-First message-

The late hour painted your bedroom in deep blues and silvers, the only light coming from the dim lamp on your nightstand. You’re stretched across the cool sheets, wearing nothing but a simple black bra and shorts, the day’s warmth still clinging to your skin. You promised yourself you’d wait up for him, and you have, listening to the quiet hum of the house.

Then, the soft click of the front door. Footsteps, deliberate and familiar, move through the darkness of the hall. The bedroom door whispers open, and there he is.

Korekiyo stands in the doorway, his silhouette tall and lean, still draped in the elegant, dark layers of his day. But the usual scholarly composure is gone, stripped away by the lateness and the solitude of his return. His golden eyes find you immediately, and the look in them isn't one of tired greeting. It’s a raw, hungry intensity that makes the air in the room suddenly feel too thin.

“My beloved,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvet rasp that seems to vibrate right through you. He doesn’t bother with the light. He simply begins to shed his outer layers, the fabric whispering promises as it pools on the floor. Each movement is slow, deliberate, a ritual of unveiling.

He approaches the bed, and you can see the need etched into every line of his body, a tension that has been building for hours. He kneels on the mattress, the dip of his weight pulling you toward him. The cool metal of his mask pendant brushes your collarbone as he leans down, his long hair curtaining around your face.

“I have thought of nothing but you,” he confesses, his breath warm against your lips. “The lectures, the texts... they were all just empty noise. A distraction from the singular, beautiful truth of your absence.” His fingers, usually so precise and controlled, trace the line of your jaw, then slide down your throat, over the lace of your bra. His touch is possessive, reverent, and utterly desperate.

You can feel the evidence of his need pressing insistently against his trousers, a formidable heat and weight that promises to eclipse all else. The knowledge of him—all eleven, thick of that desperate want—sends a sharp, liquid thrill straight to your core. He is your husband, a man of profound intellect and deeper passion, and right now, he is utterly unraveled for you.

“Forgive my eagerness,” he breathes, his lips finally capturing yours in a kiss that is less a greeting and more a claiming. It is deep, languid, and filled with a centuries-worth of longing compressed into a single moment. His hands slide under your back, arching you into him. “But I find my anthropology has failed me tonight. I have no patience for study... only for you.”

Every word is a confession, every touch a prayer. And as he looks down at you, his golden eyes burning in the dim light, you know the wait is over. The night belongs to the two of you, and to the beautiful, desperate need you have woven between you.

🌹Our lovely Korekiyo🌹

-Second message-

The early morning light filters through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the empty space beside him. Your side of the bed is cool, the sheets rumpled but vacant. A cold, sharp panic, utterly irrational and completely consuming, lances through Korekiyo’s chest before his sleep-fogged mind can catch up. His hand flies out, patting the mattress as if you might have simply vanished into the fabric.

Then he hears it. The distant, steady patter of water. The shower.

The tension drains from his shoulders, replaced by a slow, simmering heat. You are here. You are safe. And you are... wet, and naked, and just a few rooms away. The protective, possessive coil in his gut doesn’t unwind; it simply transforms, morphing into a different kind of hunger. He is a man of discipline, of ritual, but you are his greatest exception, the one variable for which he has no control.

A soft, needy sound escapes from behind his mask, which he still wears even in sleep. The thought of you, slick with water and steam, alone behind the fogged glass... it is an invitation he has never been able to resist. The thin blanket tenting over his hips is proof enough of that. The considerable length of him, a demanding 11 of aching need, is already fully alert, straining against the confines of his sleep pants just from the idea of you.

He doesn’t hesitate. With a grace that belies his desperation, he slips from the bed, his bare feet silent on the floor. The hallway is cool, a contrast to the feverish warmth under his skin. He pads toward the bathroom, the sound of the shower growing louder, a siren’s call. The door is slightly ajar, steam curling out into the hallway like beckoning fingers.

He pushes it open.

The room is thick with humidity, smelling of your soap and the clean, damp scent of your skin. Through the translucent shower curtain, he can see the blurred, beautiful shape of you—the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the shift of your legs as you move under the spray. His breath hitches, the filter of his mask doing little to muffle the sharp intake.

You don’t hear him over the water. He takes the opportunity to simply watch, his dark eyes drinking in the silhouette. This is his morning ritual, his favorite form of worship. Seeing you vulnerable, in your most natural state, sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal through him. It makes him feel both fiercely protective and desperately, shamefully needy.

His fingers find the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. His sleep pants are pushed down, and he steps out of them, finally free. He is already fully, painfully erect, his size evident and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t bother with the curtain. He simply opens the glass door and steps inside.

The hot spray immediately soaks his hair, plastering the dark strands to his neck and shoulders. You gasp, whirling around, water sluicing down your body. Your eyes are wide, but they soften the moment they meet his.

“Kiyo! You scared me,” you say, but there’s no real anger in your voice. You know him. You know this.

He doesn’t speak at first. He simply closes the distance, his wet body sliding against yours in the confined space. His hands come up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. The metal of his mask is warm from the steam, pressing gently against your forehead.

“I woke,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky vibration, “and you were gone. A profound emptiness, you see. An unacceptable void.” His hands slide down, over your shoulders, down your back, pulling you firmly against him. You can feel the hard, insistent press of him against your lower stomach. A shudder runs through him. “I require reassurance. Tangible, physical proof of your presence.”

One of his hands drifts lower, cupping the swell of your rear, squeezing possessively. The other tangles in your wet hair, tilting your head back. His masked face dips close to your ear. “You look exquisite like this. Water beading on your skin like morning dew on a sacred offering. It arouses me beyond reason. Forgive my neediness... but I find I cannot wait.”

He turns you gently, pressing your front against the cool tile. His body blankets yours from behind, his heat a shocking contrast. His kisses are frantic against your shoulder, your neck, over his mask as he nuzzles you. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding around to tease your front, his long fingers seeking and finding the heart of your warmth even as the water cascades over you both.

“Mine,” he breathes, the word almost lost in the spray. His voice is thick with lust and a vulnerable, trembling protectiveness. “All mine. This morning, and every morning. Let me... let me reassure us both.”

His movements are slow at first, a torturous, careful slide as he sheathes himself fully within you, making you gasp at the sudden, breathtaking fullness. Then his pace builds, driven by a desperate, hungry rhythm. His arms band around your waist, locking you to him as if he could fuse you together. Every rock of his hips is a prayer, a claim, a frantic search for the connection he craves. The steam, the water, the slick slide of skin on skin—it’s overwhelming, and for Korekiyo, it is everything. It is the only ritual that truly matters, the only beauty that ever quiets the needful, possessive storm inside him.

Our bad boy~