Music To My Ears

Music to my Ears

SUMMARY: You and Sanzu decide to take a risk and fuck in Mikey’s quarters while he's not there.

Content warnings: pwp, Threesome—f/m/m, Anal sex, Anal fingering, cunnilingus, blowjobs, Multiple orgasms, Orgasm delay, Voyeurism, Praise kink, Light Dom/sub, Biting, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Cum Swallowing

sanzu x f!reader x mikey, sanzu x mikey

a/n: my sanmai brainrot is manifesting now

Your moans are always music to his ears, the perfect song that begins being soft and gentle but quickly turns rambunctious and powerful—straight from pianissimo and right into fortissimo. And even though you both put yourselves in such a dangerous situation that will surely result in unfortunate, if not horrendous, consequences, Sanzu can’t help but want to enjoy the music you breathe into the air.

But he can not. Instead, he quiets you with a hand over your mouth, thumb on one side and four fingers on the other while being careful not to cover your nose. His body is atop yours as he holds himself up with one arm, hips flush while you are on your back.

Sanzu hikes your legs over his shoulders in order to cant your hips upward, giving him better access to the area that makes you sing, and as he shifts his position, bending his knees and moving them closer to you, the angle of his thrusts changes and he starts hitting a spot deep inside you that had your eyes rolling back and the lids closing as you keen into his hand.

It was still loud, though—too loud.

“Shh, shh, shh. You don’t want us to get found out, do you?”

Your eyes open to meet his royal blue ones, and you shake your head beneath his grip; he rewards the answer by grinding into you, his groin rubbing against your clit with each roll of his hips, and it forces more noises that are just an octave higher than before to escape you.

“Are you close?” he asks, his voice just barely above a whisper; you nod again. “Rub your clit.”

Your much smaller hand than his own snakes between your bodies, delicate fingers grazing your clit, and just the mere touch makes you gasp. Your hips jerk away like you’d been injured, but you immediately go back for it and starts rubbing quick circles on the swollen bud, your legs soon trembling on his shoulders.

Sanzu starts thrusting again, hitting that spot deep inside you just like before—he must have been, if the way his wife is sounding off beneath him was anything to go by, as well as how your pussy pulses around his cock, threatening to clamp down around him like a vise as you grow closer and closer to your orgasm.

You keen as he pounds into you and he so badly wants to uncover your mouth just to hear the beautiful crescendo you are releasing as you are building up to your climax. But he knows better.

“C’mon, baby. Cum for me. Let me feel it,” he breathes, snapping his hips against you one, two, three more times—

The door to the room you both are in opens like the gates of hell, and Sanzu can’t scramble off his wife fast enough, pulling out and uncovering your mouth just as you reach your peak and ungracefully tumble right over it, back arching and a loud moan escaping your chest.

You seem undeterred by the intruder who’d just walked in on your intimate moment and who’d froze at the sight of you fucking in a place they definitely have no business being, and instead you just roll onto your side, close your legs around your hand, and try to catch your breath.

The Bonten figurehead’s eyes flick between you and Sanzu as he stands just inside the doorway, his hand still on the helve as the bulkhead that separates his personal quarters from the rest of the building is wide open. Sanzu can only remain where he is, jaw tense and eyes straight ahead as he stands at attention like the right-hand man he is.

When the door is gradually shut, its eerie creaking and lock clicking both sounds that would surely haunt his sleep for nights to come, he could only watch as Mikey then slowly makes his way across the room and toward his desk while the heavy but steady rhythm of his steps reverberates off the walls and shakes Sanzu to his core.

The Bonten Leader removes his coat and tosses it onto his desk, and it was at that point Sanzu glances back at you, realizing that you, too, is watching, though your face and chest are flushed—but whether that is from embarrassment, your orgasm, or something else, he isn’t sure.

Neither of you knows what to do and you both are sure as hell do not know what Mikey is about to do, but you two remain still, waiting for your punishments.

Sanzu can’t help but wonder if getting thrown off the building—or even just voluntarily jumping off it—will be less painful than silently standing at attention in the room with Mikey, listening to his steps as he moves, while you two wait for disciplinary action. His stomach is twisting and turning in a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety and dread.

Mikey is at the table now and he pulls out the chair that is closest to his desk, takes a seat, then leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. The pose is intimidating and shows his patience has grown thinner.

Then again, Mikey is staring directly at you—at least until those two eyes that are the color of charcoal turns toward Sanzu and locks with his ocean blue hues. Immediately, he looks straight ahead again, his stomach locking up as he suddenly realizes that, yeah, he understands how you are feeling now.

But the room goes silent—awkward—aside from the sound of Sanzu’s heart in his chest and ears that is no longer a steady rhythm but some sort of fucked-up beat he can’t even keep time of. And then Mikey speaks in his familiar, husky voice that always had the pinkette’s stomach doing twists and turns and flips like acrobats.

“Please continue.”

Mikey could have shot Sanzu in the head with a glock at that very moment and he’d still be staring at him in confusion. But both he and you must have been displaying the same facial expression because an annoyed look crosses Mikey’s face as his eyes flicks between the two of you again. He waves his hand a bit from right to left, palm straight up, urging you both to continue with what you are doing.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he reiterates.

“I—” Sanzu begins but cut himself off as he glances back at you. “I don’t—I’m not sure—are you—is this—uh—” He sputters like an idiot, his words unable to gain traction in his mouth and instead his tongue keeps slipping and sliding over like he is attempting to climb a muddy hill in flipflops, and by the time he even finishes stumbling over every attempted sentence, only one clear thing comes out: “boss?”

Mikey’s string of remaining patience snaps and Sanzu feels like it is going to slide down his throat and choke him. “My most loyal dog.”

Mikey’s tone is sharper than the katana Sanzu had accidentally cut himself with when clearing a raider hideout two nights ago—and that thing had really sliced through his hand—but his title is said in a way he hasn’t heard before and it makes him stand up straighter, shoulders square, as he stands at attention in more ways than one.

“Get back on the bed and continue fucking your wife.”

Sanzu’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he glances back at you again, then at the Mikey, then back at you; and he is about to move—

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Yes, boss,” the scarred man says, his voice cracking from nervousness, before he quickly climbs back onto the bed. He has gone soft after getting caught, but Mikey’s sharp tone and husky voice has, well, helped give him a bit of a semi, so all he has to do is reach down and start stroking himself a little to get the rest of the way there, and seeing you spread your legs to allow him between you certainly does wonders to speed that along.

Once he is fully hard, Sanzu shifts forward, guiding himself into you, both of you releasing an ensemble of sighs and quiet moans as he hilts inside you. Like before, he grinds himself into you, his groin rubbing against your clit as you release a sharp exhale before your hips rolls along with his, demanding more friction.

Sanzu didn’t grind against you for long, though, and instead hikes your legs over his shoulders again, canting your hips upward, while he increases the tempo of his thrusts, his hips soon slamming against yours roughly.

But the moment you are growing loud again, your voice abruptly jumping a couple octaves rather than gradually increasing, his palm roughly claps over your mouth, muffling your noises.

“Let me hear.” Mikey suddenly interjects.

Sanzu stills and turns his head, eyes locking with the Mikey’s; there is an obvious erection in his suit, but he isn’t touching himself and instead is still in that same position as he watches.

When the scarred man looks back at you, however, that is when he feels your tongue slide against his palm; he crinkles his nose in disgust before pulling his hand away, being met with a grin on your face. You seem to be enjoying yourself, at least, and he’d be a liar if he says it wasn’t exhilarating to have someone—especially Japan’s most fearsome crime lord—watching him and his wife fuck.

As punishment, he snaps his hips against you roughly, coaxing a yelp from you, the sound loud and echoing off the walls in the room, though he doesn’t give you time to recover before he’s fucking you again. He pushes your legs closer to your chest, which allows him to go deeper, and you are mewling beneath him as he slams into you, both of you breathing heavily, and he knows you are both already getting close—

“Rub her clit.”

Immediately, Sanzu sits back on his knees and pulls your ass onto his legs, your own legs leaving his shoulders and instead wrapping around his waist. His thumb finds your clit, hand splaying across your mound as he rubs quick, rough circles on the sensitive bud while he keeps up his thrusts. You are still mewling, your legs trembling around him, and he tries to hold on for you, his eyes tightly closing and his teeth grinding together while he fucks you harder, but he is so close.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes, “I want you to cum with me.”

But Mikey is suddenly beside the bed, his upper body bare. He leans over and locks his lips with yours in a gentle kiss that you seem to have trouble holding while Sanzu never lets up on his rough thrusting. Mikey’s hand slides around your throat and, at the same time, your own hands find his body, one going to his shoulder blade and the other to the back of his neck, nails digging in at exactly where his Bonten insignia is placed.

Finally, you tipover the edge, your walls clenching around your husband’s cock as your nails claw and claw and claw at Mikey’s back, almost breaking open the skin all around his shoulder blades as you go into freefall from your orgasm. The kiss between you two breaks and you scream your husband’s name; and soon enough, your sounds dies down until the only thing escaping you are breathy whimpers from sensitivity—but Sanzu is already flying over the edge with you by that point.

Just before he reaches climax, he releases soft moans that only increases in frequency as he reaches the edge and finally tips over it. His eyes tightly closes again and his hips slam against you once, twice, thrice, before he buries himself to the hilt and comes inside you.

Sanzu’s orgasm crashes over him like sound waves that reverberates through his bones and soon he is holding himself above you, leans to the side on one hand so as to keep his body separated from where Mikey is still close and peppering bites along your jaw as you sigh softly and enjoying the feeling.

The Bonten leader pulls away after a few more moments and Sanzu takes his chance to lean down and kiss you, one hand cupping your jaw as he pulls his hips back just enough to slide his softening cock from you.

“Y/N.”

The kiss breaks and you turn your head to look at your superior, listening for orders.

Mikey is standing near the table—the man is so quiet with everything he does which is not unusual, and as he calls for you, Sanzu doesn’t waste any time pulling away to let you get up.

You saunter over to the crime lord and he reaches out to grab your jaw. Once you are close enough, thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks as he pulls you closer and roughly kisses you while his other arm wraps around you to pull your body tightly against his.

You find yourself returning Mikey’s kiss, and once you are separated, he reaches down and cups your ass, hoisting you up so you have to wrap your legs around his hips before he carries you over to the table and set you on the edge.

Your lips are immediately on his throat, kissing along his jaw just as you always do to your husband, and Sanzu can only watch with interest, his teeth chewing his lower lip. But this is the first time he has ever seen Mikey bare his throat, his head slightly tipping back to give you better access to such a vulnerable area, and Sanzu wonders if he does that for all his whores, knowing they could sink their teeth into his jugular and make his artery spray like a fountain.

But he doesn’t seem worried, and Sanzu knows you well enough to know you’d never do such a thing.

“Your husband takes good care of you, doesn’t he?” Mikey asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“I can tell. How many times did you cum before he did?”

“Three, sir.”

“Mm. Good. Think you can handle more?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you want your husband to watch me fuck you?”

The question catches you off guard and you attempt to look at Sanzu for guidance, but Mikey grabs your jaw again, thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks once more to keep your head forward as he makes you look up at him instead.

“Don’t look at him, look at me. Do you want your husband to watch me fuck you?”

“I—” you start but the answer never comes out.

Sanzu can’t blame you. He knows what you want, and he’d be a liar if he says he doesn’t want to let you get fucked by his beloved boss too—and he’d be an even bigger liar if he says he doesn’t want to get fucked by Mikey himself, as well. But the chances of that happening are slim to none, “Haruchiyo. Do you want to watch me fuck your wife?”

“Yes.” There is no hesitation in Sanzu’s answer.

“Y/N?”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” Mikey purrs before he starts pushing his pants and his underwear off, completely baring himself. “Lay on your back.”

It is only then Sanzu took a moment to appreciate the way Mikey looks, taking in the sight of the countless scars that riddles his slim and muscular body like sheet music, singing the tales of a man who lived his life darkness and suffering. Bullet holes and knife wounds litters his torso, some scars are small while others are much larger; atrophic trenches and hypertrophic ridges that decorates his skin, gifts from past battles and traumas that many knew about but few knew the intimate details of.

It is beautiful on its own fucked-up way.

And Sanzu can only admire the younger man as he stands before them like the perfect living example of a marble statue carved centuries and centuries ago.

You are on your back, fingers running through Mikey’s stomach before he kneels down on the floor between your legs, his face disappearing from Sanzu’s view as it is blocked by your thighs.

It is obvious what he is doing as Sanzu had done it plenty of times himself—licking your cunt and tasting you—though the surprising part is how Mikey seems to have no problem eating you out after Sanzu had spilled inside you just a few minutes ago. But you seem to be enjoying it, the hand that had been on Mikey’s stomach is now grasping his silver locks and pulling him closer to your core, directing where you want him.

Mikey had you singing in no time, your back arching and legs trembling as you come, a soft muffle of his groans against you is sounding off in the background of your song, creating harmony together.

He helps you ride your orgasm out and once you are done, he is back on his feet between your thighs. A rough hand runs up your stomach and between your breasts, then back down, before he reaches between you two and starts pushing in; you suck air between your teeth, the sound hissing, and Sanzu finds himself standing and moving closer, his eyes zeroing in on what is happening between your legs—

Fuck.

Mikey is thick. Thick. Probably average in length—but he is definitely thicker than Sanzu; though the pinkette is bit longer. Still, shit.

Mikey eases in and is soon hilted, your song of pain eventually turning into a song of pleasure. Sanzu leans down and kisses you softly, one of his hands going to a breast and groping as he keeps your lips locked, your moans muffled against his mouth and he devours every note.

“Rub her clit,” Mikey orders as he begins to make small test thrusts.

Sanzu breaks the kiss and momentarily glances up at him before reaching over and sliding his fingers between your legs, rubbing fast circles against that swollen bundle of nerves. You are immediately moaning, gradually increasing while your body tenses and your hands grip the edge of the table beneath you just as the Mikey’s thrusts starts to pick up in tempo.

“Good boy, Haruchiyo.”

Alright, he’d be a liar if he says the praise hasn’t sent a wave of arousal throughout his body.

Fuck.

You are quickly falling apart, though, and it doesn’t take long for you to come, and Mikey’s soft groans as he slams his hips against you tells Sanzu that your walls are spasming around his boss’s cock; he knows all too well how fucking good that feels.

“Such a good girl,” Mikey purrs, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs pressing inwards toward your groin; the sound of your hips slapping together from skin-on-skin contact is nearly echoing in the small room. “Perfect fucking fit.”

But Sanzu isn’t prepared for the hand that grasps his chin and yanks him up and to his right, forcing his lips to collide with the leader in a rough kiss; his cheeks are clutched and it forces his mouth to open wider, providing access to an intruding tongue as it searches for his own.

And all the while, Mikey’s hips never falter in their thrusts even as you are cursing and keening and definitely watching your husband make out with the white-haired man above you while, at the same time, that younger man is fucking you. You mutter something along the lines of ‘oh, fuck, that’s so hot,’ and he can’t really disagree.

Sanzu has never been with a man before. That doesn’t mean he isn’t attracted to them, because he is—he considers himself bisexual even though he’s never actually fucked another guy—but holy hell if this isn’t an opportunity. And the assumption earlier that Mikey has no interest whatsoever? Scratch that, because it is clearly wrong.

He has no idea how long he’s been kissing his boss—it feels like forever because he’s been sent into some sort of bliss from just how good it is—but as soon as it breaks, they are both panting and Mikey immediately turns to you, his eyes looking you over for a moment before he glances back to Sanzu.

“Go sit on the bed,” he orders.

Of course, Sanzu obeys and goes to sit on the edge of the mattress, ensuring he is in a good position to keep watching.

It is then, however, that Mikey bends over so his body is flush with yours and you immediately wrap your legs around the Mikey’s hips as he is grinding against you. One of his arms goes to the table, a hand threading into your hair as his face is pressed against the side of yours, and Sanzu can hear Mikey whispering but cannot tell what is being said. His eyebrows furrows as he strains to hear, but he can see you bite your lower lip before looking over at him—the Bonten boss doing the same—and something about the look you two are giving him makes him almost want to blow his load again right then and there.

But he still isn’t hard yet.

Mikey starts kissing your neck and you tip your head back for him as soft moans escapes your lips while your hips are grinding. But when his teeth sink into your throat, right on your pulse point where everyone will see, your soft moans turns into a loud groan that signifies pain mixed with pleasure.

His teeth remains in your neck as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward, likely only releasing your skin after he is certain there will be a dark bruise left behind. Mikey then drags the flat of his tongue against the spot he’d marked before he stands up straight, grabs your hips, and returns to fucking you hard.

From there, it isn’t long before the white-haired man is on the brink. Sanzu can tell before that where his boss had once kept a steady pace in his rough thrusts, they are now faltering, their tempo losing its rhythm while his breathing has grown heavy and ragged as he pants. You are close as well, with one of your hands between your thighs, fingers rubbing your clit while your legs tremble. And before long, you tip over the edge, back arching, screaming Mikey’s name—not his nickname, though, but his first name.

“Manjiro”

“That’s it, pet. There you go—mmfuck, I’m gonna cum.” A low groan is released from deep in Mikey’s chest before he slams his hips against you a few more times and then hilts himself, stilling as he comes.

Inside you.

Mikey comes inside Sanzu’s wife.

And Sanzu isn’t even mad about it—shit, he feels himself growing hard from it, that refractory period finally having dissipated.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and watches as Mikey was grinding his hips against you, his body rolling with each movement before he finally pulls out. When his cock slid free, the noise it makes is wet, likely from the mixture of your cum and both men’s cum—and when Mikey pulls back enough so his cock is in Sanzu’s view, the pinkette can see streaks of white on it.

Mikey’s eyes remains on your cunt, however, even as he suddenly speaks to Sanzu. “Haruchiyo,” he says sharply in that same tone that had helped get Sanzu hard earlier—it is doing the same thing now. “Come here.”

Bonten’s number two is immediately on his feet and approaching, standing at attention as he does and waiting for direction. But as Mikey finally flicks his eyes over to Sanzu, the pinkette have a sudden realization of what he is about to be told to do.

“Clean me off.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Just as quickly as he’s gotten to his feet, he’s also gotten to his knees. He takes Mikey’s semi-hard cock into his hand and slides the head into his mouth, sucking hard, while the the shorter man’s eyes are on him the entire time—and Sanzu can’t help but stare back. He slowly slides more and more in, sucking him clean, tasting the mixture of Mikey’s cum and the tang from his wife on his taste buds. And maybe he intentionally takes a little longer than necessary to clean the cum from his superior’s dick, but he eventually gets the job done and Mikey seems satisfied.

He is brought back to his feet, and his lips are smashed against the other man’s again, that same tongue invading his mouth and immediately being welcomed by his own. When they break apart, however, there is a soft noise from you; they both look over to see you watching with a palm groping your breast, two fingers rubbing your clit, and cum leaking from you. You don’t seem satisfied or sated despite having numerous orgasms, though you should appreciate the fact you don’t have the same sort of refractory period as he do.

Sanzu chews on his bottom lip before looking back to his king as Mikey pulls away, moving to his desk drawer and grabbing something out of it—a bottle of what, he isn’t sure—

Oh. Wait.

Oh, fuck.

Mikey returns to him but before he is able to question anything, their lips crash together again and Sanzu is being led backwards toward the bed. The back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress and he is suddenly pushed by hands against his pectorals until he falls onto the bed on his back.

Mikey is atop him in seconds with his hips slotted between Sanzu’s thighs, their lips brought together again, but it is only a brief kiss this time before the Bonten leader sits back on his knees and that bottle he’s brought is popped open, some of the substance being poured onto the white-haired man’s fingers.

“I’m going to fuck you, Haruchiyo,” Mikey says nonchalantly; it nearly makes Sanzu moan. “Have you ever been fucked in the ass before?”

“Uh, well—” he begins as Mikey gently rolls him onto his side and pushes his top leg up to his chest. “Yeah, I have. With Y/N.”

“Mm. Good.”

That is all the warning Sanzu receives before there is a finger working into him.

It doesn’t take long before he is prepped; Mikey is gentle, of course, and ends up getting three fingers into Sanzu’s ass, spreading him open because, fuck, the man’s cock is thick, and Sanzu isn’t about to be split open. But when he is ready, Mikey apparently have plans for how he wants this to go.

“Y/N.”

You are immediately on your feet—you are always obedient when you choose to be.

“On your back.”

When you lay down, Sanzu is instructed to sit on his knees between your legs like he had earlier; a hand comes from behind him to quickly stroke his cock, thick fingers wrapping around him quite nicely as he is being guided right back into your cunt, a place he knows he belonged. You are still soaked, a combination of your own slick and cum as well as the mixture of his and Mikey’s spend, which just makes it all the better.

A rough hand strokes over his back as Sanzu is hilted inside you. When that husky voice speaks low in his ear, almost a growl, Sanzu’s entire body shivers.

“Fuck her. Hard. I want to hear our cum getting fucked out of her.”

Shit.

Sanzu obeys and pulls his hips back before slamming them forward, repeating the action again and again, his cock pounding into you while he grabs your legs and pushes them upward to where your hips are canted just like before.

But he falters in his movements as two fingers are pushed into his ass, and then he completely stills as those same fingers are crooked downward, body tensing when they press against his prostate, poking and prodding and massaging it.

“Baby,” you whisper, and Sanzu opens his eyes, not even realizing he’d closed them; he moves his hips a little because he knows that is what you want, but that just makes the fingers inside him press more against his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure throughout his entire body.

Those fingers are pulled out, however, and Sanzu releases a sigh before he starts thrusting again, beginning slow before eventually pounding into you once more, making you keen.

Mikey disappears into the bathroom for a few moments, letting you two continue, and Sanzu doesn’t even realize the white-haired man returned until a hand grasps his hip, stilling him, while a rough palm presses between his shoulder blades and gently pushes him forward so his chest is almost flush against yours. The anticipation had his heartbeat increasing in tempo, knowing it is about to change as the bonten leader is preparing himself to fuck Sanzu.

The pressure of Mikey’s cock pushing into his ass nearly knocks the breath out of him. His entire body tenses, his jaw clenches, and he grabs fistfuls of the sheets as he releases a low groan while Mikey slowly works himself in. At the same time, you are stroking along Sanzu’s back soothingly, trying to help and convince him to relax.

“You can take it, Haruchiyo,” Mikey purrs.

Fuck, Sanzu could have cum right then and there because the sound of his beloved king’s voice alone—deep and husky and filled with lust—is just incredible.

Mikey is soon hilted and all Sanzu can do is just lay there, feeling entirely full while his cock is still achingly hard and buried in your tight heat. But Mikey isn’t going to let him stay still for long, and he knows that.

Mikey eventually pulls back a little before his hands are put on Sanzu’s hips, guiding him, making the pinkette move back and forth so he’s thrusting inside you while Mikey’s cock is fucking him with just Sanzu’s own movements.

It is intense and incredible and fuck.

He is already going to lose it soon if this keeps up.

Mikey starts moving Sanzu’s hips faster and he can’t help the breathy moan that escapes him, his face is pressing into your jaw as his breathing is stuttering, his body almost trembling while it threatens to tip over the edge. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

But he is suddenly pulled back, his cock is ripped from your core as a large hand reaches down to his dick, thumb and forefinger wrapping around the base and squeezing much too tight for comfort—and then his urge to cum is just… gone.

“Not yet,” Mikey murmurs in his ear from behind, and Sanzu can only whine.

Strong hips are grinding against his ass, and Mikey’s free hand slides up to his throat, fingers wrapping around the column while the other hand releases his cock and moves to be grasping his hip, holding him still as—

“Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckgodfuck!”

Mikey gives him no warning before he’s pounding into Sanzu, holding the pinkette back against his chest and thrusting fast and rough while the hand on the Sanzu’s throat makes him lean his body back against the shorter man’s. He feels hands on his cock again, stroking, and realizes you’ve leaned up to touch him, rubbing his dick as he’s getting brutally pounded into—you and Mikey both focusing on Sanzu’s pleasure. And it is intense.

But Mikey eventually slows his thrusts to where he is just grinding until he fully leans back on his haunches, pulling Sanzu with him so he is sitting on Mikey’s lap. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and husky. “You like having my cock in your ass?” Sanzu can only nod as he pants, unable to form any coherent words. “Y/N. Ride him.”

It is an awkward position, sort of. You straddle Sanzu but is at risk of falling backward so his hands are loosely on your hips. You lean forward and kiss Mikey over his shoulder as your hips grind against Sanzu, his cock slowly moving inside you.

You two manage to somehow work in tandem as if you’d practiced—Mikey brutally thrusts upward into him while you bounce on his cock, and Sanzu is just fucking losing it; he isn’t going to be able to hold it. He can’t. It is coming.

He is coming—

His cock slips free from you again and Mikey’s thumb and forefinger are squeezing around his base once more, forcing his orgasm away—Sanzu cries out as he thought he is going to explode.

“Please,” he pants; his eyes are half-lidded while his breathing is shaky, but his pleas are ignored as teeth clamp down on the side of his neck, biting the skin hard enough to bruise. Mikey marking him just like he’d marked you.

Fuck.

After the leader let go, you are on your back again and Mikey shoves Sanzu forward to where he is laying on you like before, your husband’s chest flush with yours and his face buried against your jaw once more.

“Please, baby,” he tries again, begging you this time as if you might be able to do something but knowing you had no control over the situation—Mikey controls everything. He controls you two.

Mikey’s hand is wrapped around his cock and Sanzu releases a whine, but he is guided back into the tight heat of your cunt. “Fuck your wife, Haruchiyo, and I’ll let you cum.”

It is music to his ears.

Shaky forearms are pressed onto the bed as he starts thrusting into you, one of your hands having slipped down to rub your clit in the process, and Mikey immediately begins pounding into Sanzu from behind again. The pinkette barely registers when Mikey’s hand reaches forward and gently wraps around your throat, the other he places on the middle of Sanzu’s back as Mikey is slightly leaned forward when he starts fucking him even harder. His hips clap against Sanzu’s ass, the sound almost deafening as it echoes in the room.

But at this point, Sanzu is gone.

His hips stills as he feels his climax approaching, but he doesn’t even need to move because the force from Mikey’s thrusting is enough to make him pump into you to some extent. And while that may not have been enough for you, it is certainly enough stimulation for your husband. “I’m—I’m gonna cum,” he groans, and he isn’t sure if anyone even heard it because it is said so quietly.

But Mikey does. “Let’s hear it, Haruchiyo. I want you moaning my name—no one else’s. Cum for me.”

Sanzu tips over the edge and his body tenses up as he comes hard inside you. He groans, his crescendo having led up to the moment when he moans out Mikey’s name right against your jaw, feeling your body shiver beneath him at the sound. His hands clench the sheets, and even as he finishes coming, Mikey keeps going, brutally fucking him even as the stimulation becomes overbearing.

You suck in a shaky breath and he feels you tighten around him even though his cock is softening; he can only release a heavy exhale against you when you come, his entire body shuddering as you moan so close to his ear—using Mikey’s given name again just as he assumed you were directed to. But it is a beautiful song, nonetheless.

Mikey’s thrusts are faltering, and Sanzu is thankful for it because everything from the waist down and knees up is starting to pulse and throb and he knows he’ll be sore after all is said and done—but it’ll be worth it.

“Mm, fuck. I’m gonna cum—gonna cum in you, Haru.”

The use of his name had him groaning again and before he knows it, Mikey slams into him one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt and coming, filling Sanzu up as he’d promised and the pinkette lays nearly limp on top of you, panting against your jaw.

Mikey leans back onto his knees, releasing your throat though his other palm slowly begins to slide up and down Sanzu’s spine, soothing him and helping him relax, and he feels your fingers threading into his mullet. The stroking along his spine from Mikey only lasted a few seconds, however, before the white-haired man pulls out, coaxing a groan from both men, and then Mikey makes his way over to the bathroom and disappears inside.

“You did so good, baby,” you whisper before kissing his temple. “It sounded like you enjoyed it a lot.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, but he can’t get anything else out. Both his body and brain are utterly exhausted and refused to move or think.

Mikey comes out of the bathroom soon after disappearing, carrying wet rags; he moves to the bed and softly places one of the rags onto Sanzu’s lower back, the touch gentler than the he ever thought possible of someone like Japan’s most fearsome criminal, before the rag is slowly trailed down to clean him up. He is tender and sore, that is for certain, but Mikey is careful in his touches and you are soothing him by petting his head and whispering comforting words.

Once he is cleaned off, he is carefully rolled onto his side and Mikey then goes on to clean you up with the second rag, though Sanzu watches as Mikey leans down and gently presses your lips together. There is something intimate about the way he kisses you—and that same intimacy is present when Mikey had kissed Sanzu, too. He really can’t help but watch even though his eyes are drooping from exhaustion.

Surprisingly, though, Mikey isn’t kicking you two out, and even after Sanzu finds himself dozing, he’d woken up just as the bed dips and he feels his boss settling between him and his wife.

Mikey’s body wraps around your much smaller frame, one of his arms going beneath your neck and wrapping around your chest so his hand rests on your shoulder, and the other arm draping over your stomach—but not until after he reaches behind him and grabs onto Sanzu’s arm, encouraging him to join in on cuddling.

This is a new and probably still dangerous situation, but, hell, it is a good change in his life.

Scarlet Witch! By artist @iminpainrz on Twitter.

Inspired by her Romani Heritage.

what about farmer being pregnant and instead of like an announcement dinner or something seb goes to robin and orders a nursery to suprise her? :)

Y'all making me get baby feels but like... I'm not even mad

Amelia had known for three days and two hours that she was pregnant. She stressed for every second of that time and she was sure that Sebastian was starting to get worried. He had brought up the idea of going to see Harvey and making sure she wasn't sick. She couldn't keep trying to handle this on her own. 

He was her husband and he spent so much time going out of his way to prove how much he loved her. 

But does he even want a child? Whenever a joke was made, he was quick to make jokes like ‘oh, I sure as hell hope not’ or ‘you’d better knock on wood’ if someone joked and said that maybe she was pregnant. Regardless, she panicked. She knew he wouldn't leave her because of it; he wasn't that kind of guy. But if he got too stressed out or they fought more… She couldn't forgive herself. 

It was somewhere around 5:45 am when she rolled over to wrap her arm around him, only for the bed to be empty. She sat up, shifting to stand before grabbing his t-shirt from the dresser and walking out to find him. 

He had always loved when she wore only his shirt. 

When she stepped out, she saw him, his back to her as he brewed coffee. This was certainly one thing she'd miss with a kid around, sneaking looks at her husband's body when he walked around in his underwear. 

She walked up behind him before slipping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his back. 

He jumped, nearly dropping the mug of coffee before he settled, putting the cup on the counter with a small, tired smile. 

“Hey, handsome,” she hummed, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, prompting him to shift, turning to face her for a gentle morning kiss before she continued, “couldn't sleep again?”

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, though it was no use, her hair wild from sleep. 

“Yeah, figured I’d get up and make us some coffee.” She stood on her toes to steal another kiss, finding that she was oddly hungry for him instead of needing coffee. She behaved though, knowing he was definitely not a morning person. 

She slipped from his arms and turned to go fill Loaf’s bowl for when he crawled out of his own bed. As she stepped away, Sebastian smirked, arching an eyebrow and letting out a low whistle.

“You’re pretty cruel, you know,” he took a small drink of his coffee, his eyes never leaving hers, “putting on my favorite shirt and coming out here like I wouldn't notice.”

Her smirk mirrored his as she chuckled, “I have no idea what you're talking about,” she hummed, stretching her arms above her head so the shirt rode up, revealing her naked ass. 

This might actually be a pretty good morning. 

She heard him taking long strides over to her, coffee forgotten on the counter. When he reached her, his hands found her hips, pulling her back against him to feel just how cruel she was being. He bent and pressed a kiss to the soft below her ear, her breath hitching as he nipped at her ear lobe, whispering in a gravelly voice, “go ahead and feed Loaf. I've got some rainy day plans for us.” 

She nodded, lower lip drawn between her teeth as sparks flew through her whole being, pooling in her lower belly. 

Where there was a baby. 

She shook the thought away as Sebastian walked back to his coffee, readjusting himself as he watched her. The smirk she loved so much stayed fixed on her body, which she made sure to show off as well as she could, bending at the waist to open the container, giving him a view that would help make this morning very interesting. 

Her plans screeched to a halt as she actually opened the container, the smell of dog food wafting up into her face. Suddenly, she knew she was going to puke any second. 

She looked over at Sebastian in a brief panic before running to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the contents of her stomach emptied. He must have run behind her, his whole body tense as he tied her hair back and rubbed her back gently. 

“We need to go see Harvey today. This is the third time you've puked without any warning and it's really not okay, Ames. I'm getting worried,” he rambled, trying and failing to mask his panic. 

Her eyes started to well up with tears as she wiped her mouth, flushing before pulling her knees to her chest, “I'm fine, Seb. Really.” 

She sounded hardly convincing as she choked on a sob.

There was no way she couldn't not tell him now. And a million ‘what if’s plagued her mind as he sat in front of her, any facade of calm faded. 

“Ames, look at you. You're not fine. I need to call Harvey, I'm sorry,” he shifted, standing and turning toward the door. 

“Seb, wait,” she managed, wiping her tears before standing and walking to him, grasping his hands with all of her might, “it's… I just…” she looked up at him, rivers of tears falling, “I'm scared you'll… Be mad or… Freak out…”

His eyes moved quickly, scanning every inch of her face. His voice was soft when he responded, cupping her face in his hands to wipe her tears away, “love, you know I love you more than anything in this world,” he gave a small smile, teasing her just a little, “even sashimi. And that's a lot of love,” she laughed through her tears, leaning into his hand, “Ames, you can tell me anything.”

He really didn't know. Had no suspicion. 

She searched his face for a moment before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, “I'm nine and a half weeks pregnant,” she breathed, her voice hardly audible. 

He stood there frozen for a moment, her face cupped in his hands, the only change being his intake of breath and eyes widening. After a moment, just when she was about to panic, his expression formed into a small smile. The fear wasn't gone, but there was actual excitement in his eyes. Her heart soared as he pressed a loving kiss to her head. He rests his forehead on hers, letting out a breathy laugh. 

“That's what it is… We're having a baby…”

Her tears spilled over freshly before she wrapped him in a hug, releasing every ounce of relief she held. He was genuinely excited, which made her realize… So was she. 

Sebastian picked up a lot of the work around the farm, much to Amelia’s frustration. The second she started to show, he shifted into overdrive, making sure she was as relaxed and happy as possible. They had just finished dinner and he sit on the couch with her head in his lap. With one hand, he toyed with her hair while the other one rested on the small bump forming in her belly. He often touched her belly, having fallen in love with the baby the second he saw the little bean on the sonogram. When he heard the heartbeat? He was already wrapped around the baby's tiny finger. 

She looked up at him, his gaze turning to hers as they sit there. 

“Seb, we have to tell people. They're gonna know I'm not just gaining weight. Especially when you go to get me some more olives and ice cream.”

He chuckled, considering for a moment. 

“I want to tell my mom and Sam before anyone else.”

She hummed in agreement before laughing and pointing to the area behind them, “good because we need her to build the nursery before we lose track of time.”

He nodded for a moment before a devious grin spread over his face. 

“No problem. I have an idea.”

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

They walked together up the mountain path, hand in hand as they buzzed with excitement. Seb had brought some ‘sketches and ideas’ with him to show his mom, which she'd politely take into consideration. But as she leafed through, the latest sonogram should be there, a small note along the top stating simply ʼHi Grandma!ʼ

Thankfully, it was cool enough for Amelia to wear layers and effectively hide the growing bump. 

They stepped inside, Robin smiling brightly as she saw the two. She came around the counter, greeting them both with hugs. 

“Hey! I feel like I haven't seen you both in so long!” she teased, gesturing to the papers Sebastian held, “what brings you guys in today? A barn or second coop, or–”

“We actually wanted to upgrade the house a bit” he interjected, met with a surprised look, though not suspicious.  He held out the manilla folder, carefully handing it over. Sebastian slipped his hand into Amelia's before nodding a silent hello to Maru, who was in the lab. He continued, “we have some pretty basic ideas, though we know we can trust you regardless.”

She beamed and started leafing through the pages, commenting on each idea until she stopped mid-sentence, the small image now facing her. 

Sebastian squeezed her hand, hiding his nerves as she touched it with a shaky hand before looking between her son and daughter-in-law. Her eyes were glistening as she pointed at Amelia as if perhaps it was a friend’s or a random photo. Sebastian, without hesitation, shook his head no before pointing to himself, obviously trying to make her laugh. Make her do anything. 

“Oh Yoba, you're not joking? I swear, Sebastian Ainsley if you're pranking me…” 

He held up his hands in surrender, laughing aloud as she wiped tears from her face, “that would just be mean, grandma.”

He joked, though it only made her run around the counter and throw her arms around them, laughing and firing questions off faster than they could answer. 

Amelia unzipped her jacket and moved Robin’s hand to the small bump, making the woman stop in her tracks, a fresh set of tears falling as she spoke, her voice quiet through her tears, “my Sebby is going to be a father…”

Amelia beamed as Robin wrapped her son in a tight hug, Sebastian throwing Amelia a look. He was happier than he'd been since the wedding day. 

Maru heard Robin and came over quickly, Demetrius behind her, concern plain across his expression as Maru spoke, “what's wrong? Is everything okay-” she caught sight of the sonogram and then the bump before she shouted in surprise, “you guys are having a baby?!”

Sebastian laughed and shifted as Maru rambled excitedly about being an aunt and all of the cool ideas she had for things she could build already. 

Sebastian shared a look with Demetrius, who, to Sebastian’s shock, offered a kind smile and nod before turning to try and reel Maru back in. Robin wiped at her eyes before tapping the sketches on the table, “you need a nursery then?” 

Sebastian gave a nod, “we have all of the necessary materials and money at the house, we just wanted–”

“We'll pay for the addition to the house,” Demetrius called over, surprising everyone there. He laughed and put his arm around Maru, who had hugged him from his side, “as grandparents, it's our job to spoil this child,” he looked pointedly at Sebastian, “and I want to show you that we're here as resources and family. Congratulations, you two.” Sebastian stood and stared for a moment in shock before noting Amelia was zipping her coat back up, a telltale sign she was ready to go home.  “Thank you so much, all of you,” he started, already feeling a million times lighter, “it means so much. Text us if you need anything or if you just want to gush about the baby,” he teases, watching as Robin furiously started sketching out designs. 

Needless to say, Sam lost his mind in excitement. 

The whole town will know by nightfall. There was no way Jodi didn't hear Sam yell it out. 

Honestly, it just made their job easier.

Hear me out : making the most raunchiest, down right disgusting sextape with mammon and someone accidentally watches it and hears EVERYTHING 🤭

You remained in your demon boyfriend’s arms, scrolling through your phone, looking at social media. Mammon watched with you, telling you to scroll back up and click on things after you scrolled past them, making you playfully scold him. He kept on doing it, laughing at your reaction and trying to fluster you more. It wasn’t until you heard a ping from Mammon’s cell that you put your phone down.

“Aren’t you gonna check that, hmm?” You exaggerated your tone, lacing it with sarcasm.

He huffed and lifted it to his face. “Nah.” He then put it back down and put his arm back around your waist.

“What if it’s important?”

“It’s just Asmo, probably something makeup or fashion related.” He shrugged.

“Okay, you’re probably right.” You returned to your social media before you also received a message from Asmo. “What the hell?”

You opened it and read: ooooooooh~

You typed up a message, disturbed by the vagueness.

Mc: Huh?

Asmo: hehe

Mc: what???

Then no response. Mammon’s DDD rung again. And then two other pings followed. You turned to him, making him groan.

“I was comfy, ya know!”

“Get your DDD and figure out what’s going on.” The pings continued, equally frustrating and worrying the both of you. Mammon opened his DDD and went to the group chat shared between his brothers and then his eyes went wide and his jaw dropped open. He went pale and you started to panic. “What is it?” You pulled his cell to your eyes and saw immediately what it was.

Asmo: guys look! *sends video*

Asmo: they make such a good couple! I’m so happy they’re compatible in all forms! I gotta say I’m a little jealous!

Levi: JADNFJRNFJNRNF

Satan: no fucking way

Beel: ☹️

Asmo: I know, who would’ve thought Mc was that nasty! Wait until 23:42 where they take him into their mouth right after he pulls out of them!

Satan: all I needed to see was the thumbnail. No thank you. Mammon’s little mammon isn’t something I’ve ever wanted to see.

Belphie: I got about 2 minutes in, they already have spit everywhere even though they’re just making out. So dramatic.

Asmo: I think it’s passionate! Romantic! And messy. Our little Mc clearly isn’t shy when it comes to spit! They let Mammon spit in their mouth at around 7 minutes.

Beel: I can’t watch. Please stop telling us what happens.

Asmo: but I didn’t even tell you the best part!

Belphie: if it involves Mammon I don’t want to hear it

Satan: how can it not involve Mammon?

You and Mammon remained frozen, watching as more messages filled the chat. Levi remained silent and, rather terrifyingly, Lucifer remained absent from the chat. Mammon prepared to type a message and then you stopped him.

“There’s no point. Only Asmo and probably Levi will watch it at least.”

“At least!!! Mc! They have no right to be able to see you like that!” He sat up and started typing.

“Uh! Obviously! But typing something will only egg them on, you know that! Plus what about Lucifer!” You tried to reason with him, sitting up beside him. “And the even bigger worry is how the hell did Asmo find the video! It’s on my DDD!” You showed him where your messages were still open with Asmo, clearly not showing any sign of you sending the tape. Despite you telling him not to, Mammon started typing.

Mammon: HOWD YOU GET THAT!

Asmo: I found it

Beel: you didn’t send it?

Mammon: NO!!! WHY WOULD I SEND THAT??

Asmo: it just appeared in my videos one day. I’m not sure how but I’m not upset. Did you not want us to watch it?

Mammon: EXCUSEEEE MEEEE???? NO! MC IS NAKED AND DOING A WHOLE LOTTA STUFF! AINT NO WAY I WOULD DO THAT OR THAT HAPPENED!!!

Lucifer: A sex tape?

The both of your hearts skipped a beat.

Lucifer: A sex tape that magically appeared in Asmo’s phone? Did Mc send it? Mammon is clearly too possessive to willingly send a video of Mc naked and “doing a whole lotta stuff” for lack of better terms.

You both heaved a sigh, thankful he didn’t immediately lecture you both.

Asmo: could’ve just been fate.

Mammon: Mc didn’t send it! Lucifer, you gotta figure out what Asmo did!

Levi: current status: 5:14. Mammon asked Mc “you’re already desperate, huh?” Directly after Mc said they were desperate for him. Mammon is clearly a little behind.

Mammon: STOP WATCHING

Lucifer: I will figure out what happened. However, Mammon and Mc, you will need to realize that for evidence, I will likely have to watch it.

Mammon: WHAT

Lucifer: who knows what happened, Mammon. Asmo could’ve snuck in when you didn’t notice and cursed your DDD.

Mammon: NUH UH! I’ve watched that video over and over, ain’t no way.

Lucifer: seems as though you’re the desperate one then, hm?

Lucifer: also, to clarify, I won’t exactly enjoy seeing your little Mammon either. Would you rather me send it to Barbatos to figure out what happened?

Mammon: you know what, I don’t even care. Just.

Mammon: Don’t.

Mammon: Watch.

Mammon: IT.

Lucifer: You know what, I’d rather leave this be as well. Everyone needs to have this video deleted from their library. I will be inspecting everyone’s phones to make sure it’s not there.

Mammon: WHAT

Levi: NOOOO

Asmo: okay well don’t be surprised by what you see

Belphie: this government (Lucifer) is too oppressive.

Satan: what will Mc think? Going through her phone? Personally, I think we should overthrow our government (Lucifer).

Beel: I don’t have anything to hide. Just don’t judge me.

Mammon: I’m leaving the House of Lamentation. Nah, the whole Devildom. You’ll never see me again.

Lucifer: 👍🏻

The two of you looked at each other, defeated and deflated. Both of you, hunched over, staring at the messages flying across his DDD. While you wanted to figure out what happened, you just accepted that it’s better not to probe. Needless to say, you were also encouraging of Mammon’s idea of a vacation from the Devildom, not necessarily a permanent one.

The two of you did not leave your room for at least 24 more hours. You just didn’t want to deal with it. However…

Asmo to you privately: want some ideas?

Maybe this wasn’t entirely too terrible.

(This was also so fun akfjdjfndn)

— Ran eyes the stairs that lead to his childhood home with hesitation. He glances at the rusted metal on the railing in remembrance — staring at the chipped paint on the walls next door. His initials are still carved into the wood below — his brother’s mirroring his own underneath. 

Ran hasn’t seen his mother in a long time. He hasn’t been back home for even longer. 

He's not sure he would even call this place home. 

He'd messed up terribly at the age of thirteen, and had spent a good amount of time in a correctional facility to make up for it. By the time he was out, he'd decided to leave the apartment he’d grown up in behind. He didn't give his mother much room to object — she didn’t have it in her to do so either. She'd grown weary of her words falling on deaf ears. She loved her boys, she really did. But there was only so much her heart could take — there was only so much destruction she'd allow them to partake in under her roof. She’d simply nodded when he told her he was leaving, not bothering to meet his gaze. But he remembers the fight she’d put up when Rindou had said he was coming too. He remembers the ache in his heart at being cast to the side. And he wonders if he would’ve stayed if she had begged him to. He wonders what it would be like for her to fight for him too. 

At fifteen, he’d dropped out of school. At twenty, he was an active member in a street gang. He never went to visit her — he never told her how he was doing either. Rindou left out as many details as he could when he did. For their sake and for her own, she never asked anyway. 

The two boys cleaned up their act as they got older. They'd started their own business — had grown extremely well known and successful in the industry too.

Still, he never called. Still, he rarely went to visit.

Yet here he was, standing at her doorstep, debating over whether or not he should knock ─ over whether or not it was wise to come speak to her. He had something to tell her; something really important. But a part of him didn’t want to see her look at him in disappointment — a part of him wanted to avoid her look of regret. It was that part of him that had decided to avoid her altogether. He despised that look — he hated how inferior and small it made him feel. Like he was fifteen all over again. Like he wasn’t edging thirty-five. Like he hasn’t long since been responsible for not only himself, but others too.

He had a difficult relationship with his mother. A push and pull he'd never been able to figure out. They were too much alike. He never felt like he was enough. 

She wasn't a cruel woman. She wasn't evil by any means. She'd been good to him — good to the both of them. She always has been. She always would be. 

But he's just like her — a part of her ribs, a part of her soul. He's just like her and it terrified her to her core. She’s just like him and it made him want to hate her even more. 

But a mother was a mother, and he was still her boy. A mother was a mother, and he had no choice. 

So he sighs, and he brings his knuckles up to the door. 

He hears her shuffle around before it opens and she blinks at him in surprise. She doesn’t smile but she reaches for him immediately and he bends to let her hug him. Her embrace lasts only for a moment. He doesn’t think he could stand it if it lasted any longer. Fragile arms hold his face, scolding him for looking so gaunt — criticizing him for smelling like smoke. 

He thinks he's home now, here with her words. He wonders if this was still home.

Whatever that meant at this point. Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

She ushers him inside and he's nervous all over again. He can't remember the last time he'd been this scared to face her. 

Maybe it was when Rindou had broken his arm and he had to be the one to tell her — when he was only seven and it was his fault. He should’ve looked after his brother better. He should’ve stopped him from his own stupidity. 

Or maybe it was when she'd stared at him behind the visiting glass at the juvenile prison — when she’d stared at the bruise on his face and the avoidance in his gaze and didn’t bother saying a single word to him. 

He furrows his brows at the flurry of thoughts. He doesn’t want to remember any of that at all.

She doesn't sit, so he follows her into the kitchen. He eyes the sliced meat and the cloves and the spices scattered across the counter. He takes a seat at the small dining table in his childhood home and she goes back to cooking. 

"What is it?" she asks him, breaking the silence. 

Her back is to him as she stirs the pot and he stares at her — at how small she is compared to him —at how small everything here was now that he was older and taller. 

"What makes you think it's anything?" he replies. 

She rolls her eyes, licking her teeth.

"Don't start with me, boy. You never visit without your brother."

He looks down at his knuckles. He eyes the emptiness in his hands.

"What's going on?" she says again. Her voice is still sharp but there’s a softness to it. Like she's prepared for the worst. Like she can handle it if he told her.

He sighs, leaning back in the wood chair. It creaks under his weight and he scratches at the worn out material of the table. It was old. Everything here was so old. She'd refused to let them move her out even after they'd had the means to. "Leave it alone,” she had said. “I'm fine with the way things are."

Ran had shrugged, dropping the subject after the first time they’d brought it up, but Rindou had kept insisting. 

He never got his way in the end.

"I've been seeing someone," he tells her. She pauses her stirring, but doesn't turn around.

He keeps going, rubbing the back of his neck as he tenses.

"For about a year. A little longer than that, I think."

She doesn’t say a word as she holds her breath, pretending to reach for the salt instead — as if she hasn’t used enough of it already — as if she needed anymore.

"She’s pregnant, Ma."

Her eyes are sharp and wide as she turns to look at him. He sees himself in her silent rage. He sees himself in the lavender of her fury. And he knows it's rage for your sake. He knows what she's thinking.

That poor girl. That poor, poor girl.

It's courtesy for you. It's concern and worry for a girl she hasn't even met yet.

Not for him. He doesn't think it's ever been for him. 

"Is she your woman?"

He dwells on the question for a moment, pondering between the literal and the figurative. He decides to go with the former. 

"She was.”

“Was?” 

“I messed up," he reveals.

"What did you do?" Her anger is silent ─ it's quiet and building.

"I said some shit I shouldn't have when I found out."

There it was. There it is.

That look of disappointment he'd wanted to avoid — that silence he hated drowning in. 

Your fault, the still air seemed to ring out. It’s all your fault.

"Is she keeping it?"

He glances at her when he replies.

"Yeah."

"Do you plan to be in their lives? Because if you don't, you leave that girl alone. You do your part financially, and you leave her alone. Do you understand me?"

The skin around her knuckles turns a ghastly white as her grip tightens against the ladle in her palm. 

She’s quick to speak — quick to assume. Quick to judge — quick to decide for him. She’s right, he knows that. She’s always been right. But he hates the lack of autonomy — he hates that he gets no say when it comes to her. He digs his nails into the skin of his palm and he wonders just how hard he'd have to press to dissipate his anger — just how much would it take to stop the pressure in his lungs.

But he thinks of you, and he decides against it. He thinks of you, and he decides to explain instead.

He tells her that you’d broken up with him after all that he’d said. He tells her that he'd apologized not even a week later. He would've apologized earlier but you had refused to see him. He’d wanted to say sorry immediately, but you wouldn't let him. 

He tells her what he’d told you — that he wanted to be with you, that he wanted to take care of you and the baby. And he tells her what you'd told him — that you'd quietly nodded, accepting his words, but that you wouldn't take him back. Not yet at least. Not so soon after that.

 "I need to have this child first," you had said at the time. "I need to know you won't leave when I do."

She leaves the ladle in the pot and moves to sit at the table in front of him, listening intently. It's the most she’s ever heard him say. It's the most he's ever directly said to her about his life. 

It's ironic and heartbreaking ─ the sad reality of a mother and son who know nothing of each other — the truth behind those who have made no attempts to forgive and to heal and to move on with one another.

She sits back.

"Smart girl. Good on her."

He runs a hand across his face, groaning. "Come on, Ma."

She sighs, her chin in her palm as she stares at her eldest son.

"I'm worried about your choice in women though."

He laughs at that. For the first time in a long time, he laughs with his mother. For the first time in a longer time, she smiles back.

He remembers when she’d walked in on him having sex just after he’d turned eighteen — at how angry she’d been that the woman had been in her late, late twenties. And though she’d been visiting the apartment out of concern for her kids and their terrible eating habits — she had still ended up throwing her shoes at the both of them. He thought she was crazy at the time. He had been convinced she was out to make his life a living hell. But he understands now — why she'd been so angry. He gets why she'd been so scared and hurt — why her fear that he’d get taken advantage of had blinded her with rage.

She remembers when Rindou had shown her a picture of the girl Ran had been dating when he was twenty-one. She remembers looking at the screen, shaking her head in disappointment. She could tell from her eyes alone that the girl had ill intentions — that she was no good at all. She’d told Rindou that much on his way out. He’d shrugged, thinking nothing of it. 

She’d found out later that the two boys had been robbed — that they'd nearly been jumped — and that the girl had been involved. 

Ran doesn’t speak to his mother in the hospital. She’d doted on Rindou the entire time instead. 

—

The two of them sigh synchronously.

"You’ll like her more than you like me," he says into the still air. 

She tilts her head at him, and she wonders what he thinks her perception of him is. It doesn’t seem good. It doesn’t seem good at all. And she can’t help but wonder if she is to blame.

“No, you’ll love her,” he reiterates.

There’s a fond smile on his face as he looks back at his mother, and she wonders idly about the girl that was able to bring a gentle expression to her son’s face at the mere mention of her presence.

"I'd like to meet her — the mother of your child. I want to meet her."

He looks at her, and he nods. He was hoping she’d say that. She looks back at him, and she tries to smile. She was hoping he’d agree. 

The two of them were a mirror image of each other in ways they would never understand, in ways they could never explain. They tore each other apart and the pieces never fit together properly again. There was room for Rindou. There was always room for his mistakes.

But Ran had to cut himself up piece by piece to find a place. He’d had to tip toe through the mess and cut his skin against her shattered fury before he’d given up altogether. She didn’t know he’d been looking so desperately. He didn’t know he didn’t have to look that far.

"Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I'll bring her over."

She tells him that it seems like the two of you are on good terms despite it all, and he chuckles, nodding in agreement. He feels himself grow weary when he tells her that he's proposed to you multiple times since then, and that you'd rejected him every time. 

She laughs a little too loudly for his liking and he shoots her a glare.

"Bring her over soon. I need to meet this girl."

She goes to make him a plate, ignoring his protests as she places it in front of him on the table. He sighs in exaggeration at her insistence and she shakes her head as she stands before him, watching as foregoes his etiquette. She musses his hair before her gaze falls to a silver strand in the darkness of his hair, and her stomach sinks with guilt. She hadn't realized how much older he'd gotten. She hadn’t noticed all that she’s missed out on. She clears her throat, ridding herself of the thought as she peers at her son once more. 

"How old is she, by the way?"

His mouth is full, when he replies "twenty-four" and she smacks the back of his neck immediately — ignorant of the food he chokes on.

"You fucking idiot."

"Give it up, woman.”

She shakes her head, mumbling obscenities to herself as she washes the dishes. 

He doesn’t leave until he finishes his plate. 

—

He calls you on his way home, your voice soothing him as his phone connects to the speakers in his car.

"Hello, gorgeous,” he says, the moment you pick up.

"What’s wrong?"

He rubs at his temple at your response.

"I can flirt with the mother of my unborn child without there being an ulterior motive, you know."

"I know." you say. There’s a pause — a brief one from your end. "But there is something, isn't there?"

He stares at the screen. There is.

He wonders how you know. He wonders about all that you know. He avoids your question instead.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

You hum in thought.

“I have an appointment on Saturday.”

“For what?” He furrows his brow. He’d been consistently attending the ones you’d told him about. This was the first he’d heard of this one. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I just need to get blood drawn, it shouldn’t take long.” 

“Alright. What are you doing after?”

"Nothing, I think,” you respond as you fold a t-shirt — his t-shirt. “Why?"

"My mom wants to meet you."

There's another pause from your end. There was more weight attached to this one — more emotion and fear, worry and concern.

"You told her?"

"I did."

"What did she say?"

You're nervous — a little scared, even. He can tell by the subtle change in the lilt of your voice. You didn’t want her to think of you as an ‘easy girl’. You knew that it was traditionally frowned upon to have a child before marriage. Your grandmother had given the two of you an earful herself. “Put a ring on her finger,” she’d scolded him. “She won’t let me,” he’d complained right back. It went well in the end. It went better than you would’ve thought. 

But you’d never met his mother before. He rarely spoke to you about her at all. And you're worried she’ll look down on you — that she'll hate you before you’re able to be anyone but the mother of her son’s child. You’re scared that your identity will be reduced to just that. 

The low tone of his voice brings you back, and you grip the phone to your ear as he responds.

"That she wants to meet you."

You furrow your brows.

"That's it?"

"Yeah.”

“Really?”

“What do you want me to say? That she cursed me out for knocking you up? She's on your side, you know. Called you a smart girl for not taking a ‘good for nothing’ man like me back. The hag gave birth to me but she's siding with you. I can’t believe this shit." He shakes his head in fake disbelief. He’d expected just as much from her anyway. But you didn’t need to know that. 

You laugh, and he loves it. You laugh, and he loves you. The sound makes its way around his car and he finds comfort in the beauty of your joy.

"I miss you," he says after a minute. It's been a few days since he'd last seen you — a few days too long.

You hum again in response. 

He drives in the quiet for a little, listening as you move around, and he wonders what you're doing in the apartment on your own.

"I miss you too," you finally confess.

Your voice is soft — quiet. He might’ve missed it had his phone not been connected to the speakers in his car. The gentle smile reserved just for you makes its way back onto his face and he glances at your name on the screen. 

"How are you? How's the baby?"

He nears the daunting building of his penthouse, but he finds himself thinking more and more about you and your one-bedroom apartment and all the space you let him take up when he was with you. He wonders if you'd let him come over. He wonders if you’d let him stay. 

Home. He thinks briefly of the word again and he finds that there’s a person attached to it now — and he knows that it’s never been a place. Not for him at least. Not since you.

You eye your belly, stroking the swell of your stomach.

"She's good. A little fussy today though."

“She's keeping you up?”

You sigh, and he knows then that the baby had been relentless in her efforts to do so. 

“She thinks it’s fun to kick my bladder.”

He snorts. Funny kid. 

"And you? How are you?"

Your heart flutters just a little at his incessant need to check up on you.

"I'm okay."

He tells you he wants you to keep talking to him. Talk about anything, talk about whatever — just until he gets home. He doesn't tell you why. He doesn’t need to either. You knew that his relationship with his mother was strained. You knew they had a hard time being around each other. And you knew that his nerves were probably shot.

So you sit on the couch and you tell him about your day — what you watched, what you ate, how many times your baby kicked, and a few of the names you'd been considering. You talk and it's everything to him — you talk, and you breathe life back into him. You're a little distracted in your speech, pausing at odd times, forgetting your train of thought here and there, and he figures you must be doing something else while talking to him. He doesn't tell you that he's been sitting in the garage of his penthouse for seven minutes now. He doesn't tell you that he's already home. It's selfish of him, but he needs you to ground him for just a little longer — for just a bit more.

"I have to pee, Ran."

He tilts his head against the headrest, grinning as you interrupt his train of thought.

"By all means, baby. Go ahead."

"Pervert.” 

He laughs and the concern in your chest eases up just a little. He's okay. He'd be okay. He tells you he'll see you soon, and you nod in agreement.

“I love you," he says before you can hang up.

And you want to say it back like you used to. You want to say it back like you've always done before.

But you don't. Not yet.

Not yet.

"I know," is your quiet response. 

And he's thankful for that at least. He's thankful that you know.

—

He lights a cigarette as he leans against his car in wait for you. You hated when he smoked in your apartment, but you’d despised it even more when you’d gotten pregnant. He’d resorted to smoking outside when he came to visit — a plastic chair set aside just for him now resided on your balcony. You’d read his text, but you hadn’t responded — so he smokes and he waits, and he eyes your door as he exhales. He takes another drag before he crushes the stick of nicotine underneath his shoe, and he runs a hand through his hair as he makes his way up to the second floor.

He knocks and he waits for a moment. He decides to wait another two. 

You open the door right before he’s about to knock again and his eyes soften instantly at the sight of you.

He was so lucky. He was so ridiculously lucky. You were always so lovely — always so beautiful.

But your eyes are wet and there’s a pout on your lips — a slight tremble to them that you’re trying to hide. He finds that he can’t even greet you properly. His first thought is to comfort you instead.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He moves one hand to the small of your back, the other shifting to cradle your bump instead. You’re beautiful in the dress you’d decided to wear and you’re pretty as you look up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong, love?” he says again.

“My shoes won’t fit.”

He blinks at you as he processes your words, and he resists the urge to smile.

“My feet hurt and my shoes won’t fit. Don’t laugh at me, asshole.”

You almost cry, and he moves his thumbs to your lash line before you do.

“Not laughing at you, baby,” he says, hiding his grin. “Come on, princess.” 

He takes your hand and guides you to the dining table. You sit, wiping at your eyes while he digs through the small pile of shoes in your closet. He finds a loose pair of sandals that he knew had to fit, and he waves them once over his head. 

“Ta-da.”

He kneels in front of you, reaching for your feet as he switches your shoes out for you. He slips the sandals on, long fingers gently tugging at the straps, and he rubs at your feet before he smiles up at you. He looks tired, you think. He looks a little scared. 

You go to reach for his face but he stands before you’re able to stroke his cheek. 

“Where’s your purse, baby? We gotta go.” 

You nod, grabbing your bag, and he takes your palm in his silently as he locks your door behind the two of you. He pockets your key and you understand. You know that he wants you to stay over at his place tonight. 

And maybe exes shouldn’t treat each other like you and him. Maybe they shouldn’t brush eyelashes off of each other’s cheeks. Maybe they shouldn’t have copies of each other’s keys. Maybe he shouldn’t kiss your jaw. Maybe you shouldn’t grip his wrist.

But the lines have been crossed in more ways than one, and the bridging continued to occur.

You don't let go of his hand the rest of the way there. He doesn’t think he wants you to either.

—

You’re scared.

You’re really, really nervous. Your hand naturally drifts to your belly, and you shy away to stand behind him when he knocks on the door. 

He turns to kiss your forehead, brushing your cheek gently in the process.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s okay.”

You listen as the door unlocks — you watch as it creaks on its own hinges and opens. Ran bends to kiss his mother’s cheek and you watch as a thin hand pats his back before a woman speaks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the girl?” 

He rolls his eyes and moves slightly out of the way. You peer at her from behind him and her eyes widen. You smile and it’s filled with nerves — filled with kindness and a gentle nature. 

She stares at you in awe. She stares at you in wonder. 

“Oh.”

What good could her son have possibly done in this lifetime, and how quickly was he repaid for it with you? She can’t help but reach for you. She hesitates for a moment, worried it’ll make you uncomfortable, but you step into her embrace and she hugs you. She hugs you and she says nothing else, and you want to cry at how tightly she holds you. You want to break down at how much she looked like him. 

She’s a thin, spindly woman — shorter than her son, but a little taller than the average woman. Her hair is long and black — her face framed with strands of gray. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and your heart aches. The lavender in her gaze looked just like his. The subtle hurt in her eyes mirrored his own too.

He looks away — gazing into his childhood home instead. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at you. 

She ushers the two of you inside, and you follow her into the kitchen. She talks, and you listen. And though her gaze had drifted to your belly a few times over, she doesn't say anything about the baby. She doesn’t say anything at all. He watches as the two of you fall into a natural rhythm, and he lingers near the entry as you help her set the table, fingers twisting the ring in his pocket. He expects that rejection is inevitable tonight as well. 

Dinner is quiet. They don’t talk to each other much. The air isn’t tense, but it’s brutal in its presence. It’s a silence they’re used to — a silence they’re unable to live without. She asks about you, and you tell her all that you can. She asks and you answer and it isn’t so bad. It isn’t so bad at all.

You’re unable to read the expression on Ran's face as he picks at his food, and your brows furrow in slight concern as you stand to help her clear the table. 

It’s then that he rolls his sleeves up. 

It’s then that she gives a disapproving look and sigh as her gaze drifts to the tattoo wrapped around his arm. 

She shakes her head and he drops the plates into the sink. You flinch at the sound. 

“Are you gonna react like that every time?”

Her eyes flit to you for a second, before her gaze sharpens at her son. 

“When your kid comes home at thirteen with a tattoo covering the entire left side of their body, you’d be bitter about it for a long time too.”

“It’s been twenty years, Ma.”

“Like I give a shit,” she mutters as she moves to turn the sink water on. 

He’s angry now. You watch in worry as they bring out the worst in each other. You watch as they weave a web of sorrow — you watch as they strike and suffocate one another.

“My kid can mess up all she wants. She’ll still be my fucking kid.”

He doesn’t realize that she knows that already. He doesn’t get that she knows that very well. He’s still her son. He’s still her boy. And she hurts because he’d sought refuge in other vices instead of her. She hurts because she had no one to blame but herself. She quiets when her gaze drifts to you once more and she turns to the pot on the stove, busying herself with its contents.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at your lover. 

His chest rises and falls in resentment as he glares at her, before he reaches for his cigarettes, making his way back outside.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say. You don’t know who to comfort. You don’t think it’s your place to even do so.

It’s then that she turns to you, the lilac in her eyes shining underneath the dim kitchen lights. 

“You’re having a girl?”

It’s the first time she’s acknowledged the baby. You remember what he’d said in the car, as he’d gazed at the traffic with a forlorn expression. “She’s always wanted a girl.” He’d smiled in exhaustion before he’d turned to pinch your nose. “Now she gets two.”

You blink back at her and you nod. 

“Yes,” is all you can say. 

Her eyes soften, and she turns to occupy herself with the mess on the counter. 

Your gaze drift to the door as it shuts loudly behind him and you yearn for the man you love. You leave the kitchen quietly as you turn to look for him.

You find him seated at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with the box in his hands.

The cigarette lights up his face momentarily as he brings the nicotine up to his face and he breathes out into the still air, shaking his head as he rests his arms on his knees.

He hears the front door open behind him and he knows it’s you. It could only be you.

Your smile is soft — nervous, even — as you close the screen door behind you gently. He puts the cigarette out before he scoots over a little, making room for you as you make your way down, and he laughs as you awkwardly situate yourself beside him. You pinch his bicep in fake irritation and he grins as he kisses your forehead in greeting. You sigh as you settle down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. 

“Are you?” you retaliate. 

Your voice is soft. He thinks you must be getting sleepy. 

“Yeah, I'm good. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He doesn’t say anything else — looking out into the now quiet neighborhood instead. 

Soon, it would be loud again. Soon, the doors would open and people would make their way downtown — to pachinko parlors, and nightclubs, to convenience stores, and karaoke.

But right now, the air is still. Right now, Roppongi was surprisingly quiet. 

You reach for his hand in the flickering dark. You trace the lines on his palm. You trace the scars and the outline of his rings. You trace his name and you trace yours. You trace a heart in between. Neither of you says a word. But as you lean your head against his shoulder, you look out into the world and you wonder what he sees. The apartment complex he’d grown up in was worn down and dull. Yet it’s surrounded by bright lights. Everything was full of color. 

What was a child expected to do on their own in this hub of chaos? Where was a child expected to go? 

“She can’t stand the sight of me,” he says — breaking the stillness on his own.

“She thinks I corrupted Rindou,” he chuckles darkly at that. Your heart aches at his words.

“You didn’t.”

He pretends like he doesn’t hear you. 

“She thinks I’m gonna ruin your life too.” He glances at your belly. “Yours and hers.”

“You won’t,” you follow up — not bothering to entertain the thought.

He stares off, rubbing his hands together as he pulls his palm out and away from yours. 

“How do you know?”

“I won’t let you,” you whisper. 

You angle your knees towards him and you stare at the man before you with longing in your eyes. How hurt he was — sitting here beside you — how scarred and flawed, how abandoned and lost. 

You hold his face and you tilt your head in worry, and his heart races at the sight. It hurts. It hurts so bad. And he’s sorry. He’s sorry for all that he’s ever done. He’s sorry for what he might do. He’s sorry for any tears he’s made you shed. He doesn’t want to fail you too. 

You kiss his jaw and you pull him into you. His eyes widen at the words you utter against him. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say. 

He grips your dress. 

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat. 

He holds you tighter. 

He wants to believe you. He hopes that one day, he will. 

He drops his head to your shoulder. You hold him even tighter — you pull him in even closer. Your fingers run through the short strands of his hair and he kisses the exposed skin of your shoulder in silent appreciation. 

His mother watches the two of you from beyond the window. There’s a strange warmth that settles into her ache. 

You were good. You were so good. Maybe even too good. 

Too good for this family. Too pure for their hurt. 

He tells you he just needs a minute more, gesturing towards the cigarettes, and you nod as you stand. He kisses your hand before you make your way back up the stairs and you smooth the dark strands out of his face, gently stroking his cheek as he places a stick in between his lips. “Take your time,” you tell him. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. There’s a worn out tray on the chabudai before her, and you smile as you take a seat. She exhales as she pours the tea, and you thank her as she sets it down. 

“He’s never liked Sencha,” she tells you fondly as she stares at the cup in her hands. 

Yes, you want to say. I know that very well. 

But you want her to have this part of him — this little known fact that she’d managed to get a hold of. You want her to be a mother. You want her to be his mother. 

She traces the lip of the cup and you can’t help but ask her if everything was alright. Her quiet held meaning. Her silence meant questions. 

“Why are you with him?” she asks. It’s a blunt question — slightly aggressive in its nature — and you see her children in her. 

“I —”

She cuts you off before you’re able to explain. 

“He told me that you broke up with him, and rightfully so too.”

You wince a little at the wording. 

“But you’re here. You’re here and you’re good to him. Why are you good to him? Why him?” 

She tried, she really did try. But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it. She can’t seem to wrap her mind around it at all. You’re a good girl. You seemed like a wonderful woman. So why her son? Why not anyone else? Why not spare yourself the heartache and the trouble?

She doesn’t understand why you’re here instead.

Ran stands in the darkness of the hallway as he listens in. The cigarette pack is crushed beneath his grip and he regrets not making more noise when coming in. 

This was not good. 

This was not good at all. 

He tilts his head up towards the ceiling and curses his mother’s inability to feign ignorance. 

He could leave.

He could walk out and wait till the conversation was over and the two of you had moved on before he came back inside. But there’s a vile part of him that wants to hear your truth. There’s a sick part of him that wants you to make him hurt. Why were you with him? Why were you here at all?

You hum as your gaze drifts to the photos she had lined up near the tv. There’s a picture of the two boys outside. Their grins are wide and their hair a brilliant blonde. You smile softly because you know he despises his natural hair color. You know he hates it because of his father. And you know that Rindou had been too young to remember anything of the man. But Ran knew enough to detest him. He knew enough to never go back to blonde. You look at another photo, and you think he must be in his twenties. Rindou’s smile is the only one to be seen. Ran mirrors his mother — in stance and appearance. You think they must’ve argued before the photo was taken. And you wonder if he’d kept his hair long and dark to spite her — as if to say “Look at me. I’m everything you hate. Look at me. I look just like you.” He wanted her to look at him and wince. He wanted her to see herself in him. He was everything she failed at. He was everything she couldn’t control.

He’s beautiful, despite his pettiness, and you look back at her. 

Why are you with him? You smile at the loaded question. 

“Because I love him,” you tell her as much, and your chest blooms. It aches because you do — you love him. You love him. And sometimes you don’t know what to do with it all. Sometimes, you don’t know where you’re supposed to keep it — all this love; all these feelings. But you don’t think that’s what this is about.

You don’t think that this is what she’s asking about at all. 

You tell her she’d done well. You tell her that both of her boys were good men — that they were respected and revered and admired in their work. But then you tell her that if she kept holding on to the past — if she kept holding on to his past — then she’d only destroy them even further. Her eyes widen and you’re worried you might’ve crossed a line, but you keep going. You keep going because it’s not fair to him. You keep going because it isn’t fair to her.

“He’s riddled with guilt,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault,” you say again. “It’s not.”

“Then whose is it?” She challenges. “Who is responsible?”

“I don’t know,” you respond. “But he’s not thirteen anymore. He’s not fifteen. He’s not twenty.”

She can’t help the slight sheen that covers her eyes — at all the time that she’d missed; at all that she’d desperately clung to. She’d been selfish in her approach. And she knows that it’s not her fault that she was alone. She knows it’s not her fault that she was always tired and away for work. But somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten that he’d had to bear the burden of raising himself and his brother — and that he’d done the best that any child could do. She looks away from you and she thinks he must’ve been scared. She looks away and she thinks he must be tired too. 

She holds her breath and you think she’s just like him in that regard — that they were both the type to shoulder their hurt and smile, as if everything was okay — as if the sharpness in their eyes didn’t dull and they weren’t affected by everything around them.

You can only imagine how isolated she must feel. You can only wonder how lonely it must be. 

Her gaze drifts back to your belly and you know she’s holding herself back. You know she wants to touch the baby — that she wants to seek comfort in a grandchild she’d only come to know about. It’s a lot to process. It’s a lot to take in. You silently ask her for permission as you reach for her thin fingers — placing her palm onto your stomach. To know that your oldest child had their own on the way and to realize that you had no place in any of it at all — it’s a damning feeling. And maybe she’d been a shit mother. Maybe she hadn’t done all that she should have. But she can’t help but wonder if it was too late. Would he let her be his mother? Would he let her be a grandmother? Was this all she’d come to know of the child?

She’s lost in her own thoughts when your brows furrow, and you wince when your baby kicks against her palm.

The woman before you starts to cry.

It’s quiet, the steadiness in which her tears stream down her face. They follow a common path – down the hollow of her eyes, down to the curved line of her mouth — down, down, down they go. 

“Forgive me,” she goes to say. You brush her apology off with a tired smile.

“She’s excited to meet her grandmother.” 

She blinks at you again – at your choice of words and the necessity of their timing – and she shakes her head at the irony. 

She laughs for the first time all night, and she decides that she doesn’t want you to see her cry anymore. 

The two of you sit together in the living room — your eyes fixed onto the tv and the late night game show.

Your lover makes his way back into the living room, looking away as he sits beside you. He pretends he didn’t hear a single word. He pretends he didn’t hear anything at all.

He pours himself a cup of Sencha, wincing at the flavor. 

His mother chuckles at the sight. 

Her hand doesn’t leave your belly. 

—

He takes you back to his place that night. You don’t object as you nod off in the car. You’re tired. You wonder if it’s always been like this for him — if he’s always felt at war in the very place he was supposed to belong. He reaches for your palm, fiddling with the emptiness of your ring finger as the red light washes over your figure. Your gaze is haunting and he falls in love with you all over — again and again, his heart falls victim to you. Again and again, he’s certain of his love for you.

The two of you don’t talk about tonight.

Not yet at least. Not right now. 

You lean into his side on the way up to his penthouse. He wraps an arm around your waist and strokes your jaw.

Still, you don’t say much. Still, you don’t say anything about it at all.

You’d resorted to sleeping in the guest bedroom after the two of you had initially split. On days that you’d had early appointments — on nights that you’d felt sick and alone — he’d preferred that you stay with him. You didn’t mind at all. His presence was comforting — safe and reassuring. 

He’d played along with the front you’d put up at first. He’d let you shut the door and pretend to sleep on your own for a day or two. It didn’t take long for him to find his way back to your side. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his arms while he drooled into the pillow overhead and you clutched his shirt tight.

But this time, when he unlocks the door and you make your way over to the guest bedroom, all he does is kiss your forehead in passing. All he does is stroke your cheek in goodbye. He doesn’t tease you at the entry way. He doesn’t fake a scene or hold you tight.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” is all he says.

You watch as he heads to his bedroom instead — you feel lonelier than you’d felt the first night you’d slept alone. 

And he knew you deserved better. He knew he didn’t think this through. He knew that this was too much — that this was all too much for the both of you. And he knew that any excess stress right now wouldn’t be good for you at all. 

But his head hurt, and his chest ached, and his shoulders were strained under the weight of all his burdens. 

You stare at him in concern, eyes filled with worry and hurt — and you want him back. 

You want your lover back. 

You sit in the guest bedroom after you’d washed and changed and you eye the clock in a daze. You think an hour passes. Maybe more.

Your daughter kicks impatiently and you exhale at the pressure, rubbing at the spot as though to comfort her. 

“Yes, I know,” you tell her. “I know, baby.” I know.

You don’t bother knocking on his door as you make your way into the master bedroom. It’s dark, save for the twinkling lights of the city below. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing the door as he hunches over — his hands covering his face. Slowly, you climb onto your side of the bed. Your palms smooth over the untouched blankets and you eye your pillow on his side of the bed. 

It’s been a while since you've slept here. It’s been a while since you’ve (more or less) split.

You sit on your knees directly behind him and you grip the sheets beside you as you let your forehead fall onto his back.

“Ran?” you whisper.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t respond to you otherwise.

“Baby,” you say.

“Come back,” you nearly beg.

You trail a finger down his spine — finger smoothing over every ridge; heart aching with every touch. 

He turns to you then, slightly, as he peers over his shoulder.

Your eyes are wide and hopeful, and he shakes his head at the sight. 

“No good for you. I’m no good.”

“Yes, you are.”

There’s a slight tremble to his shoulders and you press your cheek to his back as you lean against him.

You wrap one arm around his waist, stroking the skin of his side. It’s too much. His heart can only take so much. 

“It’s okay,” you mutter, lips moving against his back. It’s not your fault. It’s not. You did good. You did well. You’re a good man, you tell him. And I love you, you say against him.

He stills. 

You say it again.

“I love you.”

He looks down at his palm — at the small ring settled down in the center. It sparkles in the dark and he closes his fist against it at the sight.

“Marry me then,” he says — as though it’s a challenge — as though he’s given up on any chance of you saying yes.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His brows furrow in confusion. He’s not sure he heard you right. He doesn’t know if you understand.

He turns to you immediately. Adoration lines his eyes as he stares at you and his gaze darkens as his nerves are shot with fear.

“What?”

Don’t play with me, his gaze seemed to say. Don’t mess with me right now. Not you. Please not you.

Your hand strokes the soft stubble on his cheek and you smile. It’s tired and loving, genuine and you. 

“Ask me again,” you say as he stares. He’s quick to oblige — quick to fulfill your request.

He’s scared you’re going to fade away. He’s scared you might still leave. 

“Marry me,” he pleads. “Marry me. Please.”

You think he’s dizzy from all that he’s feeling. You think he’s high off of everything that’s happened. But you know his heart and you know yours, and you know there’s only so much he can take. You know there’s only so much hurt he can handle.

And he loves you. He loves you. He adores you. 

“Yes,” you whisper, and you try not to cry as he slips the ring onto your finger. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, eyes hazy as he stares into your own.

“Yes,” you say again. “Yes.”

He kisses you then, with need and want.

He kisses you like you’re the love of his life.

He kisses you like you’re the mother of his child.

He kisses you like he wants to marry you — like he fully intends on doing so too. 

It’s been eight months too long, but you lay beside him on your side of the bed, and he smiles down at you in love and need. 

He kisses you once more as you whine for sleep, and he smiles against your lips at the complaint. Just one more, he says. Just one more, I promise. You push at his face and he laughs at your insistence. You feel your daughter move soon after, and you reach for his wrist, placing your palm on top of his as you guide him to her. As you always would. As you always will.

The two of you would enter parenthood soon — a marriage would follow soon after. You’re both a little scared. You’re both a little terrified. And you know he can’t help but think of all the ways it could go wrong. You know he’s afraid he’ll be the one to screw it all up — quick to take the blame; quick to deny himself the benefit of the doubt.

But you fit your hand in his and you hold on tight.

You trust him, and he trusts you. 

You love him, and he loves you. 

Doma watching his petal breastfeed her child

A.N.: I've been gone for a whole huh? Sorry about that. But I'm gonna try to update what I do have in my drafts and just... post those. Sorry for the wait! I'll explain more in a seperate post.

Anyway... yeah, we're into tiddy milk now.

◇◇◇◇

His love looked so beautiful feeding their child.

Nursing the very life he dreamed of for centuries, yearned for the moment he laid eyes on you, wished for once he had you in his grasp.

Yes, Doma was very happy.

Doma watched from the doorway with a smile of content, eyes crinkling in the corner from how wide his mouth stretched across his face. He takes in the heart-warming scene of your third-born in your arms, suckling and drinking the milk of their mother. You didn't seem to notice him, however, as you were too focused on how peaceful and adorable your daughter looked. Like a scene from a book — innocent and tender. Even if she looked like a spitting image of her father — like her brothers — you couldn't hide your own smile from gracing your tired features nor ignore the blooming love for your newest child.

Raising your hand, you brush away the stray strand of blonde hair from her face, gently stroking her chubby cheek with the pads of your fingers. You hum the moment she starts to whimper against your skin, adjusting your arm and balancing her little head, seeing how the milk began to bubble at the corner of her mouth. She pulls away, her face scrunching up whilst she begins to whine, closing her fist around your kimono, her bottom lip trembling.

You giggle to yourself. "Shh, honey, you're okay…," you mutter, bouncing her a bit, adjusting your hold as she begins to quiet down. Stroking her head, you whisper sweet nothings to her. Slowly, she latched back onto your breast, quieting down with small hiccups here and there. Not a second later she begins to suck weakly once again, now calm. A chuckle leaves you. Even after birthing twins, you couldn't help but be amused at how easily a baby was satisfied sometimes.

Your daughter was no different, but you didn't mind. As long as it kept Doma away from you, you were willing to dote on your children. Some part of you felt shame and guilt for feeling this way, using your children as some sort of escape from your husband. Don't get me wrong, you love your children dearly, but there were times you wished you had them under different, better circumstances.

Never did you imagine your life going this way.

Sometimes you wondered if you did marry the wealthy merchant from your past — would you be happier? Or more miserable? All you could do was think and rack your head for an answer, because no matter how hard you tried, Doma had already tainted your mind and the only answer you reached was that it didn’t matter. In one way or another, a man like Doma would come along sooner or later…

That was the answer… and you didn’t like it.

Because that meant if you ever got a second chance, that no matter how hard you tried, Doma was your future. And you couldn’t escape that.

As he watched you nurse, Doma couldn't ignore the heat forming in his chest, nor pay no attention to how the sight made his stomach churn and heart race. He shouldn't feel this way about watching his own child feed. No, but that didn't seem right. No, no, that was not it.

It was watching you; imagining himself with you in such a position.

Slowly did his mind begin to warp the very scene before him, picturing himself nursing on your soft supple breasts, mouth encasing over your buds and feasting on the milk meant for his child. Oh, the very thought seemed to grow the warmth that overtook his body, growing hotter and hotter until he seemed to be burning. Blood rushed to every part of him, eyes dilating as his gaze stayed glued to your chest. With a dopey smile, he giggles quietly in glee and walks off, still thinking about the new fantasy his mind conjured.

Tonight, he found himself looking forward to a new fascination to drag you into, a new vigor fueling him to have more of you.

Doma called forward a follower, the same one assigned to look after you and his children's meals. An old fellow who treated the demon’s family with the utmost care, he decided the man would be the best choice to watch after his beloveds’ diet. It did help that the man had been a farmer before joining the cult, so he was the perfect person to go to. With a gleeful tone, Doma asks, "What herbs are within our possession that increase the production of breast milk?"

"Excuse me?” The old man said in surprise, face flushing red as he processed the question. However, he quickly composed himself as he realized whom he was speaking to. Clearing his throat, he nearly choked out his next words, both curious and fearful to know why on earth the certain herbs were needed. “Is something wrong with Lady [Name], my lord…?”

“None of your business. You heard me. What herbs do we have that increase the production of breast milk?”

“Mm-ah, u..unfortunately, none, Lord Doma…"

Doma growled in annoyance and narrowed his eyes, sneering at the old man. "Is there any within the area?" He asks with a more harsher tone, getting restless in his seat.

The old man flinched and nodded his head, shaking as he looked to the floor, avoiding the demon’s burning gaze. "Goat's Rue and Fenugreek are said to be sold in a nearby village. I believe a patch of shatavari plants grow around the temple. All of them have a reputation of increasing fertility and milk production…"

Doma perked up at the mention of the last herb and hummed in delight. Though his original intentions were for his own fascination, the added benefit of increasing your fertility to give him another child was absolutely perfect. "Haha, excellent!” the demon chirped, clasping his hands together. “I want you to get a hold of them by tomorrow morning! My wife will need them for… personal matters."

••••

The very next day, the herbs were presented to Doma and a new light flickered in his colorful gaze. His fantasy was just a drink away and he couldn’t wait.

Like clockwork, Doma had the follower add the herbs to your tea every morning and every night, wanting to speed up the process. Though he became impatient throughout the next few days, the time eventually came for Doma to act out his plan. And god, was it worth the wait.

It started with seeing your chest looking fuller and firmer, listening to you whine about the back pain, and hearing from your assigned followers about how you’re now producing too much milk for your poor child. They even commented it was enough to feed all the children at least three times.

That’s all the man needed to know.

Doma surprised you one night when you finished the daily feeding of your daughter, catching you off-guard when you sat on the bed after putting your child in their crib.

It took nearly an hour to put her to sleep, but with a full belly and a lullaby, your youngest fell asleep into a deep slumber and wouldn’t wake you through the night. You, on the other hand, needed to close your eyes and take a break before your husband came back. Lord knows what mood he’ll get into if you don’t greet him when he arrives, but you didn’t want to find out.

Not again.

Doma watched with bated breath through the slit of the paper door, seeing you swing your legs onto the sheets and lay back, sighing in content. Without another second to waste, he straightens up and laughs loudly.

“[Name]...!” Doma sang, walking through the doorway with a sickly sweet smile. You froze in your spot, surprised to see him back before midnight. You cross your arm over your chest, face heating up as you look up to his towering form. No, no, no, not tonight! You were still recovering from last time Doma had his way with you! The scars were still new and hell, you couldn’t move without feeling your muscles scream for you to stop.

But Doma didn’t care if you were hurt by him. Afterall, this was his way of showing his love for you. “Awe, don’t hide yourself from me, petal!” Doma whines, striding to the bed and practically throwing himself onto the sheets. "Pretty petal, I want to taste mommy too!" Doma beamed, crawling over to your form, leaving you no time to fully cover your chest. He giggled, stretching himself across your body, swallowing your small frame with his giant body, and burying his face in between the soft mounds of flesh. He rested his chin on your sternum, a gleeful smile gracing his features as he looked up to you. “A little bird told me you were in pain from so much milk in your breasts, [Name]! And as your husband, it’s my duty to help my wife with her problem!”

“Doma, n-no,” you mutter, squirming from underneath him. “N-no, please, not tonight…! I’m okay — nothing I can’t handle!” You desperately tried to convince him that you’re not in pain, even as your back throbbed and begged for relief. Yet it's nothing but wishful thinking if you thought Doma would ever take no for an answer.

The demon rubbed his cheek against your smooth skin, humming, almost as if what you said didn’t phase him. “Mm, you don’t have to lie to me, petal… I’m more than happy to help you out — it’s been my dream to know how you taste without needing to scar your skin, how you taste now that you have bore me my children…”

Your blood ran cold and you looked at him in horror. Was he implying…. What you think he was?

Doma continued, nearing one of your nipples with a watering mouth, running his tongue over his lips.“And now, I finally have the chance to know… and I know you’ll be a good wife and let your husband help – right?”

“I… I don’t know…”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “We can do this without waking up our daughter, and you’ll let me taste you… or we do this and show our child early on how much I love you! And it’ll start when your pretty mouth lets out a beautiful scream…” His eyes darkened as he uttered each word, watching with empty eyes as fear washed over your facial features. To traumatize your child this early was something you didn’t want, not ever really — and Doma knew that. You wanted to protect them from this side of your marriage for as long as possible, so what choice was there…? He knew you would listen if it meant protecting your children a while longer. “So, what do you say, pretty [Name]?”

A monster he was. You avert your eyes and nod solemnly. “Yes…! I… I n-need you, Doma…”

His grin grows impossibly wide and he lets out a pleased laugh. “I knew you wanted this too, petal! Hahah, I love you so much!” He says cheerfully, wasting no time to begin. His wicked mouth attached itself to your pebbled bud, ever so sharp fangs digging into the tender flesh of your breast. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you unbearably close to him as if he were afraid to let go. Greedily, he sucked harshly at your nipple, lapping happily as the sweet liquid gushed into his mouth. A soft cry left you, shutting your eyes and arching your back, gritting your teeth as the sudden ache of pain went through you. Your hand immediately went to his head, tugging at his locks in an attempt to pull him away. Of course, you were still tender from feeding your daughter, and this just made the pain worse. Not that the man cared.

The demon ignored you, eyes fluttering shut as he savored the delectable milk, the flavors melting on his tongue as he flicked the muscle over your bud, downing each ounce down his throat with a smile. Even if demons didn’t need this source of nutrients, it didn't stop the man from feeling full the more he drank. Nonetheless, he was more than satisfied with the moment, engrossed in how his fantasy was nothing compared to this.

Except, now, he needs more of you.

It almost tastes as great as human blood. The sounds of wet clicks was all you heard as they mixed with his soft grunts. His hot breath fanned over your skin, quickening as he drank every last drop from you. You started to feel weak, eyelids getting heavy as Doma switched to your other breast. His hands kneaded your skin, claws scraping along your hips and thighs, pulling you closer and closer until he seemed to be melting into you. His hips grinded against the sheets, breathing heavily as he drank like a thirsty man. If he knew this was possible earlier, he would have started since your twins were born.

What a fool he was to let an opportunity pass by.

You could have sworn at some point he whimpered 'mommy' as he drank. But it slipped your mind as your hand fell from his hair and you welcomed the darkness. He rutted desperately into the bed and with a broken moan, a wave of bliss washed over him, wetting his pants and the sheets. Though, Doma didn’t stop there.

You didn't even know when you slipped into a deep sleep, but for hours did your husband nurse, leaving your nipples raw by the time he was done.

Doma let his cloak slip from his shoulder and draped it over you, humming softly. He sat next to you on the bed, just watching you in silence. Doma stroked your cheek with his knuckles, watching as you slept peacefully. He smiled with a sigh.

"My pretty petal… my beautiful wife… I love you…"

◇◇◇

After that night, your personal affairs in the bedroom changed drastically.

Doma added more herbs to your diet, to make sure you were producing more than enough milk for both your children and your nights with him.

Nursing on you became Doma's new way to destress from the day, snuggling up to you and burying his face into your supple breasts, drinking every ounce of milk until he was satisfied.

Though, some days, he just laid his head on your bare chest and had you run your fingers through his hair. During these moments, he stayed quiet, letting the peace stay.

You never dared question him, however. Afraid it would result in the same fate you lived almost every night. You needed these moments of peace. Even if you weren't completely alone, dealing with a docile Doma was better than a feverous one.

If this meant you got some type of mercy from the demon, you’re willing to partake in his sick fantasy again…

And again….

And again.

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©𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚊 || 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 || 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚝𝚌. 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜.

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