possessive men having angry jealous missionary sex…..,,,, grabbing your face and forcing you to look at them….. looking back at them all lovestruck and them getting even more possessive because they want to be the only one to see you that way..,,,,…. aaaaughhshdhff
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
─── dad’s best friend LEON KENNEDY whose lips press in a kiss right on your soft ankle— you legs, spread wide open, rest on both of his shoulders, where they sit so nicely against his burning sweaty skin. your pussy walls squeeze him tightly and squirt all over his cock, fucked rough and messy into the older man’s hotel mattress for the third time this week.
as if it’s been in dire need to be stretched out again by his greedy cock in the span of three days and it’s barely wednesday— you walk straight into his room, dizzy and drunk on his cock, plump ass still tender and tight pussy sore and hurting from the nonstop, borderline animalistic sex and fingers drenched in squirt.
leon’s guilt is eating him up from the inside; the more guilt he feels for secretly fucking his best friend’s daughter and the more it consumes his thoughts, the harder his veins pulse right down the length of his cock while he’s buried inside you. his balls brim with sticky cum, plapping against your bare ass, “ah, fuck— you take it so well, sweet girl. open your mouth for me.”
what a sick nasty pervert. he shouldn’t feel so good having you sprawled in his hotel room with his fingers pushed down your throat. but leon watches your manicured fingers shake and drawing circles, trying so hard to abstain from waking the entire building up.
he pushes them to the side, dripping spit from his mouth down your swollen clit and dragging his fingers in circles while slowing down the pace of his thrusts to help you and placing another kiss on your ankle, “there you go. feels good, angel?”
you can feel the smell of sex all around you. in between your voiceless moans and leon’s grunts, it drips sticky and heavy down the walls and oozing out of your every pore. it smells like leon, masculine, like a man who’s been busy: shamelessly filling up his best friend’s daughter with cum all day long. his cologne is faint, leathery, long gone.
you can feel it radiate slightly right under his jaw, each time his abs press on your tummy and his cock slides with ease right back inside you, tip bruising your cervix so slightly, when he puts his weight on you, emptying his balls of cum inside you.
synopsis: you're a sweet recluse who allows her home to be Jason's safe house. What happens when he starts to get too close to you?
The screen door creaks open late one evening. Jason Todd steps inside your little kitchen like it's a habit, almost as though he's lived here all his life. In truth, you'd only known Jason for about two months now since he came stumbling to your doorstep one stormy evening. Things seemed to pass in a blur since then.
Jason's shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his jacket, bruised from the constant fights he participates in. His jaw is sore and his knuckles are split from punching again. He's already in one of his moods.
He kicks off his boots by the door without looking, the way he always does, listening to the familiar sound of dirty soles thunking against the wood floor. Then, he heads straight to the sink like he's on autopilot, having memorized the layout of your house like it's his own. He doesn't even need to look down to where the fluffy hand towels are as he dries his hands.
There's a plate of dinner waiting on the table that's still hot and steaming, and you're standing near the counter, looking at him like he didn't just come home covered in bruises and blood. You're smiling in the cutesy, innocent way you always do. The way that boils Jason's blood in both a bad, and really good way.
"Hi, Jay," you say, your voice smooth like honey as you look up at him with big, sparkly eyes, like he's just your husband coming home late from work.
Jason swears under his breath and marches through the kitchen, hovering around you for a moment, before muttering a gruff "Hello." in return, slumping down into his usual seat at the dinner table, looking down at tonight's meal.
The plate's got roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a pile of vegetables on the side. It's very balanced. It looks like food you'd see in a magazine with a recipe underneath. You cooked. Again. Like you do every night.
"Thought you might be hungry," you say, cheeks all pink from the stove's heat, or maybe just from looking at him. You get so bashful when he stares. "You want me to get you a knife or anything else?"
"No. S' fine." he grumbles, picking up a fork to start stabbing at his vegetables. You nod, still smiling all cute as you take out a jug of lemonade for him and pour him a class without asking, setting it down beside his plate, right before leaning down to press the softest, most innocent kiss to his cheek. Right near the cut on his jaw, his sweet spot. "Glad you're home safe."
Jason goes still at the feeling, a little grunt leaving him involuntarily. The second your lips brush over him, it's as though every muscle in his body tenses. His eyes flick to you, but you're already walking away, humming to yourself like you didn't screw him over with that little gesture.
What the hell are you doing, letting a guy like him into your house? Letting him sleep in the extra bedroom you cleaned just for him and eat off your table without asking for compensation? What kind of sweet, naive girl lets a man with knives and guns in his duffel bag and scars up his back and shoulders stay in her house like he's not dangerous?
"You shouldn't do that," he grumbles as you have your back turned to him, a deep scowl on his face. You blink, turning back toward him, confusion soft in your eyes. "Do what?"
"You know what I mean. The kissin'. The..." his voice gets tight, jaw ticking, "...the 'Jay' with your little giggle. Don't."
"Don't act like we're friends?' you ask, so innocently, head tilted in a way that makes him want to pounce on you. "We are friends."
Jason clenches his jaw. His fingers curl around the fork, knuckles white. "You should be more wary, is all" he mutters, frowning as you respond with a little huff and a playful eye roll, going over to check on the pies you made for dessert that are cooling on a rack.
He stares at the curves of your body, gaze panning from your hips, down to your thighs, and back up to your ass, plump in the cute little nightgown you're wearing, with the hem riding up your thighs enough to show your panties if you bent over. He can't take his eyes off of you, not for a second. He's looking at you to figure out how someone like you could possibly be real, let alone a part of his life. You feed him. You made him a safe house with gingham curtains and a soft bed and dinner waiting on the table every night without fail.
He's coiled so tight it feels like his skin doesn't fit right, seeing you flutter around the kitchen like everything's fine, apron tied snugly around your waist. You turn and meet his gaze again as he continues.
"Why aren't you scared of me?" Jason mutters all gruff, pushing back his chair and standing. His eyes are all dark and stormy. "You let a guy like me in your house. You give me food, a bed, clothes. You let me walk around your kitchen like I belong here." He steps forward slowly. "You don't even lock your fucking door."
Your throat bobs as you swallow, but your expression doesn't change. That soft, quiet sweetness still on your face like you've never even heard a threat before.
"I don't have to lock it because the only person who comes around here is you, and I know you."
Jason's frown deepens, and he crowds your space, hissing at you coldly. "You don't know shit about me." He stares down at you, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. He keeps coming closer and closer to you, all while you don't even realize what you're doing to him, standing there in your cozy little kitchen, smelling like a dessert.
His body pushes you back into the counter, his jaw is clenched and lips twisted in a snarl. You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, his voice rising. "You let me in here. You open your house up to someone like me and think I'm not gonna hurt you? You think I'm just gonna be your lil' prince charming?"
He shoves his hand against the counter beside you, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, but this time, you don't see the same tired, frustrated guy you've been taking care of. This time, all you see is the threat, the dangerous man who doesn't think you should have trusted him at all.
"I could strangle you, you know," he says all soft. His hand shoots out, quick and brutal, grabbing your neck just below your chin. "You think I wouldn't do it? You think I wouldn't snap your neck like a twig if I wanted to?"
Your pulse spikes. His grip isn't tight enough to suffocate you, just enough to make your heart pound harder. "Or what if I wanted to cut you?" His thumb presses into the side of your neck. he's learned you can make someone pass out if you push there hard and long enough. wouldn't take long if he did it to you, though. another reminder of how fragile you really are. "What if I wanted to steal everything in your house and leave you with nothing?"
You look up at him, whimpering softly at the feeling of his huge hand wrapping around your throat. Your smaller one grabs at his wrist, staring up at him with big, glassy eyes. "J-jason..."
"What if I wanted to tear off one of those flimsy lil' dresses you wear around me and fuck you?" He lets out a low mumble, tipping your head up and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. "You think they're cute, huh? You think I don't notice the way you dress like 'm not gonna want to tear you apart?"
Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can't find your words. He's crowding you now, pinning you to the counter so you have no way out. His thumb pushes harder on your lower lip.
You stare at him, your face flushed. Your chest is rising fast now, like you're trying to keep calm, like your body's betraying you even if your voice hasn't cracked yet. You're not saying anything, but your fear's loud enough without words.
Jason's still holding onto your throat, the heel of his hand digging into your pressure point while his thumb smushes against your soft lips. His chest heaves with each breath, his face twisted up even though deep down, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. He relishes in the slight tremble your body gives and the way you look up at him like you're starting to realize he's not savable.
He leans down to your level. "You scared now, sweetheart?" he mutters. You try to speak, but it catches in your throat. He can feel it under his hand, that flutter in your pulse. "Yeah," he breathes. "That's what I thought."
He tilts his head, leaning down to slot his mouth over your cheek, mocking the little kisses you always give him when he's home. He moans against your skin, starting to press sloppy kisses down to your jaw. He's done holding back, finally indulging in the terrible, heinous thoughts he's had about you since you let him into your home.
His hands roam under your dress, hiking it up to squeeze the globes of your ass, all while you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut.
He kisses up the side of your throat and up to your ear, huffing low so you hear every bit of how hot he is for you. "Lemme show you what bad men do to pretty girls who play house with 'em."
his hands move again. they don't stay in place for long. he's very unpredictable. one moves back to grip on your throat, while the other hand drags up the back of your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown until his rough fingers find bare skin. his breathing is ragged now, lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he's trying to inhale you.
"You smell s'sweet," he growls, nose brushing the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Always smell so fuckin' sweet."
He's spreading you apart before your brain can comprehend it, lifting you up with his free hand to guide you up onto the counter, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Slotting his body between your legs, he looks down at your pretty cotton panties. Just as adorable as you, all lacy and pastel like you didn't have a clue what they'd do to him.
Jason huffs a breath through his nose, low and unsteady, staring at the soaked little patch in the middle. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging his thumb over the wet spot slowly and teasingly. "Look at this. You want me like this." His hand grips your thigh to keep you open, his gaze locked on your panties as he takes two fingers and pushes them up against your panties so he can trace your plump little pussy through the fabric, firm enough to make you twitch.
You jolt, grabbing onto his shoulder while your tummy flips. "Mmh... i-its good... b-but 'm sensitive..." you warn softly, trying to fight against his grip ever so slightly, but he keeps you spread for him with his firm hand. Your breath catches when he starts tugging your panties to the side, baring the warm air of the kitchen onto your even warmer hole.
His hand grips your hip, anchoring you in place while he teases your entrance with the pads of his fingers, just barely pressing in. You let out a strangled little sound, back arching as he slowly presses a finger inside you with a low groan. Your body clenches around him and it makes him twitch, a guttural sound leaving his chest. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, nose nuzzling yours. "So fuckin' warm. This pussy's been waiting for me, hasn't she?" You nod helplessly, eyes wide, lips parted as he pumps his finger inside you slow and filthy. He watches you fall apart for him, cheeks flushed and pretty little moans leaving your mouth with every curl of his finger.
His thick digit curls just right inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs circles around your clit, not too quick, just firm and steady like he's testing how fast he can get you to fall apart. You whimper again, your hips rolling into his hand without thinking.
He watches the little faces you make while you're in heat like this, as well as the way your body reacts to his touch. His eyes are locked on the place where his finger disappears inside you with that delicious squelch, and once you're relaxed, he slides in a second to fill you up even more. You jerk, nightgown bunching up more at your waist as he shoves his fingers deep inside you, wanting to see how tight you can squeeze around them.
"Damn," he mumbles, "You're squeezin' the fuck outta me." His free hand grabs your thigh harder when you flinch back, nails digging just a little into your flesh to keep you still and wide open for him. He leans in, breathing heavy against your cheek as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers keep stroking inside you, that slow, steady rhythm that's driving you crazy because it's just enough to have you trembling, but not enough to tip you over.
You whine out a soft "Jay," all desperate and teary eyed, your grip on his shoulders tightening as your legs start to shake. You don't even realize you're grinding down onto his hand until he growls, "Yeah… that's it. Use your words. You need it that bad, don't you?"
He keeps his face close to yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, watching how dazed you look already, lips all swollen and wet from how much you've been panting. "Feels 's good! M-more..." You whine, your body starting to move on its own, hips rolling into his hand, trying to chase the pressure that's curling in your gut.
Jason doesn't let up. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers, deep and slow, his thumb pressed firm to your clit, working you in tight little circles until your legs are twitching and your mouth is open like you're gasping for air.
"You're already gonna cum, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and thick. "Already cryin' on my fingers like a needy little thing." You nod, head falling back against the cabinet behind you, your breath coming in short, desperate little bursts. " 'M gonna...Jay, I...I'm gonna..."
"Come, then," he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Cum on my fingers like a good girl. Show me how sweet this fuckin' pussy is."
You shatter around him body locking up tight before it all melts down at once, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you can't even stay upright without holding onto him. Your whole body trembles and he watches it all, jaw clenched, eyes dark and blown wide with how fucked he is for you.
He keeps his fingers inside you even after, not pulling out until you're twitching too much to take it, and even then, he pulls back slow, glancing down at the mess he made of you. He brings his fingers to his mouth without even thinking, licking them clean while he keeps his eyes on your face.
Then he leans in, mumbling in your ear. "You made a mess on my hand,"
Jason's gaze drops down to the tent in his jeans, thick and straining against the zipper, and he lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl.
"Take my cock out," he says roughly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for his belt, heart hammering in your chest while you work it loose, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet kitchen. Jason's eyes are burning into your face the whole time, watching the way you fumble a little, the way your lips part and your breathing gets uneven while you tug his belt free, then pop open the button on his jeans.
You slide the zipper down slow, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, but you don't stop.
He helps you just enough to shove his jeans down his hips, groaning softly when you reach into his briefs and wrap your fingers around him. He's thick and hot and already leaking against your palm, and the second you touch him, his whole body stiffens.
"Jesus," he mumbles, chest rising and falling hard. You glance up at him through your lashes, a little dazed and shy, but your hand stays wrapped around him as you stroke him once, then twice, making his head fall forward, forehead bumping into yours while he groans.
He looks into your eyes, his voice all rough and shaking with how close he is to snapping. "You're gonna do it, alright? Not me." he says, jaw clenched. "You're gonna show me how dirty you are, and take me in your hand, and you're gonna line me up with that sweet little pussy like this was your fuckin' idea."
You nod even though you're buzzing and feel your body burning, and he watches you slowly wrap your hand snugly around his cock, his face close to yours as you guide him between your legs.
"Yeah," he mumbles, watching your face. "Just like that." You whimper when the head of his cock bumps against your entrance, slick and warm, and Jason moans low in his throat at the feel of you, the head of him just barely pushing inside.
Your fingers tremble as you line the head of him up with your entrance, glancing up at him as you press him against your folds. "It's so hard," you whisper, all breathless. "Your cock..."
"I know," He responds, watching you continue to guide him, soaked folds parting around the flushed head, barely nudging it in just enough for both of you to feel that first slide. " 's... fuck... c-cause I want you s'bad." He hunches over you a little, mouth hanging open as you finally line him up just right. His tip catches on your soaked entrance and he groans deeply, forehead pressing to yours again like he's trying to stay tethered to something.
He pants, grinding the head against you, not pushing in all the way yet, smearing your wetness all over the flared head of his cock while your thighs twitch around his hips. You make a tiny noise, all high and breathy, and he grins against your cheek. His nose brushes your temple while he shifts his hips just enough for his tip to nudge inside, slow and heavy. "Fuck... there we go, sweetness. 'S suckin me in now."
He grabs your thigh with his free hand, pushing it up until your knee's hooked over his forearm, giving him more room, more access, more of you. He doesn't push all the way in yet, just slides in a few inches, slow and aching, just enough to make your mouth drop open and your nails bite into his shoulders.
"Keep lookin' at me," he hisses. "Don't you dare look away. You let me in, shit... now you're gonna watch what I do to you."
Your eyes flutter open again, all teary and glassy and overwhelmed, and he groans and thrusts in deeper, hips jerking forward like he can't help it anymore, burying himself with a low, breathless curse. Both hands grab your thighs to hold you wide open while his cock sinks alllll the way inside, thick and throbbing inside you.
He sinks in all the way, slow but deliberate, forcing your body to stretch and take every thick inch, and the second he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep inside you, breathing hard through his nose like he's trying to stay composed, but he's not even close. His hands grip your thighs so tight it makes your skin dimple, holding you still like he's afraid you'll run, like he knows you're not ready for how far he's about to take this.
"Fuck, it's good," he mutters, voice wrecked as he stares down at where you're joined. "Look at that. Fuckin' swallowed me whole, didn't you?" He gives a rough roll of his hips, just enough to make you jerk and gasp under him. "Tight little pussy- already squeezin' like she wants to keep me."
Your head tips back as a choked little moan slips out, your hands clinging to his shoulders now, nails dragging across his back without thinking. He groans, fucking into you harder now, faster. Your body jerks with the impact of his rough thrust, and he moans, loud and low against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bites down like an animal.
He keeps fucking into you with rapid, punishing thrusts, his body bracketed over yours, your legs forced wide apart so he can get deeper. You moan loudly, not bothering to hold back on being responsive. You're slicing into his back with your nails, mewling and panting his name harshly.
He growls at the pleasure pain you give him, rutting into you harder, like the sound of his name like that flipped some switch in him. "Say it again," he pants. "Say my fuckin' name."
You do, a little louder this time, all breathless and shaking. "Jason, mmh! please!"
"Fuck," he bites, his whole body shuddering as he pounds into you now, hips snapping forward again and again. "You're gonna let me ruin you, huh? That what you want, sweet girl? Gonna let me fuck the good right outta you?" You nod, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not even sure if it's from how good it feels or how deep he's inside you, but it makes him groan, deep and ragged, like he's never seen anything more perfect.
His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper now. "I ever catch you lettin' another man in this house, I swear to god-"
You cut him off with a soft little moan, too blissed out to process the threat, and Jason grunts, cock pulsing inside of you as he scrapes against your gummy inner walls. You let out a loud, high whine, clenching tight around him, and he curses under his breath, leaning forward to kiss you rough and messy, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip.
The taste of you is too much for him, and he groans loudly, grabbing onto the back of your head so he can fully suck your tongue into his mouth and buck into you faster, like a dog in a rut. "Gonna cum f'you," He grunts, tearing out of you suddenly.
You whine at the loss of the full feeling inside your belly. and he grabs onto your plush thighs again, squeezing his throbbing, flushed cock and pumping it a few times before splurting all over your pussy. You pant, heart pounding in your chest.
He cums load after load on you, before dropping onto his knees and stuffing his face into your cunt, needing you to cum for him too. He doesn't want to wait for your sensitivity or that coil to fade away, and so he thrusts his tongue deep inside your sopping hole, eating out your cunt like it's the only dessert he needs.
You scream, ecstasy washing over you so suddenly that you can't even warn him when you cum into his hot mouth, watching him eagerly drink it all up and tongue fucking you through your orgasm.
He groans at your taste once again, unable to get over how sweet you taste. He stands and scoops some of the cum off his thighs and pushes his fingers lightly to your mouth. "Open." He mutters, watching you oblige with a dazed look in your eyes. He feels his cock twitch to life once more at the sight of you tasting him and looking into his eyes like he's just ruined you, which he has. Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen, and your lower half is soaked with his cum.
pairing dilf blue-collar truck driver!ryomen sukuna x wife!afab reader
synopsis freshly newlywed, your husband goes on his first 2000-mile load across the country, leaving you alone for nearly a month. when he comes home, sukuna sees you've learned some new recipes, and new ways to keep him wanting more.
tags no-curses western set!au, established relationship, age gap (kuna is ~50, read is ~30), crude language, traditional relationship ideals, smut, f!receiving oral//body worship, lots of sweet/dirty talk, hubby is a biggggg man btw, manhandling, nsfw
word count 6.1k
authors note my dirtiest, nastiest, most gut-wrenching, toe-curling fantasy is having a big, beefy husband... but, uh, whoopsie-daisy, I promised u guys this concept in a drabble, but u get a full one-shot instead. can't say i don't love u. enjoyyyy :*
gorgeoussssss art by @innaillus <3
The sound of a car door slams against the sizzle of the dinner turning in your cast-iron pan.
Always perceptive to little things, as such, you raise your gaze against the tiled backsplash. It's not smart to leave the stove, knowing your stew could burn to the bottom of the pan if you let it linger. So, you wait, heart racing, but with expectations at a near-zero.
Your husband is never really home. Since you married him last Summer, you two haven't spent more than a month in constant presence. He's always working. It's in his nature, painted in his blood and the ink on his skin, just like it had been for his father, and the one before him. You won't fail to admit that you have an… easy, enjoyable life, staying in and nursing the big house in the sticks he bought you, or driving into town behind the wheel of his pickup truck. If they're in bloom at your local flower farm, you pick daisies under a sunhat and place them in vases around the house. If it's dreary, you meet a friend for coffee, or perhaps stay in and knit — Forensic Files humming deftly from the vintage box TV.
It's a simple way of life, and Sukuna was your lifeboat right as you felt your heart start to sink.
Now, you stand, easily afloat, cooking up dinner for your husband.
The car door slam outside morphs into gravel-crunching steps, slow and lazy. It's quite an incline to get to your porch from the gravel drive, one that Sukuna despised when he was weary after fifty-something long years and thousands of miles.
You know it's him, only when the key slides in the door with a rough sort of delicacy that only your husband could hold. He doesn't linger unnecessarily or spend too much of his energy on menial tasks when he only has so much. Every touch is jagged and unsteady to an extent — thrusting the key, rattling the knob when his big hand wraps around the metal. Sukuna grunts when he pushes it open and steps inside, the hard soles of his shoes squeaking on your door mat as he strides in, one at a time.
From the entryway, he can see your back at the stove, knees crossed under your skirt as your heart races, and your soul glistens. You reach up, turning the gas to low, watching the blue flames slowly flicker down under the grate.
Holding your breath, you turn over your shoulder with a small, steady smile, biting your lip when you see him again. Taller than your doorway — broad-shouldered and mildly unwelcoming, he stands like he expects something. Like he's waiting for you to make a move, you do, dipping your head and turning around so you can look him over top to bottom.
Lip still caught between your teeth, hands wrapped around the oven handles like you're holding back, you watch as Sukuna wordlessly untucks his dirt-kissed single-breasted tee shirt. He pulls it from the silver buckle that keeps his pants up, giving you a slight edge of the blue plaid on his briefs. Those little moments and the details in his demeanor- make him so tempting.
He waits for you to speak first — to welcome him back into the home you so expertly curated in his vision. "Welcome home."
"I've been waiting to hear that for a month." He finally caves, shedding that tough outer exterior that melts away at the sound of your sweet voice. He toes off his boots right where he stands, jaw working around a yawn he feels he has to stifle in your presence. Still, he makes his way into the room slowly, dragging his socked feet, identifying the scent and sounds in the air. Most of all, he takes you in — his beautiful prize of a wife guarding the first home-cooked meal he's indulged in since setting out for the load.
Your smile gets wider as he draws closer, chest rising and falling in rapid, nervous little clusters before he stops just a breath away. His toes touch yours, just meeting by a breath as he fumbles about in the back pocket of his stained jeans.
After a moment, he pulls out a folded envelope, carrying it proudly between two joined fingers. So close, you can feel his sticky aura on your skin. You nod and take it, staring straight into his settled stare with a feminine ease that soothes his soul right down to the core. You slip a manicured finger under the licked sugar-seal, tearing the envelope and pulling out the physical manifestation of your husband's labor, in the form of a five-figure check scrawled in ink, made out to the last name you both shared.
"Do you like what you see, sweet thing?"
"Hm," you hum tastefully, trying to stifle down the smile that keeps tugging at your lips. It's hard to look into his piercing stare when a number so big is staring back at you, but you cave, knowing eye contact is the least he deserves. "I do."
Sukuna is one for touch, but only in the easiest circumstances — when he's alone with you. He leans closer, dipping his gaze to meet yours. "Once you put most of it away for bills, I want you to treat yourself." His voice is impossibly deep and exhausted in his throat, scratching its way to the surface just like your manicured nails scratch against the paper check.
You nod him down, unable to stifle your proud smile as it tugs at your lips. He hums at your approval, caging you in against the heated stove with a thick arm strong at your side. He wraps his hand around the handle of the oven, dipping his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. You smell so overwhelmingly sweet, like elegant sugar and florals. It's a scent he knows too well, one that he keeps insisting you buy because of how it reminds him of you so wholly.
"How would you prefer I treat myself this time?"
Sukuna sniffs out your dinner, then hums in your ear — light hair tickling your sensitive neck as he burrows a little deeper. At your side, his vice grip tightens like he's holding back, squeezing hardened metal instead of the softness of your flesh.
"Would you… like to help me pick out a few new pieces of lingerie?"
Sukuna doesn't reply with as much energy as usual. Instead, he just grunts, lips pulling into a smirk that fades so quickly that you had no idea it was even there. "Just you saying the word's enough to get me excited."
You laugh, tilting your head back as his words fade into kisses around your neck, dipping to your collarbone, then against the softness leading up to your jawline. The soft, greying stubble on his cheeks tickles, but it's an endearing little shiver that courses through your body like venom. "Before you get too excited,"
"Uh-oh."
"The trucks been making some weird knocking noise." He stands up straight, and you settle back in, gaze low as he stares into your reflection like he's trying to make something new out of it. "Been too scared to drive it with you away, so I've been stuck inside."
"Could've called me." He turns his back to you, yawning behind a closed fist as he goes to grab his boots at the door. "I'd have one of my mechanic friends haul ass up here and fix it within the day."
"It's your truck, so I wanted you to fix it." Your words don't come off as calculated and sweet as they usually do when you talk to him, so you rush to clarify, "I hope that's okay."
"You're more than okay, baby doll." His voice fades into the grey of the space and the echoes of his deft footsteps as he makes his way to the garage side door. He keeps his truck parked there, safe and secure for you, and lets his SUV idle in the front — hauling him to and from the truck yard where it sits peacefully during every one of his jobs. You smile loosely and turn back to your simmering dinner, leaving the head idling at an easy medium-low while the wafting scent of sweet tomatoes and beef fills the air like a savory cologne.
Letting it go just a minute too long on the new temperature, your dissociative, love-struck stare renders your stew burnt to the bottom of the pot. You smell it first, cussing under your breath as you push the top off and cut the heat.
"No big deal," you reassure yourself, careful not to scrape the burnt layer and risk deepening the lightness of the meal. Sounds from the garage distract you from the meal again, a gentle hammering and thumping, followed by his grunts, then silence. You peek out down the hallway, still holding the dripping stock spoon in your grip. "Yoo-hoo, dinner's almost done!" You yell, eyebrow cocking when you don't hear the immediate clamor of his fervor.
"Well, I didn't want you to worry about it, now." You go to scold him with worry, sauce dripping from the spoon you've carried all the way to the garage. He's left the door ajar, out of eye shot when you push it open. He's got the big-ass truck cranked up — lights up bright as he disappears somewhere under it, dirtying himself again after a long, dirty day at work.
You click your teeth, watching his dusty driving boots push and shuffle from under the vehicle. "Ryomen,"
"I hear you." He bites back, thick voice muffled by the weight of the truck. "It's only — I'll be sleeping all day tomorrow, and while it's on my mind…" He pauses, sliding out from under with his back pressed to the dusty ground. He emerges more dusty than he went in, with unknown black smudges on his thick arms and settled face, and tools littered all around him. "I want to get it done."
"What are you doing down there? Changing the oil?"
"You said dinner's ready?" He grunts as he shifts to his knee, then back on his feet. "Heard you callin', but figured you'd just come on in."
"Just have to make the rice, figure I should warn you." You part your lips, watching the sweat bead and glisten against his heavy muscles as he cranks the truck back down on its front wheels. The greying tips of his hair cling to the base of his neck, falling out of place as he exerts himself one final time before succumbing to your sweetness. The whole scene knocks the breath out of your lungs, holding you captive as he grunts and sighs, putting on a show for you that he knows gets you going.
"You got it." He mutters, keeping the crank under the car and passing you by as he steps back inside. You turn with him, gaze wide and upturned as you scan each of his precise movements. "You got some drip, there." He mentions in passing, landing a surprisingly sharp slap over your ass. "Clueless thing,"
You jump, bodies brushing, dirt rubbing off on you as he passes through the doorway. He points out the small trail of drippings in your path, voice laced with an uncertain kind of endearment. "I-it's not burned, so don't be alarmed by the smell!" Rushing to calm your flush and chase after him, he nods silently, turning back to you when he feels you following close behind.
"You're the only one alarmed here." He speaks slowly, disappearing into the bedroom hallway to leave you with the lingering ghost of him that he always seemed to let drift behind. You peek down at your spoon — to the broth that has dripped down the handle and over your fingers, staining them in salty reds.
You jump back into it, licking your fingertips clean, then losing yourself in the farmhouse-style kitchen sink as you wash the remnants from your hands. You drop the spoon in the soapy water, too, grabbing a new one from the utensil drawer.
Your husband is notoriously a man of few words, leaving you with only a vague idea of what he's doing as the shower cranks on, steam lifting under the bathroom door he always leaves cracked when he bathes. It's an open invitation for you to sit and keep him company, perched on the toilet and just chatting his ear off while he pretends to listen. When he's gone on work trips, he calls you just for that same closeness, hearing the TV hum in the back as you go on and on about your best friend's divorce, or how your extended family reached out to you suddenly after the wedding.
Whether it's complaining or doting, his well-timed grunts and empty reassurances are exactly what you need to keep going. He shows that he cares in small ways like that, never entertaining anyone else's conversation when it's not yours.
Sukuna emerges twenty minutes later with his hair stringy and sticking to his scalp. He's decided to throw on one of the shirts you laundered for him before he left, enjoying the faint scent of daisies on the cotton that isn't as overpowering as the fresh clothes you just folded and tucked away.
He walks in sleep-shorts, hanging low on his waist, riding against the hair that gathers at the peak of his happy trail that he never bothers shaving. It's light — pinkish, now that his grey has grown through. Just as the top flips open on your ricemaker, thick savory steam lifts into the air on the only part of dinner you haven't fucked up yet.
"How was your shower?" You quirk up, antsy and shivering as you start putting together his serving. Over half of the rice you made is his, and it takes you at least five ladles of stew to fill his bowl. The vegetables you roasted are for you — the only thing he swore he wouldn't indulge in your homecooking.
"Nice to not be locked up in a truck stop." He grunts as he sits at your dining table, right at the front. He leans back, kicking his legs out and stretching his arms high above his head. Yawning again as you close in with his meal, he shoots you an eager gaze as you melt under his attention. "Can't stand showering with shoes on."
As you lean over him, sliding his steaming meal towards him, he stares, and it's blatant and unashamed. His eyes linger over your chest, then over the gold jewelry adorning your neck, and back down your waist and the jut of your ass. He never holds himself back from you, but you're glad he waited until the bowl was on the table before grabbing the small of your back, big hand smoothing the pleats in your skirt like he's trying to fix you up. In reality, all he's trying to do is feel you up, so you let him.
"I can't stand the thought of you having to do that every day."
"It's the one thing you don't get used to." His big hand finds its way under your skirt, tracing hotly against the silky-soft skin of your thigh. Sukuna traces the edge of your lace panties as he owns them, tucking his fingers under the fabric, and pulling so the snap can startle you with an endearing squeak.
"Cowboy stew for my cowboy," You giggle, coming down from the ease of his touch. You turn his bowl so he can pick up his spoon and start eating, but instead, he looks up at you and shakes his head. "What?"
"Nothing," He actually, finally smiles, and it feels real enough to stop you in your tracks, even with his hand up your skirt. "A man can't stare at his wife? You're all mine to stare at."
Your husband doesn't let you wash the dishes after he finishes eating. He waits until the bulk of it is set aside to dry, creeping up behind you as you rinse and scrub at the burnt base of your cast-iron. It'd take you months to re-season it back to its former glory, but you can only kick yourself for your carelessness, and the excitement of your husband coming home.
He doesn't speak a word, just casually turns off the flowing water, and pulls your wrists from the scalding pool. You jump at the grace of his touch, swallowing down a gasp as he guides that dripping wet arm over his shoulders, not giving you space to react as he lifts you from the ground. He grunts like he always does, but just barely. You're what he knows, so he carries your weight like it's his.
"What are yo—
He silences you with a kiss, too occupied with your sweet, painted lips to look where he's walking. Sukuna lets his need for you lead the way back to the bedroom, kissing you like he means it, tongue slipping between your lips as you part them to protest.
Your fingers leave wet marks against the back of his shirt, dragging the fabric and getting lost in the closeness when he holds you even tighter. "Wanted to grab you before you locked yourself in that bathroom for three hours."
"You know I like to prepare for you." You whisper, breath hitching softly as he pushes the bedroom door open and leads you to the bed. It's gentle and fleeting, but his hands linger as he puts you on the mattress. The silk fabric of your skirt gathers — your skin sticks together with the afterglow of his shower, and how the humidity just made a home against the feathery hair on his chest and arms as he reaches behind his neck to pull his collar off and over his head.
Sukuna's thick chest is a welcome sight. Once you rise to your elbows to ogle at, jaw dropped and knees rocking together, as the bare buffness makes its sacred home right back in the center of your gaze. He climbs onto the bed, and you rise to your knees, walking over to him with an expectant, easy smile.
"Missed you." You mutter, pressing your palms to his chest, running them down his pecs and over his shoulders. "And this."
"Mm," He hums in response, not quite knowing what to say, or if he should speak at all. He'd rather just show you how tempting you look right you — you, in your knee-length skirt and chiffon blouse, paid for by his hard labor. He likes the way his money looks on you rather than the same fleece overshirts and cotton tees he lives, breathes, and dies in every day. You make it look expensive — like his way of life is worth it.
Sukuna doesn't even notice the brand-new bamboo moisture-wicking sheets that are under him, but he notices the softness of your face and the color on your lips. He memorises it as he closes his big hand over your jaw, pulling you into a kiss, sucking your plush bottom lip between his teeth. His other impatient limb gathers and pulls at your skirt, hoisting it up past your knees, just high enough to slip his hand between your thighs, body heating and mingling with the impossible, sticky heat that blooms just for him.
"Take it off." He demands with few words, only interested in touching and tracing over the soft crotch of your underwear, and not dealing with pesky gold closures. You nod, letting him kiss you to oblivion, eyelids fluttering and lips parched as he sucks all the soul from you.
You fumble and reach behind your waist, tugging your zipper open, reveling in the loss of constriction. Sukuna touches that freedom and pushes you back into the mattress, smiling against the breathy moan that falls from your lips as you melt into your familiar mess of pillows.
"And just lay there and moan my name, lookin' pretty."
"You don't want me to touch you?" You whisper in passing, flicking the buttons to your shirt open as he tosses the skirt across the room — a fist getting caught in your delicate panties. He tugs against the fabric, ruining it for later use with its stretched fibers. You don't see the bulge in his pants — can't feel it, but you know it's there. You know how overcome he is with the way the burning red flush erupts at his neck and bleeds down his torso.
Your panties find their way across the mattress, abandoned somewhere unseen for you to find when you're dreary and weathered with sleep and the aftermath of him. Sukuna stares into your eyes as he pushes himself against the mattress, his glare almost predatory. Your heart drops, then settles in the pit of your stomach.
"Never seen you make something called cowboy stew," He mutters, half-focused on you as you tug the shirt off your shoulder, bra-strap peeking free. "Where'd you find that recipe? What's in it?"
"Huh?" You reply, breathless, tossing your head back as your body heats in a mixture of nerves and arousal. It always feels like the first time when he touches you — huge hand making craters in your thighs as he pulls them apart. "D-did you like it?"
Sukuna doesn't hide his stare, certainly not when your cunt shivers in his presence, leaking wetness that stains and glistens against the inside of your thighs. "Don't understand why it's called that." Like he's taken personal offense, his voice is glum and low. Still, he loses himself in the warmth you exude, pushing his head between your thighs, kissing against the sweet wetness. He hums, then licks you clean, eyes slipping shut at the taste starts to settle.
"I didn't name the dish." You let go, tugging further at your shirt when your head falls back into the pillows. You have a good vantage point from this spot, tilting your head to the side so your deep breaths can flow — not clog up your chest in desperate hicks. Playing with your bra strap, cheeks tingling, you peer at him as Sukuna gets lost in you. "I took out some things — added others I think you'd like instead."
"Didn't even tell you I was coming home." He kisses the left crook of your thighs, nose bumping against your folds — aching and waiting for him.
"I heard it in the wind."
"You and them silly superstitions." He finally gives you, grip tightening as he dives in. Sukuna knows your body — what excites you — and still, he makes it a point to savor this. His tongue starts at your entrance, dipping and gathering the pooled arousal, humming right back into your pulsing cunt.
You gasp, breath shivering as his tongue laps at your entrance, expertly making its way to your clit with a speed he's mastered in your time together. Sukuna's warm lips close around the bud, sucking it between hollowed cheeks, eyes slipping shut as your thighs shake and shiver. He has to pin you open, knowing you have every mind to strangle him between your heat until he takes that fateful last breath.
It sounds like Heaven — the only issue being, Sukuna would let you. His soul feels so close to home when it's buried between your thighs, memorizing your sweetness as it mingles with his spit and slides down his throat. Exhaling hotly against your heat once he pulls away, Sukuna smirks when he feels how sensitive and overcome you are already, with yourleft heel running down his back, pushing and flexing as the sensation renders you obsessive and crazy.
Your head flies back into your pillows, tummy shivering, unable to pull yourself free from the onslaught like your body naturally needs. The stimulation hits you right in the gut, especially when he focuses those sinful lips at your leaking hole — his nose jutting and digging into your clit, making your back arch, neck tightening.
You want to speak — to tell him that it's so good, but you can't find the breath. Every single time you part your lips, a jumbled version of his name spills out into his mop of speckled hair, going blurry around the edges as your hips lift off the bed.
"I know." He growls into your cunt, forcing your thighs open when they fall together with the force of submission. "Want me to tell you how sweet you taste? Mm…" Sukuna knows what he's doing, and he does it on purpose, just to make your bones sing. His words vibrate throughout your core like they're singing hymns into your bloodstream, making you shake, quiver, and go weak against it.
Sukuna knows immediately when you cum, flying his eyes open when you go limp so he can make out the way your face scrunches before going completely blank — like you've seen a ghost. It's endearing, and a sight he sees every time he looks at you, filing that intimate moment in the back of his mind every time you smile or purposefully pick at his nerves.
He drinks you up like it's his final meal, humming, huffing, and grunting as he humps lazily against the friction of the bed. If he's not careful, he'd make a mess in the pants you'd have to clean tomorrow, and though the messy sight would be endearing come morning, he has to physically rip himself onto his knees to keep him from finishing at the sound of your cries and the pinch of your sweet features.
Sukuna knows exactly what way to make love to you in, his favorite — your least favorite. He wants to stare down at you in missionary, so he mounts you before you can put two and two together, still hazy and holding onto sanity like you're holding onto your bamboo sheets.
Like they're on fire, Sukuna rips off his pants, shuffling them down his thighs just enough to comfortably make a home between your pulled knees. He shushes you like you're a fussy child, shaking his head as you whimper and flutter your lashes, trying to come down to the tightness of his grip. A hand lost to you works between your bodies, wrapping around his thick girth, pinching at the base so he doesn't finish as soon as he slips inside.
"Open up and look at me." He demands, needing to see the way your vision clouds over when you feel him split you open. The view makes his eyes water — it makes him crazy and territorial, and it's what he sees on those night-drenched roads when there's nothing to keep him company but the buzz of the radio and the constant hum of his tires spinning against the pavement.
"Hey." His voice dips into something sinister — the swollen, thoroughly underused head of his cock just whispering against your fluttering entrance. "Open the fucking eyes, now. I didn't wait a month to see you sleep, and you know that."
"I-I'm—
"Look alive." He nods, reaching up to squeeze your chin in his hands. Concentrating over you in a plank only held up by the strength in his knees and a single hand pressed to the mattress, he yanks your attention back down to Earth, nodding when that pretty, familiar gaze flickers back into view. "Good girl — obedient."
"I love you." Before you can fully get the words out, as you stare into his crimson gaze, he slips inside, and it feels exactly how you knew it would — like home. The thing you do — the one with your lovely gaze makes Sukuna crazy. It's impossible to hold back, but he knows he needs to. He can't let this moment slip from his fingers, because it's built up so perfectly and in time with every single one of his nastiest, night-spanning fantasies.
"I love you, too." He answers, eyes squeezing shut as his hips stutter and rock into yours, mind falling into complete static as your soft walls spasm and loosen around him. It feels like he's going insane, eye twitching as he hits that halfway point, feeling the tip nudge against your gummy walls.
Sukuna bottoms out and is so overcome that he has to hide it. You moan and whimper into the air — into his shoulder as he presses his body into yours. All the air is knocked loose from your chest, and you're too constricted to gasp or beg for mercy, so you succumb to the closeness as it's your death… a bitterly sexy and sweet way of losing it all. You can only sit up and catch a soft breeze when he dips his head to your neck, panting into your wet collarbone, his teeth skimming your shoulder and snapping against the strap of your bra. It falls when he pushes it, but it's not enough to pull it off, just to make you look unkempt and fucked-up — his favorite sight.
Then, his teeth move to the gold chain hanging from your neck, sitting high as gravity pulls it into the pillows under you. Sukuna bites down on the metal, grunting as he jerks and circles his hips inside of you.
You're nodding for nobody — nothing making sense as you run your hands over the ink painted against his huge shoulders, and down his back. All you can do is whisper out invisible praises that keep him going in this sweet, touch-starved pace, too taken to speak your own-damn self. It's just too good. He's so close.
The chain falls from his teeth, wet and cold, jerking life back to your soul as you peel open your eyes. Sukuna sits up, studying that shimmer in your gaze. He reaches down and strokes your leg, massaging your knee as he guides it over his hip. After years, you know what this is — Sukuna can't risk you trying to overcome his position with your writhing legs. He needs you pinned like a fish as he feeds you every single greuling inch of his thick cock.
He wants you on display, but before he shakes you off and gives you what you want, he dips back down and kisses you. Demanding your neck in a way that proves that you're his, you whimper and whine into the intimacy, eyes fluttering shut as he falls from your lips, over your neck, and eventually trailing to the crook of your arm. He reaches behind his back, digging thick fingers into your arm, and pins your wrist above your writhing bodies, giving him the perfect angle to lean down and lick a fat, concentrated swipe through your armpit. He savors the scent — the lingering cleanliness of your wash and scentless deodorant. There's a soft taste of your cologne there, too, and it drives him insane.
That lick turns into kisses, and those kisses feed into the way he fucks into the mattress like he's scared you're going to run away from the body-to-body.
Sukuna gets lost in it the same way every time. He always reverts back to the first time he felt you — how he lost his mind and threw his livelihood to the wolves just to feel you wrap around him again. Your breathy moans echo in his head, beating off the sides and mixing with his thoughts where they stay forever.
Slamming into your sopping cunt, filling the room with the lewdness, he doesn't want to think about anything else. He's hardly thinking about you, letting you scratch and pull at whatever you need, head nodding as your moans fade back into full-chested cries. Behind him, your legs jerk and your feet stiffen, head rocking back with a bent neck like you're trying to expel something impure from your soul.
The pleasure renders you silent so that his groans can be the soundtrack to your pleasure. You wish you could tell him just how much you love and need him, but the way you're taking him is all the proof he needs.
As you fade in and out of reality, you can't help but hold onto him a bit tighter, tears springing to your eyes as he kisses you — body writhing and giving you everything it's got, because it needs you just like you need him.
Every unsaid word — every whisper and twitch in the night gathered and festered in a sealed jar for a month until Sukuna grabbed and broke the seal without strain. It fuels him now that he's into it, sitting up and flipping you onto your stomach so he can finish himself off while you cry and moan his name into the sheets.
Through it all, and though he hates to admit it, Sukuna feels like the ripe thirty days without you this time were worth every single second. He doesn't roll off of you all night, and you're not too tired to complain, you just can't fathom pushing him away once he's been so far.
Sukuna leaves you again, a week later.
Just like you felt the shift in the day he arrived, you feel it as you zip his duffel bag shut.
Attached at the hip for a solid seven days, Sukuna was glad to send you away, even if it was just to shower without him. He lingered as you cooked dinner — drove you into town with all the windows down, so he could watch your hair turn silently in the breeze. In public, he didn't hold you by the hand, but instead kept you at his side with a strong arm at your waist.
You bought him a watch, and he bought you a new dress that he peeled off the second you put it on. Every night, like a ritual, he fell asleep on your chest and didn't move an inch — groaning and pulling you back when you tried to push away. Every bath — every achingly boring football game you had to sit through all fueled him in ways you couldn't see.
"You get into any more trouble with that car," He walks back into the room, pulling a grey, rolled sleeve flannel over his broad shoulders. "Don't wait until I get back to tell me."
"Yes, sir." You smile, teeth shimmering like dusted pearls as you hand him his heavy bag. Sukuna doesn't smile back, but you can see the lightness in his eyes when you do. Instead, he nods and shoulders the weight of his life for the next two weeks, already planning what he'd do to you the next time he has you all alone, locked up in his arms.
You follow him out of the room as he swings his bag over his shoulder, heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards. The front door draws closer and closer — closing in on the two of you like a twisted sort of death trap that you can't ever seem to claw your way out of. Sure, tonight you could sleep, tossing and turning on your mattress and eat salads and bagels all the time, but the freedom comes at the bitter, familiar loss of your husband.
Whether temporary or not, losing him feels like the first time all over again.
Sukuna opens the door like it's so easy, regarding you for half a second to make sure you're still biting at his heels. "Stay up here, babe." He mentions crossing the metal threshold onto the porch that he painted the summer after he bought you this house. "Gonna get your pretty feet all dirty."
"Wouldn't you like to see that," You hum, resting your hip against the doorway as he jogs down the steps. "Hey, be safe, now. Call me when you stop for the night."
"Don't have to remind me every damn time."
"I do." You stand up straight, reaching for the banister as you step onto the porch. Sukuna pulls the driver's side door to his SUV open, swallowing down a smirk.
"Stay your ass on that porch—
"Call me, Ryomen."
"Alright." It's simple, but it still takes a push to give it up as easily as you speak it. "See you, baby doll."
You give him a polite smile, grip squeaking as it tightens against the railing. You're holding yourself back, but you can't say anything else. The car door closes on the rest of your messy, jumbled thoughts, breaking you free from the anxiety that always seems to spike once he gets behind a wheel.
The engine turns over. You can see him staring at you through the streaked windshield, shaking his head when you motion for him to crank the window down. "Load's gonna leave without me, babe!"
His sharp tone, though quite playful for him, strikes you silent as he shifts the car in gear. The second his gaze falls — the break lights illumining the whisper of the morning behind him, you call out for him again;
Even when you were both still young preteens fumbling their way through puberty and middle school, there was always something about him that stood out from the rest of the student body.
Sure, he was smart, handsome, and came from a good family especially with his father being the current superintendent general at the police force. He had all the qualities that ensured his constant popularity, but despite how amicable he was towards your peers he always retreated back into himself.
.
.
.
At least, that was when it came to everyone else that is.
Because the biggest oddity you could find in him is his blatant need to ALWAYS be around you.
Whether he was merely within your immediate vicinity or engaging with you in some way, the dark-haired male was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. The eyes are the windows to the soul and for someone like him who was a master at molding his expressions in whatever face he needed at the moment, his eyes clearly revealed how genuine he was towards you.
Perhaps you should be scared, especially when his expressive eyes widen and dilate whenever your eyes meet with him for even a second. How it seems as if he’d been staring at you for long periods of time without you even noticing how heated his gaze was, but…
Was it bad that you found his attention…endearing?
Flattering even that such an eligible man such as him only had you in his eyes?
Dan never did anything that made you feel uncomfortable, but rather knowing that you had his eternal attention almost felt like a safety blanket was wrapped around you and that there was never really anything for you to fear. He is a gentleman first and foremost, but the longing within his eyes are unmistakable and the genuine smiles he bestows upon you wear down the walls you’ve placed around your heart little by little.
That is why is there really any surprise that you’re wedded beneath the sakura blossoms as soon as you’ve both graduated highschool?
To most people, marrying so early seemed like such an archaic practice or that you were both throwing your lives away so early.
Such a thought never passed through your mind however and much less your husband for that matter. If anything, both his family and yours were very supportive of your decision as they had all been witness to the love you both shared for one another through all these years. Plus, it also helps that his family was well-off enough and Dan himself driven enough that your father had no qualms handing you over to his new son-in-law because he knew that you’d certainly be taken care of and cherished.
However, as much as you were grateful to the family and friends that celebrated your union, nothing could still overcome the happiness that overflowed from your heart as you met this man at the altar and exchanged vows and a kiss to seal your everlasting love to one another.
Dan was certainly odd…but you loved him all the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The doctor said that this is the best position to allow my seed to reach your womb and we’d be remiss if we didn’t follow her instructions. Besides, Masahiro deserves a new sibling, don’t you think so? I long to see you again growing ripe with my child…your breasts filling up with such fine drink that I’m already salivating just thinking about it…”
You don’t know what happened during work to set him off like this, but you weren’t complaining as Dan did his utmost best to practically rearrange your guts with how hard he was bearing down on you. The pillow he’d slipped beneath your hips just moments ago certainly helped as skin smacked against skin and bodily fluids dripped and stained the once pristine bedsheets.
The handsome investigator’s usually combed dark hair was in disarray as strands clung to his sweat-stained face, his movements & expression reeking of desperation and overflowing affection as he sought to get his cock as deep into you as he could. With luscious thighs wrapped around his narrow waist, hands raking against his strong back leaving faint red lines, and your lips kissed and bitten until it shone a bright reddish color, Hiroki knew that this might as well have been heaven.
For it is everything he wanted and dreamed of.
A precious young son sleeping in his own room, and the love of his life: his sweet little wife who still cared for him in spite of his need to ‘commit good deeds.’
And now that the newest member of your family was actively being made, Hiroki would make sure to continue his mission to cleanse the world of the filth that dared taint its goodness.
“ Leave it to me, darling. I’ll rack up enough ‘good deeds’ for you and all our future children so that you may all live without fears or worries… ”
With your face buried in the crook of his neck as you slept on top of him, his cock still stuffed inside your sopping cunt in order to prevent any of his seed from slipping out, the man smiled and closed his eyes and followed you into the land of dreams.
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