, the wetness soaking his hand, your thighs, the expensive sheets beneath you. you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe, the intensity leaving you trembling and shattered, but you’re still pliant, still aching for more, your body singing for him.

“perfect,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers, the loss making you whimper softly. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep, appreciative groan that makes your core clench around nothing, the visual so filthy it’s almost enough to push you over again. “absolutely perfect. taste so fucking good.”

he crawls back up your body with slow, predatory grace, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bone, the dip of your waist, the soft valley between your breasts. your skin is hypersensitive, still thrumming from your orgasms, and each brush of his lips sends aftershocks rippling through you. when he reaches your mouth, he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself—sweet and musky and intimate in a way that makes you moan into his mouth.

“still with me?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a thread of genuine concern even as his cock throbs against your thigh, hard and leaking, the heat of it searing against your sensitive skin. those ethereal strands of hair fall across his forehead like scattered moonlight, and his wedding ring catches the dim light as he cups your face, the cool metal a stark contrast against your flushed cheek.

“yeah,” you whisper, your voice wrecked, raw from moaning and crying out his name. “want you. need you inside me.”

his pupils dilate further, his breathing shallow, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame. “fuck, when you say things like that—” he breaks off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “you sure you’re ready? you’ve come so hard already, don’t want to overwhelm you.”

your heart swells at his care, but your body is desperate, aching for him with a need that borders on painful. “please, ’toru. want to feel you. need you.”

he reaches between your bodies, wrapping his hand around himself, and you catch a glimpse of him—long, thick, intimidatingly perfect, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with pre-cum that beads and drips in the low light. when he positions himself at your entrance, you feel the heat of him, the weight, the promise of what’s to come, and your breath catches, your body already anticipating the stretch and burn of taking him inside you. “gonna go slow,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any flicker of hesitation, but all he finds is your eager need reflected back at him.

he pushes inside with excruciating slowness, just the head at first, and the stretch is immediate, a burning fullness that makes you gasp, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusts. his cock is hot, pulsing, the thick tip parting you with a deliberate pressure that feels both overwhelming and perfect, your slickness easing the way but not diminishing the intensity. your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you cling to him, your breath hitching as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. the sensation is exquisite—every ridge, every vein dragging against your sensitive walls, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your hips lifting to meet him instinctively.

his face is a study in restraint, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he fights to keep his movements slow, controlled. those pale strands of his hair—silvered moonlight caught in silk—fall across his forehead in disheveled waves, darkened with perspiration and trembling with each labored breath. his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks another inch, the stretch making you whimper, your walls clenching around him greedily. when he opens them again, those impossibly cerulean depths have gone molten, like arctic ice melting under flame.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he breathes, voice rough, almost broken, fingers trembling against your cheek before his lips brush your skin—your cheeks, your eyelids—soft and grounding, his free hand finding yours, fingers intertwining, your wedding rings clicking together in a sound that makes your chest ache.

“more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, chest rising and falling rapidly against his, the burn fading into a warm, full sensation that has you desperate for him to move. your silk chemise, the one you’d chosen specially for tonight, bunches around your waist, the delicate lace trim pressed between your bodies.

he pushes deeper, each inch a slow, sensual invasion, his cock stretching you wider, filling you completely, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much, yet exactly what you crave. you feel every detail—the way his shaft pulses inside you, the slight curve that presses against your walls just right, the slick glide of him as your arousal coats him, making every movement smooth but deliberate. his breathing becomes more ragged, those arctic depths of his eyes never leaving your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes.

when he’s halfway seated, you’re panting, your body trembling with the effort of accommodating him, your manicured nails—still perfect from this morning’s appointment—digging crescents into his shoulders, but you’re pliant, eager, your hips tilting up to take more of him.

“breathe, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, rough with the effort of holding back, those moonlight strands sticking to his forehead as he trembles above you. his lips press against your temple, lingering, and you can feel the tension in his body, his muscles trembling as he fights to keep from thrusting too fast. when you look up at him, his expression is devastating—eyebrows drawn together in concentration, that perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes blazing with something between worship and desperation. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well.”

he sinks deeper, and you moan, long and low, as he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours, his cock seated so deep you can feel him pressing against your cervix, a sweet, aching pressure that makes your eyes water with pleasure. you’ve never felt so full, so claimed, every nerve alight with the sensation of him inside you, his heartbeat pulsing through his cock, syncing with yours. he goes still, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, those ethereal eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity as he watches your every reaction, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“you feel incredible,” he breathes against your ear, his voice raw, trembling with need, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “so tight, so perfect. made for me.”

he starts to move, pulling out with agonizing slowness, those pale lashes fluttering as his eyes nearly roll back, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you, every inch igniting new nerve endings. then he thrusts back in, deliberate and deep, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, your silk-clad back arching against the expensive sheets. his expression is feral now, pupils blown wide until only thin rings of that impossible color remain, lips parted as he pants, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, cataloging every moan, every shudder, as if he’s memorizing how you look when you’re lost in him.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, glassy eyes—before drifting down to where your chemise has ridden up, revealing the delicate gold chain around your waist, a wedding gift from this morning. his fingers trace it reverently, the cool metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. “all flushed and perfect, taking my cock so well. my wife.” the word sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him, making him curse under his breath, a low, filthy sound that makes you shiver, your pearl earrings catching the lamplight as your head falls back against the pillows.

his thrusts grow deeper, more urgent, his control fraying as he feels you respond, your body pliant and eager, meeting every movement with a roll of your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together are obscene, perfect, filling the room with the slick rhythm of your connection. those moonbeam strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and when he tosses his head to clear them, the movement is so unconsciously graceful it makes your heart stutter. you’re so sensitive, so primed, that every thrust sends sparks through you, building another orgasm faster than you thought possible, your wedding bracelet sliding up your wrist as you reach for him.

“’toru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe, hands clinging to his shoulders as another climax builds, unstoppable, your painted nails leaving marks on his perfect skin. “i’m—”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice rough, desperate, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess he’s been blessed to touch. “i can feel you getting tight around me. gonna come on my cock? gonna show me how good i make you feel?” his words push you over, and the fourth orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your walls clamping down on him like a vice, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you while your silk chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin. he follows with a deep, guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot, pulsing spurts that fill you completely, the warmth seeping into you as you shudder around him, those celestial eyes never leaving your face.

you’re still trembling, your body pliant and boneless, when he lifts his head, those arctic depths now glinting with unrestrained hunger, his hair a beautiful disaster of silver threads. “told you we were just getting started,” he growls, voice rough with satisfaction as he starts moving again without pulling out, your oversensitive walls fluttering around his still-hard length. you moan, your body so responsive that the overstimulation feels like a delicious torment, every thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure through you, your delicate gold jewelry catching the light with each movement.

you’re completely pliant now, your body melting into his, your hips lifting to meet each of his thrusts, eager for more despite the intensity, your chemise twisted and bunched between you. “satoru,” you whimper, voice soft and needy, urging him on as he sets a deeper, more demanding rhythm, each thrust hitting so deep it steals your breath, your wedding ring glinting as you grip the sheets.

“love how you take it,” he growls, his grin wicked as he watches you, those ethereal strands falling across his forehead as he moves, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your movements. “my perfect wife, letting me fuck you like this.” his pace is relentless now, his cock driving into you with devastating precision, the new angle making him feel impossibly deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves through your trembling body while your silk chemise rides up further, exposing more of your heated skin.

“look at me,” he commands, voice rough with authority, and when your eyes meet his, he grins at your fucked-out expression—your lips trembling, eyes glassy with pleasure, your carefully styled hair now a beautiful mess against the pillows. “there’s my pretty wife. taking my cock so well, falling apart for me.”

his thrusts are rougher now, more primal, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes your breasts bounce beneath the silk, your breath hitching with every impact, the delicate fabric clinging to your overheated skin. you’re lost in him, your body pliant, every nerve singing with overstimulation as he drives you toward another peak, your manicured fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. “can’t get enough of you,” you moan, voice breaking with need, your walls clenching around him as another orgasm builds, unstoppable.

“that’s it,” he growls, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing merciless circles, the pressure sending sparks through you while those impossible eyes—like winter sky split by lightning—burn into yours. “come for me again, baby. show me how much you love this.” the fifth orgasm rips through you with a raw, broken scream, your body convulsing so hard you nearly black out, pleasure tearing through you like a storm while your silk chemise clings to every curve. he fucks you through it, relentless, his cock driving into you as your walls spasm around him, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he watches you shatter, those moonlight strands dark with sweat.

“beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to lick the tears from your cheeks, the action so filthy and intimate it makes you clench around him again, pulling another low moan from him as his pale lashes flutter. “absolutely fucking beautiful.”

he comes again with a deep, primal groan, filling you even more, and you think you might get a reprieve, but he’s still hard, still moving, those arctic depths burning with insatiable hunger. his grin is pure sin as he flips you both over with a smooth, practiced motion, settling you on top of him, his cock sinking even deeper as you straddle him, your chemise falling around you like liquid silk. the movement makes you cry out, the new angle overwhelming.

your thighs shake as you try to lift yourself, muscles like jelly from the thorough fucking you’ve received, your wedding jewelry catching the light as you tremble. “satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling with need, but you’re eager, your hips rolling instinctively as you take him deeper, the silk of your chemise brushing against his chest.

“that’s my girl,” he says, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength, his pale hair spread across the dark pillows like spilled starlight. “just let me move you.” he bounces you on his cock with ease, using you like his personal toy, and you’re so pliant, so responsive, that you gush around him, your slickness coating him as he moves you. you brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, your delicate jewelry sliding with each movement, and let him manhandle you, your body singing with pleasure.

“love how you feel,” he groans, those ethereal eyes drinking in every expression—your parted lips, your glassy eyes, the tears still streaming down your cheeks, the way your silk chemise clings to your curves. “my perfect little wife, letting me use this sweet cunt however i want.” his hands move to your breasts, squeezing and kneading through the silk with a roughness that makes you gasp, his fingers finding your sensitive nipples and pinching, rolling them until you arch and moan, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of his cock inside you.

“so fucking responsive,” he growls, pinching harder just to hear your whimper, the sound making his cock twitch inside you while those pale strands stick to his temples. “these pretty tits were made for my hands.” the dual sensation of him filling you completely while he tortures your sensitive peaks through the delicate fabric has you coming again, your walls spasming around his thick length as you sob his name, the sound raw and desperate, your jewelry catching the light as you convulse.

“that’s five,” he says with smug satisfaction, but his hands never stop, one still tormenting your breast while the other slides down to rub your clit with relentless precision, those impossible eyes—like arctic fire—blazing up at you. “one more, baby. know you’ve got it in you.” you’re too far gone to protest, your body eager, pliant, building toward another peak despite the overwhelming sensation. when it hits, you scream, the sound raw and broken as your body convulses uncontrollably, your walls clamping down on him as pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and spent while your chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin.

he comes with a deep groan, pulling you down flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you possessively as he fills you again, his cock pulsing inside you. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, and you can feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the sensation messy and intimate. those moonlight strands are completely destroyed now, sticking up at impossible angles, and there’s something endearingly human about the way he looks—flushed and breathing hard, no longer the untouchable deity he sometimes seems.

“six,” he says with smug satisfaction, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice gone soft and wondering. “my perfect wife gave me six orgasms on our wedding night.”

you can barely form words, completely wrung out and shaking in his arms, your silk chemise twisted around you. your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from all the sounds he pulled from you. “you’re insane.”

“insane for you,” he agrees easily, voice gone all breathy and soft in a way that makes your stomach flutter even now, his fingers already starting to card through your hair with infinite gentleness. his hands have completely transformed—no longer possessive and demanding, but gentle, reverent almost, stroking your back in soothing circles. his touch is feather-light now, careful of your oversensitive skin, and when you peek up at him through your lashes, those ethereal features have softened into something so tender it makes your chest tight. “but i think you’ve had enough for tonight. let’s get you cleaned up.”

his eyebrows—pale as winter frost—knit together in concern when you make a small sound of protest, your body feeling like overcooked pasta as he tries to lift you. there’s something almost comically serious about the way he studies your face, those impossible depths searching for any sign of discomfort, like he’s trying to decode whether you’re actually uncomfortable or just being dramatic.

“i’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple that’s so gentle it makes you want to cry, his lips warm against your skin. “just let me take care of you, yeah?”

when he stands, carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom with exaggerated care—like you’re made of spun glass and might shatter if he moves too quickly—you can’t help but notice he’s finally showing signs of exertion. those silver strands are completely destroyed, sticking up at impossible angles from your hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light, making his skin look luminous. his chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish, those celestial eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper.

“good thing you’ve got stamina,” you mumble against his shoulder, words slightly slurred from exhaustion, and you feel more than hear his laugh—a warm rumble that vibrates through his chest.

he sets you down carefully on the marble counter, hands steady on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against your hip bones through the twisted silk of your chemise. there’s something almost smug about his grin as he reaches for the faucet, but it’s tempered by the soft way those arctic depths keep darting to your face to check that you’re okay, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“baby, that wasn’t even close to my limit,” he says, and there’s that familiar cocky tilt to his chin even as his cheeks flush darker, those moonlight strands falling across his forehead. “but it’s both our first time, so i was being nice.” his voice drops to something softer, more vulnerable, those impossible eyes suddenly uncertain. “didn’t want to break you on our wedding night.”

the thought of him holding back makes you shiver despite the warm air, your mind immediately conjuring images of what ‘not holding back’ might look like. he notices the shiver immediately, those ridiculous eyes going wide with concern as his hands fly up to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

“cold?” he asks, eyebrows doing that thing where they scrunch together—pale and expressive—like you’re the most important problem he’s ever had to solve.

you shake your head, but he’s already reaching for one of the plush hotel robes, expression so seriously focused on the task of wrapping it around your shoulders that you have to bite back a smile, those silver strands falling into his eyes as he works. “just thinking about you not being nice,” you admit quietly.

his hands still on the robe ties, and when you look up, his pupils have dilated again, those ethereal depths darkening with familiar hunger before he visibly shakes himself, his pale lashes fluttering. “dangerous thoughts, mrs. gojo,” he murmurs, voice rough, but then he’s back to fussing with the robe, making sure it covers you properly. the whiplash between his desire and his care makes your heart skip.

he runs the bath with the intensity of a man performing surgery, testing the temperature obsessively—first with his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, those moonlight strands falling across his face. you watch him, mesmerized by how someone so chaotic and playful can become so methodical when it comes to taking care of you, those impossible eyes focused with laser precision.

“’toru,” you say softly, and he glances over his shoulder with a questioning hum, those arctic depths immediately softening. “it’s just a bath.”

his expression turns mock-offended, like you’ve just insulted his honor, one eyebrow arching dramatically. “just a bath?” he repeats, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, those pale fingers splayed across his heart. “this is my wife’s first post-wedding-night bath. there are standards to maintain.”

the word ‘wife’ still makes something flutter dangerously in your chest, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he can’t quite believe it himself, those ethereal features glowing with happiness. he turns back to the faucet, adding what seems like an entire bottle of expensive bath oils to the water, his movements precise and careful.

“perfect temperature,” he announces proudly, like he’s just solved world hunger, then spins around with the brightest grin, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “ready, beautiful?”

the water is absolute heaven against your overheated, oversensitive skin. you can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes as you sink into the warmth, muscles you didn’t even realize were tense finally beginning to relax. satoru slides in behind you a moment later, long legs bracketing yours as he pulls you back against his chest, his skin still warm and perfect against yours.

“better?” his voice is barely above a whisper, lips brushing your temple, and you can only nod, melting back against him.

his hands are impossibly gentle as he reaches for the expensive shampoo, and there’s something almost reverent about the way he works it into your hair. his fingers massage your scalp in slow, methodical circles, and you can see his reflection in the mirror across from the tub—tongue poking out slightly in concentration, those pale eyebrows drawn together like washing your hair is the most important task he’s ever been assigned, his silver strands damp and curling slightly from the steam.

“such pretty hair,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and wondering, like he’s sharing a secret with the universe, his fingers working through the strands with infinite care. “so soft. been wanting to do this for ages.” when you let out a small, content sound and let your head fall back against his shoulder, his entire expression lights up like christmas morning, those ethereal depths sparkling with joy. “yeah? feels good?”

you nod sleepily, eyes fluttering closed, and he practically preens with satisfaction. every movement is deliberate, careful, his usual manic energy replaced by something tender and focused that makes your heart squeeze. when he tips your head back to rinse the shampoo out, his other hand automatically comes up to cup your forehead, protecting your eyes from the water, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“there we go,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your wet temple with a smile so soft it makes you want to cry, his lips warm and reverent. “perfect. you’re so perfect.”

the conditioner gets the same treatment—gentle fingers working through the strands, detangling carefully, never pulling or tugging. then he’s reaching for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and beginning to clean you with touches so soft they’re barely there, those impossible eyes focused and tender.

“arms up, sweetheart,” he whispers, and when you comply, he washes under your arms, along your ribs, between your fingers with the kind of thorough attention that makes your heart squeeze. every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin under his hands, those arctic depths soft with wonder.

when the cloth moves lower, ghosting over your breasts with clinical precision, you tense slightly—still so sensitive from his earlier attention. his movements immediately still, and when you glance up, his face has gone all soft and concerned, those pale eyebrows knitting together in worry.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with infinite gentleness. “too much? i can stop—”

“no,” you whisper, relaxing back against him with a small smile that makes his shoulders drop with relief, those ethereal features melting with tenderness. “just... still sensitive.”

his expression melts into something apologetic and tender, those impossible eyes going soft with understanding. “sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips feather-light against your skin. “i’ll be more careful. promise.”

and he is. when he washes between your thighs, his touch becomes impossibly gentle, clinical in the best way—just taking care of you, cleaning away the evidence of your activities with the kind of careful attention that’s somehow more intimate than anything that came before. there’s something about the way he focuses on the task, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, those silver strands falling across his face, that makes your chest tight with affection.

“lean forward for me?” he asks softly, and when you do, he washes your back with the same careful attention, working out knots in your shoulders you didn’t realize were there, his fingers strong and sure against your skin.

by the time he’s finished, you’re completely boneless, practically purring under his gentle ministrations. the water has cooled slightly, but his body heat keeps you warm, arms wrapped loosely around your waist, those impossible eyes soft and content.

“think you’re ready to get out?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence, lips moving against your hair.

you nod sleepily, and he helps you stand on legs that feel like jelly, hands immediately shooting to your elbows to steady you. there’s something almost comically protective about the way he hovers, like he’s expecting you to topple over at any second, those ethereal features creased with concern. the towel he wraps around you is impossibly warm—and when you give him a questioning look, he grins sheepishly, those pale cheeks flushing pink.

“may have stuck it in the towel warmer while you were soaking,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, those silver strands sticking up at odd angles. “wanted everything to be perfect.”

the casual thoughtfulness of it makes your heart skip, and when you smile at him—soft and grateful and so full of love—his cheeks flush pink again, those impossible eyes going wide with wonder. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him fondly.

“ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrects with a grin that’s equal parts smug and bashful, those arctic depths sparkling with mischief. “ridiculously devoted. ridiculously—”

“ridiculously annoying,” you interrupt, but you’re laughing as he gasps in mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.

“my wife thinks i’m annoying,” he announces to the bathroom mirror, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead, though his eyes are sparkling with laughter. “how will i ever recover?”

“by drying my hair before i catch pneumonia,” you suggest, still giggling, and his expression immediately shifts back to serious concern, those pale eyebrows drawing together.

“right, yes, hair,” he says, reaching for another towel with renewed focus, his movements suddenly purposeful. “can’t have my wife getting sick on our honeymoon.”

he takes another towel and begins patting your hair dry with the same careful attention he showed in the bath, his touch gentle and methodical. “don’t want to tangle it,” he explains quietly when he catches you watching him, and something about the casual intimacy of it—this powerful, overwhelming man being so careful with your hair—makes your eyes prick with unexpected tears.

he notices immediately, free hand coming up to cup your cheek, those ethereal depths immediately filling with concern. “hey, what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “just... you’re being so sweet.”

his expression goes soft, thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite gentleness. “you’re my wife now,” he says simply, like that explains everything, those impossible eyes soft with wonder. “of course i’m going to take care of you.”

wife. the word makes your heart stutter like it always does, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he still can’t quite believe he gets to call you that, those arctic depths glowing with happiness.

when you’re dry, he disappears briefly into the main room with a quick “be right back!” thrown over his shoulder, and you can hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. he returns moments later with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your favorite sleep shorts, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, those silver strands still mussed from sleep and steam.

“lifted them from your apartment last week,” he admits with a grin that’s equal parts sheepish and unrepentant when he catches your questioning look, his cheeks flushing that pretty pink again. “wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable tonight. may have also grabbed your favorite pillow, that body wash you always use, and those weird face masks you love.”

your mouth falls open. “you planned this? the aftercare supplies?”

his cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck with a bashful smile, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “maybe researched a little. wanted to do it right.” then, with a return of his usual cockiness: “first time for everything, but i’m nothing if not thorough.”

the shirt is huge on you, hanging almost to your knees, and it smells like him—clean and warm and safe and home. the shorts are your favorites, the ones that are almost too soft from years of washing, and the fact that he noticed, that he thought to bring them, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“you’re completely ridiculous,” you mumble, but your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, and when he sees it, his whole face lights up like he’s just won the lottery, those ethereal features practically glowing.

“ridiculously prepared,” he corrects, scooping you up again with exaggerated care, those impossible eyes soft with affection. “ridiculously considerate. ridiculously—”

“if you say ‘ridiculously handsome’ i’m filing for divorce,” you threaten, but you’re giggling against his neck as he carries you back to the bedroom.

“was gonna say ‘ridiculously in love with my wife,’” he says quietly, and the sudden sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch, those arctic depths going soft and vulnerable. “but handsome works too.”

the bed has been completely transformed—fresh sheets that smell like lavender and luxury, pillows fluffed and arranged like something out of a magazine. there’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with what looks like the entire contents of the welcome basket, and you’re pretty sure those are your favorite chocolates from the little shop near your apartment.

“when did you—?” you start, but he just grins, settling you carefully against the mountain of pillows like you’re something precious, those silver strands falling across his forehead.

“called housekeeping while you were turning into a prune,” he says proudly, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “told them my wife needed the full romance package. emergency priority.”

“an emergency,” you repeat, fighting back a laugh at his completely serious expression, those pale eyebrows drawn together earnestly. “my need for clean sheets was an emergency.”

“the most important emergency,” he confirms solemnly, then breaks character to flash you that ridiculously charming grin, his whole face transforming with joy. “my wife’s comfort is a matter of national security.”

there’s that word again. wife. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way it sounds in his voice, especially not when his eyes go soft and wondering like he still can’t believe you said yes, those ethereal depths glowing with happiness.

he disappears into the bathroom again, and you hear the sound of running water, then he’s padding back with another warm washcloth and an expression so sweetly uncertain it makes your heart squeeze. “just in case you want to, um...” he waves the cloth vaguely, cheeks flushing pink, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “you know. if you need to freshen up more or anything. no pressure.”

the thoughtfulness of it—giving you the option, not assuming you’re okay with how thorough he was—makes you fall a little more in love with him. “come here,” you say softly, reaching for him, and his face immediately transforms into the brightest smile, those arctic depths lighting up.

“don’t need it?” he asks, tossing the cloth aside and practically bouncing onto the bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“just need you,” you tell him, and watch his expression go all soft and devastated, those ethereal features melting with tender emotion. “stay?”

“not going anywhere,” he promises immediately, settling beside you and opening his arms in invitation. when you curl up against his side like you belong there—head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his, hand splayed across his chest—his entire body relaxes like this is what he’s been waiting for all night, those impossible eyes going soft and content.

his skin is still warm and slightly damp from the bath, and he smells clean and familiar and absolutely perfect. one hand finds your hair immediately, fingers combing through the damp strands with gentle, repetitive motions that make your eyes flutter closed, those pale fingers infinitely careful.

“better?” he asks softly, and when you nod against his shoulder, you feel more than see his smile, his chest rising and falling peacefully beneath your cheek. “good. my wife should be comfortable.”

the possessive way he says ‘my wife’—like he’s still testing the words, still amazed he gets to claim you—makes warmth bloom low in your chest. you’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together, his heartbeat steady under your ear while those gentle fingers continue their soothing motion through your hair.

“water,” he says quietly after a moment, voice soft but brooking no argument as he reaches for the glass on your nightstand. “need you to drink some for me, okay?”

you make a small sound of protest—a petulant whine that makes him smile, those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners—not wanting to move from your perfect position against his chest. “don’t wanna move.”

“don’t have to,” he assures you, adjusting his hold so he can bring the glass to your lips himself, his movements careful and practiced. “just drink. let me take care of you.”

the water is cool and perfect, soothing your raw throat, and you drink until he seems satisfied, those ethereal eyes watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. when he sets the glass aside, his free hand comes up to stroke your cheek with reverent touches, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the praise makes something warm and content settle in your bones even now, when you’re too exhausted for it to mean anything beyond pure affection.

“chocolate?” he offers next, already reaching for one of the fancy truffles with an eager expression that makes you think he’s been looking forward to this part, those impossible eyes bright with anticipation. “got your favorites from that little place you love.”

“too tired,” you mumble against his shoulder, but you’re smiling at his thoughtfulness, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.

“mm, that’s fair,” he says, carefully placing the chocolate back with exaggerated precision, those long fingers delicate with the wrapper. “we’ll save them for breakfast then. gonna feed you chocolate in bed tomorrow morning like a proper honeymoon.”

the casual way he talks about tomorrow, about all the tomorrows stretching ahead of you, makes your chest tight with happiness. you’re quiet for a while after that, just breathing together, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in your hair, those pale fingers working through the strands with infinite tenderness. gradually, all the overwhelming sensations from earlier fade into a warm, sated glow, your body finally relaxing completely against his.

“you okay?” he asks quietly, his voice carrying that thread of uncertainty that makes your chest tighten. the question hangs between you like something fragile—like he needs reassurance that he did everything right. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, movements hesitant despite their tenderness. “wasn’t too rough? too much? i know we were both figuring it out as we went...” the last words tumble out in a rush, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

you lift your head to look at him properly, your palm flat against his chest where you can feel his heart still racing. there’s a worried crease carved between his brows, and those impossible eyes of his—like winter sky caught in crystal—search your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. his hair is completely wrecked, strands falling across his forehead in disheveled waves that catch the lamplight like spun moonbeams. there’s something endearingly uncertain about his expression, the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip like he’s suddenly second-guessing everything despite the fact that he just thoroughly rocked your world.

“it was perfect,” you tell him honestly, your voice still slightly hoarse as you reach up to smooth away the worry lines etched into his forehead. your thumb traces the furrow there with gentle pressure. “overwhelming and incredible and perfect. you were perfect.” the words come out breathier than intended, but you mean every syllable.

his expression transforms immediately—tension bleeding from his shoulders as relief floods his features. but then heat creeps up his neck in that pretty pink flush that makes your stomach flip, and he grins with that devastating combination of relief and smugness that’s so uniquely him. “yeah?” he asks, and there’s something almost shy in the way he ducks his head slightly, chin tucking down.

“yeah,” you confirm, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumps under your lips. “though maybe next time warn me when you’re planning to completely destroy me. i might need to do some mental preparation.” your fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as you speak.

he throws his head back and laughs—loud and delighted and completely unrepentant, the sound vibrating through his chest where you’re still pressed against him. his adam’s apple bobs with the force of it, and when he looks back down at you, there’s mischief dancing in those crystalline depths. “where’s the fun in that? i live for catching you off guard.” his expression turns predatory for just a moment, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to your mouth. “you make the prettiest faces when you’re surprised. and the prettiest sounds when you’re—”

“terrible,” you interrupt before he can finish that thought, but you’re giggling against his skin, the sound muffled and warm as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. your wedding ring catches the light as you gesture dismissively. “absolutely terrible husband.”

“terrible husband?” he gasps, his free hand flying to his chest in a gesture so dramatic you half expect spotlights to appear. his eyes go wide with mock horror, mouth dropping open in an exaggerated ‘o’ of shock. “on our wedding night? the betrayal! the scandal!” he clutches at his heart like you’ve delivered a mortal wound, and the theatrics are so ridiculous you snort.

“the worst husband,” you clarify solemnly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking character as you lift your chin with mock disdain. “definitely filing for divorce in the morning.” you even cross your arms for emphasis, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that you’re still sprawled across his chest wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

his grin turns absolutely wicked—all sharp edges and dangerous promises—and suddenly he’s rolling you both over in one fluid motion that steals your breath. the sheets tangle around your legs as he pins you beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head so his hair falls like a curtain around your face. this close, you can see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes, can count the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose. “guess i’ll have to convince you to keep me then,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes your toes curl as he leans down to brush his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “think i’m up for the challenge.”

your breath catches at the gentle intimacy of the gesture, so at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “i think i can live with that,” you whisper, your hands coming up to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.

“good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that’s soft enough to make your heart ache. his lips linger there, warm and reverent. “’cause i’m never letting you go.” the words are muffled against your hair, but they carry the weight of a vow.

his hand moves from your hair to trace patterns on your back over his t-shirt—lazy circles and spirals that raise goosebumps in their wake. every touch is gentle, soothing, designed to relax rather than arouse. his fingers map your spine like he’s memorizing each vertebra, touch reverent and unhurried.

“can’t believe you’re my wife,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft with wonder as he shifts to pull you more securely against his side. his chest rises and falls in a rhythm you’re already learning by heart. “keep thinking i’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.” there’s something almost fragile in the admission, like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might make it true.

you press closer to him, if that’s even possible, your leg slotting between his as you nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. “not a dream. i’m really here. really yours.” your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it might as well be a shout.

“really mine,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words, rolling them around on his tongue to savor their taste. his arms tighten around you possessively. “and i’m really yours.” the wonder in his voice makes your chest constrict with emotion.

“really yours,” you echo, and it feels like a promise, like a vow more sacred than the ones you spoke in front of all those people earlier today. your wedding dress hangs forgotten in the closet, but this moment feels more binding than any ceremony.

you’re drifting on the edge of sleep when he speaks again, voice barely audible in the darkness. “love you so much it scares me sometimes.” the confession is soft, vulnerable, like he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud.

your heart clenches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes through the shadows. even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty flickering there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “why scared?” you ask gently, your fingers finding his jaw to trace the sharp line of it.

he’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light touches that make you shiver. when he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “never loved anyone like this before,” he admits quietly, those winter-sky eyes refusing to meet yours. “never had anyone who was mine completely. sometimes i can’t believe you chose me.” the last words come out barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he says them too loudly.

the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight with emotion. this is satoru without his masks, without his cocky grins and endless confidence—just a man who loves you so much he can’t quite believe it’s real. his hair is still mussed from your fingers, falling across his forehead in silver threads that catch what little light filters through the curtains.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, your thumbs stroking along those sharp cheekbones. “i choose you every day. chose you before the ring, before the wedding, before any of it. just you. always you.” your voice is fierce with conviction, and you watch his pupils dilate as your words sink in.

he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. his lashes flutter against his cheeks—so pale they’re almost translucent—and you can feel the way his breathing stutters. “promise?” the word comes out cracked, desperate.

“promise.” you stretch up to kiss him, soft and gentle and full of every ounce of love in your chest. his lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he kisses you back like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning. when you pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears that make them look like fractured ice, and his smile is soft and real and just for you. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”

“best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as one of those tears finally spills over. you catch it with your thumb before it can fall, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.

“the feeling’s mutual,” you whisper back, then settle against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart where you can feel the steady rhythm that’s already becoming your favorite sound. the beat is strong and sure beneath your cheek, grounding you in the reality of this moment.

you’re almost asleep when you feel him shift, his arm reaching across you for something. when you crack your eyes open, he’s fumbling with some fancy remote, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dims the lights. the room is bathed in soft, warm darkness that makes everything feel intimate and cocoon-like.

“sleep,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you protectively as he settles back against the pillows. his voice is already thick with approaching sleep, but there’s something fiercely protective in the way he holds you. “i’ve got you.” the words rumble through his chest where your ear is pressed.

and you do sleep, safe and warm and thoroughly loved, dreaming of white dresses and gentle hands and the promise of forever with the man whose heartbeat has become your favorite lullaby.

when you wake up hours later, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru is propped up on his elbow beside you. his hair is even more disheveled than before, sticking up at impossible angles that make him look endearingly rumpled. those crystalline eyes are soft with sleep and something deeper as he watches you wake up, looking completely besotted.

“morning, beautiful,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep and deeper than usual. there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his eyes are still slightly puffy, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. “how are you feeling?” his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, touch gentle and reverent.

you take inventory—pleasantly sore, thoroughly satisfied, and so completely in love you can barely stand it. your body aches in the most delicious way, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the slight rasp in your voice when you speak. “perfect,” you tell him honestly, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “absolutely perfect.”

his smile could power the entire city—bright and unguarded and so full of joy it makes your heart skip. “good. because i was thinking...” he reaches over to the nightstand, movements still languid with sleep as he grabs one of those chocolate truffles from last night. when he turns back to you, there’s mischief dancing in his eyes again. “breakfast in bed?”

you laugh, the sound bright and happy in the morning light as it bubbles up from your chest. your wedding ring glints as you gesture, and you’re struck again by the surreal reality of it all. “you know what? that sounds absolutely perfect.”

and as he feeds you chocolate—his fingers lingering against your lips with each bite—and coffee appears via room service and he pulls you into his lap to steal kisses between bites, you think that maybe, just maybe, being mrs. gojo is going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

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