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“Well?” He looks everything like the heavenly body he is, his robes parted around his thighs, mistletoe hanging from his lithe fingers. You, between his legs. “Kiss it.”
There’s something particularly debasing about the smirk on his lips, the way his warm tone delivers the blunt force of sin. He could be instructing a child, really, with the way he softens his voice, just high enough to make you feel loved. You squeeze your own thighs together, taking the thickest part of him in your palm.
His cock beats to life in your hand, as much of an extension of his heart as his open, deep brown eyes. Dark mahogany is cold and hard under your knees, reminding you of your position in all this, of where you get to float in his celestial orbit. So close, but never enough.
You lean into him, inhaling his musk, the incense and sweat and lavender, and he raises a guiding hand, ready to teach you, to nourish you.
It was an accident, really—the moan you let out and the way you flinched, how your cunt squeezed around the cool air of your drafty home. The brace for impact had been for nothing; a disciplinary smack doesn’t follow, and Suguru’s hand stops inches from your cheek. He laughs down at you, then, the corners of his eyes crinkled, cock twitching.
He’s a devastating sight. Maybe it’s the practiced tilt of his full lips, the familiar mockery in them, and in the distance, the soothing comfort that’ll wash away the feeling like it was never there. It might be his dark hair, how it pools over his shoulders, mussed where you’d been tugging only moments ago. He’s never looked better, you think, never crueller or prettier.
His silly, stupid girl.
“Precious,” he murmurs, like a fond parent, more to himself, as his hand finally closes in on your warm cheek, rubbing your cheekbone, back and forth, over and over, “Tonight isn’t one of those nights, I don’t think. Now—”
His thumb hooks in the side of your mouth, fingers curling into your jaw to bring you farther into his lap. The mistletoe, with its tiny bells hanging by a velvet ribbon, dangles above your head.
“Open your mouth,” Suguru says with a leftover laugh in his voice, “and kiss it.”
You squeeze his hot flesh, pursing your lips as you get closer, and he pinches your chin between his fingers, making you crane your neck as he leans in like an asteroid set upon a planet. You’re a breath away from the glistening head of his cock, and you swallow the whine moving up your throat.
“Use your tongue,” he reminds, sweetly, patting your cheek, before leaning back on the couch, spreading his legs wider.
Letting you work. So, you settle in between his thick, strong thighs and ignore the tingles that go straight to your clit when he feels you pant across his skin and his brows slightly furrow. So, you watch his eyes go hazy and his pupils blow when you start tracing circles with your thumb at the smooth junction of his thigh.
So, your drool pools in your mouth and drips down his cock as you kiss the head, pushing at his slit with your tongue.
Suguru’s head falls back, nails dragging up your face to grip your hair, and it’s enough encouragement to last a lifetime on your knees before him. He sighs, and you keep going, kissing wetly down his thick cock until you’re kitten licking his balls. Lower, you kiss just beneath them, pushing his sack out of the way. Lower…
His hips jolt with his shaky gasp, and he wrenches your head back to his tip.
This time, he doesn’t tell you to kiss it. Your mouth is already open, and all he does is coax you down onto him, your lips sealing around the head, salty pre melting into your saliva. A thin sheen of sweat coats his aristocratic face, and it’s not a small satisfaction to see him so affected by your touch.
He sinks you down further with a big hand on the back of your head, a bit careless, a bit forceful, and his grunt is liquid pleasure as you sputter around him, struggling to take him all the way in, almost there but not quite.
“Open up. Come on, my love, breathe, breathe,” he cajoles, scratching your scalp, watching you tremble, “and take me down your throat.”
Further, he pushes you. You want to push at his thighs and wrench your head back, but he’s firm and unyielding, keeping you snug on his cock. You try as best as you can, because this is Suguru, and you’re you, and the sounds he starts making when he breaches that tight part of your throat are so rare and pornographic that the struggle becomes something holy, but he’s so big, and you almost can’t—
“Let it happen.” He pushes past your gagging, past your teary eyes and spasming throat. This is for you. This will make you better. “Just let it happen.”
Your nose gets buried in his soft, dark pubes, and he groans, all long and drawn out and filthy, the highlight of your night and week and life. He doesn’t mind your shuddering and plaintive sounds and wet tears. He doesn’t seem to notice them at all, too busy burying himself inside your throat.
He experimentally tugs at your hair, bobbing you a bit, and curses.
“You'd do anything for me, wouldn’t you? To make me feel good, right? Wouldn’t you?” Your hair in one hand. That stupid fucking mistletoe in the other. This is as close to god as you’ll ever get. “I know. I know you would.”
Suguru is graceful, someone who carries himself with poise, someone who is tactful and intentional. Suguru will wipe you up after this, maybe make you tea and kiss your nose and dry the tears under your eyes. Suguru is mean—he can be a mother, father, leader, tyrant—he can make you take it and leave you out to rot, and you’d always come limping back. Above all, Suguru is a paradox.
Just when you can’t take it anymore—when he starts restricting your airflow and you try to push off—is when Suguru starts to come, an abortive hand keeping you nuzzled against his abdomen.
“My perfect baby. My sweet, sweet thing—you’re making me come, you’re making your Suguru come—”
Your vision is cloudy and your head is light, but you’re awarded hot spurts of cum down your throat as his balls lurch against your chin, and his eyes are like collapsing stars as he starts to wink out from your sight. Your body is heavy, and he’s still moaning, still moving your head, but you can’t breathe.
You’d do this again, over and over, to hear his praise.
“Perfect.”
He pulls you off with a firm tug, his half-hard cock falling from your mouth, and your shoulders shudder as you take in a deep, long breath, lungs working to gulp up the air he stole from you.
That was much, much harder for him.
You see, you are, by every definition, his, so when you, an extension of himself, struggle, he struggles too, and it almost pains him to watch you gasp and scratch his thighs with your nails like a cagey cat, but he’s making you better, more capable, more supplicant and hungrier. He likes hunger—he sees it in your eyes every time he has you like this.
He wants to consume that. He wants to absorb that light until it’s gone.
What’s his is yours, right?
His hand cups your cheek as he lets you collect yourself, dripping cock softening against his thigh. You rub your mouth over the back of your hand, and Suguru cards his long fingers through your hair. You can’t help it—you lean in and nuzzle him, chasing his warmth and sanctity while you catch your breath.
“Perfect, little thing,” he coos, smiling at your devotion, at his lapdog. “You mean the world to me. Sit on my lap, my love. Come here.”
Suguru holds your hands as you stumble to your feet like a newborn fawn. He has enough grace to let you completely melt into his lap, your leg brushing his soft cock as he leans back, his fingers brushing hair from your face.
You squirm a bit, and he allows it, biting back an amused smile.
“Suguru…” Your clit aches, dull and unpleasant now, and he’s rubbing your thigh, eyeing you with adoration. “Suguru, please.”
There’s still drool and cum on your face. Your eyes are so damn earnest, and you’re so completely soaked that you’re leaking in his lap.
He rubs your clit gently with his thumb, curious and patient, and you buck clumsily, crying out at the burn he leaves there and how quickly he pulls away.
“Please.”
Suguru won’t please you without a little torment, and you know that by now. He fucks the same way, and it’s so horrible that it’s perfect.
His blue robes and dark hair and darker eyes and slow words and quick hands. Suguru, Suguru, Suguru. He licks his lips and raises his hand to your face, dragging a knuckle down your cheek.
His thumb hovers over your lips. His face breaks into something feline, mistletoe in his hand, dangling over the other. You feel yourself clench around nothing, again.
Sanctitude is one man above the world with you at his feet. Sanctitude is a necessary beating and cup of tea and sweet candle and bit of mistletoe.
Sanctitude says:
“Kiss it.”