true blue

So: the second you saw her, you knew you were going to marry Nakamura Kazuha one day. 

“That’s not true,” says Kazuha, when you tell her this. “You’re just trying to flatter me.” 

She’s making this real displeased expression when she says it too, brows scrunching together, both corners of her mouth downturned. But it’s not such a bad look when she’s laid out on your bed like that. Worn-thin tank top riding up, one of your hands on the heave of her ribcage. Jesus. Not bad at all. 

You’re not-so-subtly inching up the hem of that top. The twitch of one corner of her frowny mouth: even less subtle. 

“I’m dead serious,” you say. Your pinky finger draws her top up past her tits. “I felt it, physically. Right here.” You clutch at your chest with the hand that’s not pawing at her; you’re both a pervert and a romantic, it’s your whole thing. “Fate got me good. Really—you know, walloped me in the heart, first time I saw your face. No joke. I almost died.” 

“I wish you had,” says Kazuha. But she’s still letting you touch her. “Ugh. You and fate.” 

“I know, right? It was crazy. I didn’t even have a choice.” 

“And I’m sure it was just terrible for you.” She stretches languorously under your palm, back arching for your benefit. “Being shackled to me by destiny or whatever.” 

“Shackled,” you say, briefly losing your train of thought. You are suddenly inundated with ideas about how to fasten her little wrists to your bed frame. 

“See?” says Kazuha, as your fingers hook into the side of her panties, stretched taut over her hipbone. “This is what I mean. You have a one-track mind.” She stays so still for you as you undress her. “When you first met me you were not thinking about marrying me.” 

“My God. You’re so snarky these days.” Her underwear is promptly lost to some dark corner of your bedroom. “What happened to my sweet girl?” 

“You killed that sweet girl,” says Kazuha, batting her lashes. “Shot her dead.” 

She pulls a face that is probably supposed to be disgusting: her best corpse impression, eyelids fluttering, tongue lolling out. Understandably you are less than disgusted by it. You lean in to kiss that pretty gaping dead-girl mouth until she laughs and comes back to life. 

You’re being serious, though, when you say she used to be so sweet. You still remember those early days, her sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands, all that blushing and stammering she did, all the times she looked at you and away, too shy to hold eye contact. She was so meek it drove you crazy; you were sure there was something up with her. You became kind of obsessed with trying to work out her deal. You thought she was maybe religious—toyed frequently with the image of her in one of those pleated private-school skirts, yum—but she wore a locket around her neck and never any crosses, and sometimes the shortest shorts you’d ever seen. 

So you figured: Okay. Not God-fearing. Probably soul-searching anyway. Probably away from home from the first time, new to college and finding herself. You liked the way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled so you took it upon yourself to help with that, Good Samaritan you are. 

“You sure?” you murmur to Kazuha. Two fingers between her thighs. Working her open all slow. “I think this little cunt’s still sweet.” 

Kazuha makes this hitched sound in the back of her throat. She used to cover her face with her hands whenever you talked dirty to her: furious flush, whining, whimpering, dripping wet, the whole nine. Very cute. Now she just spreads her legs wider and takes it.

“Don’t you think?” you prod, when she says nothing. 

Your fingers are down to the knuckle now. Same sound in her throat. “Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

You’ve taught her well. Kazuha has no trouble looking you in the eye now. She sighs hard: such a chore, going along with your game, like you can’t feel the needy clench of her cunt about it. “Yes, daddy.” 

Nakamura Kazuha’s deal, turns out, was this: nobody had ever fucked her good in her life. And—you should’ve been able to tell from all her slutty shorts—this was a girl who desperately needed to be fucked. It was so obvious in retrospect. The long-lashed fuck-me eyes. The way she made her voice all soft and breathy. The day she crawled into your lap and you realized this whole thing was some long-con seduction was like seeing color for the first time, just this world-shattering revelation. I want you, she whispered, so embarrassed about it that humiliated tears shone in her eyes. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t. I just do. 

What were you gonna do—say no to that face? Get real. You gave her exactly what she wanted just like you’re giving it to her now. 

Somewhere in the filthy haze of Kazuha gagging on three of your fingers and melting when you get your cock in her and you making her beg daddy to cum inside her, the thought surfaces that it’s possible you ruined her. Like, forever. But you can’t find yourself feeling too sorry about that. The idea that you really fucked this girl up for the rest of her life: better and more binding than a ring on that finger. 

Almost. 

It’s only after you cum inside her and also on her thighs and the smooth plane of her stomach that Kazuha makes an attempt to speak again. Her voice gets thick after sex, like she’s just been crying hard; she has to clear her throat a few times before you can even understand her. Like right now: she tries to say something and just ends up coughing. It reminds you of her laugh, all funny and phlegmy. The first time she got sick around you you could never tell whether she was giggling or hacking up a lung. 

“What?” you ask, dragging your fingers through her long dark hair. Your brain kind of always empties out after you fuck her; right now you’re only staring at her flat tummy, picturing what she’d look like knocked up. Not that you have any real plans to do this—you just like thinking about it sometimes, in a feral animal-brained fog. Whatever. After the ring. You can be patient. 

Kazuha gives a long-suffering sigh. “You heard me.” 

“I really didn’t, baby, I’m sorry.” 

“I said.” Kazuha clears her throat again. Or she’s laughing; see, hard to tell. “Marriage, my ass.” Cum drips from her cunt to the sheets. “Admit it. When you met me, you just wanted to fuck me.” 

“Mmm,” you say, pretending to think. “It’s been so long, I don’t remember. I definitely wanted to do something to you.” 

When Kazuha smiles it shows teeth. You didn’t take her top all the way off; it’s still bunched awkwardly above her tits, a little damp with sweat. But when she yawns and stretches it’s with spades of former ballerina grace, all of it reserved for private performances in your bed. 

“Congrats,” she says, eyes closed. “Your wish came true.” She might be falling asleep again. “Now you can do anything to me.” 

When you touch the fourth finger on her left hand, you swear her smile grows. 

Anything, huh. Well, sure, you know that. You’ve already done a lot of things. You do have that ring in your drawer, though, and it’s been like four years, and you love Kazuha more than life. You’ve checked the forecast; it’s supposed to be a beautiful day today. Might as well let fate have its way. 

-

Actually, most days in your life are beautiful, because most days start like this: 

Kazuha ends up nodding off after all, but she comes downstairs for breakfast and instead drops to her knees on the kitchen tile and makes you cum with her hands and mouth. She’s so nasty about it, mouth droolly and swollen. Her fingernails are chipping with polish, painted blue. She’s got this bikini you love that’s about the same color; for a while you were seriously wondering if you could somehow get her in it for the proposal. Maybe if you did a beach thing. Hell of an engagement photo. Sending it out to all your friends and family, making everyone go wild over your girl. You cum in her mouth thinking about this and hold her hair in your fist while she swallows, then sticks her clean tongue out afterwards, to prove it. 

“Look at you,” you say, patting her cheek. It took Kazuha a while to get used to the whole cum-swallowing thing; she used to spit it up into her hands and look at you with helpless and somewhat betrayed eyes: I’m supposed to like this? “You’ve come so far.” 

“I had a great teacher,” says Kazuha, smiling coyly, and it’s so funny, it really is.

After breakfast she lays out on your couch and scrolls mindlessly on her phone. You just have to give her shit for it, making cracks about kids these days, her whole screen-obsessed generation. She calls you old with her eyes kind of glazed; you’ve seriously got to get a book in that girl’s hand one of these days, do something about that attention span. But you like how she looks on her stomach with her feet kicked up, the liquid spill of dark hair over the leather sofa. You’re selfish. You prefer your eye candy with her head in the clouds—gives you all the time in the world to stare. Plus you need her distracted today if you’re going to pull this off. 

You’ve got this whole plan. You’ve got a huge backyard you’re going to truss up. Bouquets of flowers in the garage. Kazuha can waste half the day melting into your couch like this; she won’t even notice if you’re putting up string lights. 

It’s kind of the best-case scenario—but that’s your whole life, these days. Ever since Kazuha moved in with you at the beginning of summer every morning is this. But you knew it’d be this perfect; you still remember how your heart contracted at the way she looked back in June, running to your car, drowning in her college graduation gown, ponytail streaming like ribbon. You were lovestruck, overcome. You cranked up the AC and gave some sappy and ironically slightly paternal speech about a new chapter for her. Said: Here’s to the rest of your life, kid. She said nothing until you hauled her into your lap and got your cock inside her, and then it was all trying not to bump the horn and going: Fuck, harder, daddy, yeah, like that. And then you took her back to your place and finally the rest of her life began. 

It’s funny. When you first imagined proposing you considered taking Kazuha somewhere fancy, or public, making some huge gesture. Big speech, everything. But you think doing it here says more. This is our life, you’d say; beauty in the mundane and all that. This is what’s real. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Spend every day with me just like this. Marry me. 

Obviously you do still care about aesthetics. You’ll say something to get her in a dress. You’ve got one in mind—blue like the bikini, marginally more fabric involved, thin straps, lace at the low neckline. These days all Kazuha does is lounge around in pajama pants, faded camp t-shirts from middle school. Lazy girl, this one. It might take some finagling to get her in something nicer. But you’re pretty good at getting her right where you want her. 

“Hey, baby,” you call. Kazuha’s head tilts to the side, listening. “You got anywhere to be later?” 

Kazuha’s brows lift. “When do I ever?” 

“Touché.” She’s a homebody at heart. “Just—stick around. I’m gonna make you dinner tonight.” 

“Stick around?” Bark of her phlegmy cough-laugh. “Where else would I go?” 

Her feet swing casually. Her toes are painted the same color as her nails, the gleam of sunlight over frothing ocean, shimmering beautiful blue. You catch her by the shin as you’re passing her so you can kiss the bone of her ankle, and she squirms about it, ticklish, but it earns you a sweet little smile.