24 | she/her portgasDe on AO3 Hi,I’m CinnaBlue but you can call me just Cinna for short. I write fics about my fav anime men. Feel free to check them out if you feel like it. Puss, puss 💋
23 || she/her || not spoiler-free || I don't take requests
NAVIGATION: MASTERLIST || AO3
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The Neighbourhood - Portgas D Ace/Reader
The Choices We Make - Portgas D Ace/Reader
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Chapter XI | Ghost in the Shell - Portgas D Ace/Reader
Chapter V | Calla Lily - Portgas D Ace/Reader
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Blue Banister - Portgas D Ace/Reader
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synopsis: Tamsy thrives on control, deception, and staying unreadable. a quiet post-mission night challenges all three. when someone sees past the mask, and doesn’t flinch, security turns into threat, desire into complication, and a carefully constructed plan begins to crack.
rating/warnings: explicit sexual content, power imbalance, praise and degradation, edging, orgasm control, psycholical power play, tamsy is his own warning
word count: 6,3k+
The corridors of the Cleaners’ headquarters were still loud when she left the great hall. Voices overlapped, laughter bouncing off the metal walls, boots clanging against the floor and Enjin arguing with Riyo about something that sounded half-serious, half-ridiculous. Their long mission had wrapped up that afternoon - successful enough to put them in high spirits, though with a different outcome as expected - and the familiar post-adrenaline hum still lingered in the air. Soon, the others would head off to their usual post-mission dinner. On any other day, she would have joined them without a second thought. Tonight, though, her mind was already elsewhere.
She slipped away without hesitation, determination leading her steps and letting the noise fade behind her. Even so, she could feel the weight of a pair of knowing yellow eyes on her back, watching until she disappeared through the tall metal door at the end of the hall. No one called after her. No one questioned it anymore. It had become routine, another unspoken rule folded neatly into the rhythm of the buzzing place she called her home.
Tamsy’s room lay farther down the hall on the third floor, tucked away into one of the quieter wings. Not directly beside Enjin’s, nor opposite it, but close enough that the blond man had been roused more than once by Tamsy’s “questionable” taste in music. Threats to kick in the door had flown, along with a few screaming matches that rivaled the volume of whatever White Chapel track had been blaring across the hall that morning. She paused in front of the door, a small chuckle escaping her at the memory, before knocking lightly.
“Come in,” Tamsy said, his voice calm and unbothered, as if he hadn’t needed to check who was standing there. Over the past few months, this had become a quiet ritual between them. It had slipped so naturally into place that neither of them could have said when it started or how.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed when she entered, jacket discarded, bandages visible beneath his shirt where the fabric had been cut and hastily replaced. He looked a little tired, but not weakened or in pain. It was rare for Tamsy to come back injured from a mission and even if he did, it was usually just a minor bruise here or a small cut there. In fact, it was rare enough that she had genuinely wondered whether it had been an accident at all or if, for some mysterious reason, he had allowed it to happen. The thought lingered for a moment longer than it should have before she dismissed it. She couldn’t imagine a reason he would, and so she filed it away as nothing more than a bad day and a lapse in judgment.
“You should be with the healers,” she said teasingly as she closed the door behind her.
He smiled a little. “I was. They did what they could.”
She didn’t comment on the fact that “what they could” clearly hadn’t been everything. Nor that he was clearly lying and hadn’t actually bothered stopping by Eishia’s on the way back to his room. If he had, this type of injury would have been completely gone by now. Tamsy rarely let people get closer than necessary and avoided being touched by anyone, so pressing him on it would lead nowhere.
She moved closer, settling onto the chair near his bed. The room was cozy, welcoming with it’s warm lights and the faint glow of an old speaker system tucked into the corner opposite his bed. Music hummed quietly in the background, something heavy and distorted, familiar enough to feel intentional and rhythmic enough to fade into the background.
For a while, they talked about nothing important. About the mission. About Delmon being insufferable and Enjin once again letting them do a majority of the work. About a new band he’d found recently and the way the vocals reminded him of one of his favorite bands. It was always like this, the atmosphere feeling welcoming and relaxed, neither of them having to think about what to say next or feeling the need to fill comfortable silence with unnecessary small-talk. And while Tamsy listened more than he spoke, nodding occasionally and smirking at the right moments, it was clear he was enjoying this just as much as she was.
Eventually, the conversation slowed.
She noticed it then, the way his posture shifted when the cut on his chest pulled uncomfortably. It wasn't as if it really hurt, but as someone who was rarely injured, the spot must’ve still been noticeable. Or so she guessed.
“Sit still,” she rose from the chair and crossed the short distance to the bed, fingers already reaching for the supplies laid out on the small table beside it. He didn’t argue but his eyes followed her nonetheless.
Her hands were steady as she worked, adjusting the bandages with a touch that was careful without being tentative. Close enough now to feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, to notice the slow rise and fall of his breathing. He didn’t flinch when she pressed a little firmer, didn’t pull away like he usually would. If anything, he leaned into it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “It looks worse than it is.”
“I know.”
She finished securing the last wrap and withdrew her hands, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary before she stepped back. Instead of returning to the chair, she sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipping slightly under her weight.
The room settled into a quiet that felt heavier than before. Somewhere in the background, the low murmur of music continued, barely noticeable now.
“This isn’t like you,” she said finally.
He didn’t meet her eyes. He shifted instead, one hand drifting to the fresh bandage, thumb tracing the edge absently. “What isn’t?”
“Getting hurt,” she replied. “At least not like this. You’re usually better at avoiding it. Or choosing when it happens...” That earned her something small. Not quite a reaction but rather a pause that stretched half a second too long.
“For a moment,” she added, her voice lighter than the thought beneath it, “I wondered if you let it happen.”
He exhaled through his nose, something close to a scoff, and lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The movement pulled attention to the contrast in his hair - the dirty blond catching the dim light, the navy beneath it darker in shadow. His lip piercing glinted briefly under the dimmed overhead light when he turned back toward her.
“That would’ve been stupid.”
“Probably,” she agreed. “But not impossible.”
A small wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, lips curling into a soft smirk. Surprise flickered across his face before he smoothed it away, the sharpness in his gaze softening into something more curious. Like she’d brushed against a thought he hadn’t expected her to voice. Hell, hadn’t expected her or anyone to even notice.
“You think too much,” he said simply.
“That’s not a no,” she countered.
Silence stretched again, thicker now. The kind that pressed against the skin instead of the ears. She leaned back on her hands, studying him with an expression that hovered somewhere near fond. That, more than anything, seemed to irritate him.
“You know, you’re full of surprises,” she said.
His brow lifted a fraction. “Because I got injured?”
A quiet laugh. “Because you’re never quite what you appear to be. Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you do something that doesn’t fit and I have to start all over again.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It is,” she said easily. “I like being surprised.”
He considered that, eyes narrowing as the corner of his mouth twitched. He shifted on the bed, the loose white button-down tugging awkwardly at his shoulders where the cut had forced it open, his navy tie hanging crooked and forgotten. What a waste, this was one of his favorites.
“You only say that,” he said, “because you don’t know everything.”
“Is that so?”
“If you did,” he went on, his tone light but unmistakably serious, “you’d be less enthusiastic. I guarantee it.”
She tilted her head, unbothered. “Or more.”
Now it was his turn to laugh, brief and genuine, before he shook his head. It was the sound of someone who’d heard that before and learned not to trust it.
“You’re optimistic,” he said.
“No,” she replied, her voice thick with defiance and something knowing. “I’m observant.”
Something about that insinuation wiped the amusement from his face. It sounded like a threat. And while he liked pushing people’s buttons, liked knocking them off balance and watching their reactions when he challenged them, being on the receiving end of that same energy, was something else entirely. It felt like surrendering control, and he hated it.
He leaned back, resting his weight on his hands, posture casual in a way that didn’t quite match the emotion in his eyes. His gaze drifted toward the far wall, where his drawer stood half-visible in the low light. The silence stretched the way it often did; only this time, the tension was unmistakable.
“That can be dangerous,” he said after a moment and it almost sounded like a warning.
“So can being predictable to the wrong people.”
Tamsy let out a quiet, practiced sound that might have passed for a laugh if it hadn’t been so restrained. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his expression sharp and unreadable, a stark contrast to his usual relaxed demeanor.
“And you are one of those people?,” he asked, faint amusement threading through his voice, as if the very idea of her being a threat entertained him. “You might be projecting.”
She shrugged, knowing not to take this as an insult. “Maybe. Or maybe being too sure of yourself leads to carelessness - or worse, to underestimating people.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond. She noticed how his breathing slowed, deliberate and controlled, like he was filing her words away rather than reacting to them. Refusing to give too much away too easily.
“You sound very sure of yourself and whatever it is you’re trying to get at,” he said eventually.
Now his eyes were on her. The intensity of it made her breath hitch despite herself. His posture had gone rigid, the last traces of his usual ease stripped away, leaving something raw and instinctive in its place. He looked like a predator deciding whether to strike, measuring distance and intent, guided by little more than intuition and the next move of his prey.
“I am,” she replied. “About some things.”
She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She let it stretch, let it press in. She’d learned that Tamsy only offered things when he chose to, never when he was pushed. But she’d also learned that meeting him head-on, challenging him without raising her voice, had a way of throwing him off balance. None of the cleaners ever managed that - the shouting matches with Delmon or the chaotic fights over the aux with Enjin were loud and familiar but ultimately harmless. This was different. They both knew it.
“People see what they want to see.”
“And sometimes, they see what’s there and choose not to make a spectacle out of it” she replied. “Like your fondness for cake on a day off.”
The room turned ice-cold, all playful teasing and feigned ignorance dropped in an instant. Tamsy crossed the distance in a split second, movement sharp and decisive. He half straddled her where she sat, trapping her between his arms and the mattress behind her. The springs dipped under his weight and his body was rigid, coiled tight, close enough that she could feel the heat of him despite the sudden coldness of his expression.
His eyes were piercing now, stripped of warmth and filled with a hostility that sent a shiver straight down her spine, prickling the skin at the back of her neck. This was the part of him most people never saw. The part he made sure stayed buried.
She had expected a reaction, had braced herself for anger, for deflection, maybe even laughter. What she hadn’t prepared for was the sheer intensity of his presence. It knocked the breath from her lungs, left her momentarily aware of just how unpredictable he could be when cornered. And beneath the fear, there was something else: a strange thrill at finally seeing his mask slip.
“I don’t know your goal or your true intentions,” she said, carefully now, each word placed with intention. “I don’t pretend to.”
His gaze flicked to her hands where they fidgeted against the fabric beneath her, fingers betraying nerves she was trying hard to conceal. Then his eyes returned to her face, so composed it almost passed for calm. Under different circumstances he would have found it cute. The way she clung to control even now, holding knowledge he couldn’t simply take from her.
Now though, he felt like a threatened animal, patience fraying by the second. And Tamsy had never fared well when control was taken from him.
“But I’m not blind,” she continued. “And I’m not as easily distracted as you think. I’ve known about Amo for a while.”
He tilted his head slightly, still silent, a deliberate choice meant to push her forward, to make her fill the space he refused to occupy. A lock of hair had fallen into his face, trapping her further and sharpening his silhouette into something unmistakably predatory. She could feel his usual restraint thinning, could sense how close he was to deciding her fate.
“You’re implying a lot,” he spat. “And stating very little.”
The music shifted tracks, a heavier riff bleeding into the room. The timing was almost laughable in its cruelty.
She watched his fingers curl against the mattress beside her, knuckles whitening before relaxing again. His jaw tightened, then loosened, as if he were calculating which reaction would cost him the least. She was certain the only reason this hadn’t escalated further was the months of quiet closeness that had led to this moment - the shared nights, the trust he’d let her believe was real. Still, she wasn’t naive enough to think he wouldn’t discard all of it if protecting his goals meant hurting her.
“I don’t know why you kept her chained up in that basement,” she said, her voice steady. She didn’t accuse, didn’t push. “I don’t even know what you’re trying to accomplish. And I don’t know how you manage to keep such a straight face in front of Rudo, feigning sympathy, especially when you’re doing such a poor job of it right now.”
“You’re very confident for someone with incomplete information,” he said.
“Confidence isn’t the same as certainty,” she replied. “I just know when someone is pretending. And you’re very good at it. You’ve always been.”
Something flickered through his eyes, too fast to name, gone before she could be sure it had been there at all. She shifted beneath him, easing the pressure of his knee against her hip just enough to breathe easier. It was a small act of defiance, reclaiming a sliver of space without breaking eye contact. “I’m not here to threaten you,” she said quietly. “If I were, you’d already know.”
Silence stretched between them once more. The music played on, indifferent to the tension thick enough to choke on, as they remained locked in place, neither willing to move first.
“What do you want?” he inquired tentatively.
“For you to trust me” she said simply, holding his gaze with such intensity and determination that he almost let a frustrated groan slip. Just earlier she’d commented on how unpredictable he was, yet here she was refusing any script he’d imagined this conversation would follow. No fear. No bargaining. No desperate justification.
Instead of pulling away, he pressed her down harder, as if proximity itself could restore his authority. His hand closed around her wrist, pinning it to the mattress, his grip tightening just enough to hurt. He was determined to not let himself lose this exchange “Why?” he asked, brown eyes boring into her.
“You’re smart,” she replied evenly. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” She made no move to explain herself further. She’d said what she came to say, tossed the truth between them, and left the next move to him. And then, against all instinct, he could feel her relax beneath his weight. Her once tense muscles sank into the mattress, her breathing uneven but unguarded, her eyes fixed on him with an emotion so unfamiliar it left him unsteady.
He studied her face: the way her breath caught and stuttered, the way her gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again. He wasn’t stupid. Of course he’d noticed. How could he not? But he had always shoved the thought aside, knowing exactly what letting someone get close would cost him. It was a liability. A huge one at that.
So he’d learned to keep everyone at arm’s length, always charming enough to be liked, yet distant enough to remain unreadable. No one stayed long enough to see the cracks. No one looked hard enough to see underneath the mask.
He didn’t know what was different this time. Only that it was. The answer hovered just out of reach, unnamed and entirely unwelcome.
It would be easy to end this. To trap her here, erase the problem, erase her memory of all of it. The Watchman book was only a few meters away, tucked neatly inside one of his drawers. Minutes, at most, and this would be finished.
Instead, he kissed her.
Hard.
The impact of it stole what little breath she had left, driven by the storm of emotions crashing through him all at once. Frustration at the fact that he couldn’t simply discard her, couldn’t bring himself to shove her aside and resolve the problem the way he always did. At how easily this should have been handled, how cleanly it could have fit into his plans. And beneath that, something far more revolting. The pathetic realization that despite his cultivated distance, his carefully maintained belief that he needed no one and nothing, he had leaned in now because she had seen something no one else ever did. She had looked straight at the ugliness, a fragment of the appalling truth beneath the mask and hadn’t run. Not yet.
It disgusted him. That he was the one in control here, that he could still end this whenever he wanted, and yet had chosen to give up a fragment of himself anyway. An exception he despised even as he made it. There was no version of reality in which he would ever be fully honest with her - certainly not now, not when he didn’t yet know how much she truly understood about him. Still, the challenge excited him. The thought of no longer pulling strings attached to easily manipulated puppets like Enjin or Delmon, but instead being faced with someone closer to a human. Not an equal, not quite, but someone who might not shatter at the first sign of pressure. A toy that might last longer. One he could actually enjoy.
She moved against him, hips lifting in an instinctive attempt to close the distance between them, to anchor him there. Her hands strained against his grip, wanting freedom, to curl into his hair and pull him impossibly closer - but Tamsy denied her that immediately.
He shifted his hold, using only one hand now to pin her wrists above her head. It was effortless. A quiet, unmistakable reminder of the difference in strength between them, despite his slim frame and unassuming build. His other hand wandered instead, fingers sliding down to cup her cheek, thumb pressing into warm skin. He dragged his tongue slowly over her lower lip not like he was asking. He was demanding. And she answered it without hesitation.
She moaned into the kiss, her tongue eagerly meeting his, tangling with his as they fought for control. It was hot and messy, overwhelming in a way that left her head spinning. Every coherent thought slipped away until there was only him. His dominating presence, intoxicating and all-consuming. He let his tongue wander deeper, slow and deliberate, before dragging it back to trace her lower lip and bite down gently. The sensation pulled an unguarded sound from her throat. Her hips lifted instinctively, chasing the contact, and he rewarded the movement by letting his hand slide lower, slipping beneath her shirt to grasp the soft curve of her waist.
His knee pressed between her thighs, close enough to set her nerves on fire but nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building there. Her heart raced. It wasn’t enough and she wanted more. So much more. Tamsy smiled into the kiss now - a slow, devious curve of his mouth, heavy with self-satisfaction. Watching her unravel beneath him when he had barely touched her pleased him immensely. He wondered, distantly, what other sounds he could draw from her.
His hand wandered further up to her chest, the touch sending a shiver straight through her as his fingers traced lazy circles around her hardened bud before flicking with intent. She gasped, breath hitching sharply. He broke the kiss then, hovering over her as his long hair fell loose around his face, caging her in completely. Their lips were swollen, flushed red. He stared down at her with the hunger of a starving animal, taking in the faint blush staining her cheeks, the way her earlier confidence had cracked just enough to show what she was trying to hide. She felt trapped by her own need and hated that he could see it.
“That’s all you got?” she teased, even as the warmth in her cheeks betrayed the fragile composure she clung to.
“You’re not very convincing looking like that,” Tamsy replied calmly. His voice sounded almost bored, save for the faint teasing undertone that only someone who knew him well would catch. His chest rose and fell a little heavier than before, a clear indication that he was just as affected as she was, though he would never admit it out loud.
Then he withdrew.
He stepped away from her hips and stood, and for a brief second confusion flickered across her face, followed quickly by disappointment. Had she pushed too far? Had he changed his mind?
The answer came when he crossed the room and shut the stereo off entirely, plunging the space into heavy silence. With the other cleaners off on other missions or away in the city enjoying their post-mission dinner, no sound was heard from inside or outside other than their rhythmic breaths. The overhead light was turned off, leaving only the soft light of the two night lamps on the drawer and the bedside table to illuminate the room. Tamsy dragged a hand through his dual-colored hair, tucking strands behind his ear as he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving her as he returned to the bed.
“I want to hear you choke on your words,” he said.
His voice dripped like venomous honey and he swore he heard her swallow hard.
She tried to scoot back, retreating farther onto the bed to give Tamsy space, but he clearly had other plans - hooking his arms beneath her legs and dragging her back with ease. “Ah-ah,” he murmured. “Who said you could run now?”
The slim man let his hands roam to her waistband, making quick work of the button before stripping her of her pants. The bite of cold air barely even registered against the heat of his hands on her newly exposed skin. Tamsy knelt between her thighs, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his features, accentuating his almost otherworldly beauty. Holding her gaze without shame, he licked a slow stripe over her clothed sex and as her hips jerked upward, she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. His eyes alone set her nerves ablaze; the contrast between his almost innocent looks and his lewd actions did the rest.
“Take that hand away for me, sweetheart,” he commanded. “I thought I made myself clear.”
She looked down at him, her pupils blown wide with want, blood roaring in her ears as a single finger hooked beneath her panties and slid them aside. His touch followed slowly, deliberately, dragging along her slit as if testing her, gauging every breath and shiver.
“Barely did anything and you’re already this wet,” he mumbled, the comment clearly more for himself than for her. “Fuck.”
She heard him swallow hard, his voice thick and strained with desire. It took more restraint than he’d ever known he possessed not to rush straight to the main event, his erection pressing painfully against the confines of his pants. In that moment, he was grateful to have always favored loose-fitting clothes.
But he wanted to take his time with her. Wanted to see how far he could push, how completely he could make her unravel. So he made quick work of her panties, tugging them down and out of the way before resting his hands firmly on her thighs and drawing her closer.
When his tongue finally found her core, she let out a guttural moan she’d been holding back since earlier, the sound ripping from her chest and going straight through him. It only spurred him on. He started slow, giving her a few languid licks before circling her clit with his tongue, subtly alternating pace and pressure as he learned her responses. Tight circles with barely-there pressure gave way to firmer strokes, his tongue swirling in a deliberate figure-eight.
When another choked moan escaped her lips and she tugged instinctively at his hair, he knew he’d found her sweet spot. Deciding to take it one step further, he slid a single finger into her without warning. Her back arched sharply, a broken cry leaving her as her wetness made it effortless for him to push in, her warmth closing around him and pulling him deeper. He felt himself twitch painfully in his pants now at how tightly she clenched around his finger, already imagining just how good it would feel once he finally sank into her.
He curled his finger slightly, adding pressure as he searched for that spongy spot he knew would have her seeing stars. It didn’t take long. Her hips jerked up into him, a sharp gasp tearing from her as her nails dug into his forearms, which were still holding her thighs apart.
“Tamsy… I-” she started, the thought dissolving into nothing just as he added a second finger, stretching her wider.
“Fuck.”
The curse earned a brief, shit-eating grin from him as he kept his fingers moving in a slow, deliberate come-hither motion, lapping eagerly at her slick heat and dragging his tongue along her entrance.
“Tell me when you’re close,” he said, before burying his face in her completely, tongue circling her clit once more. The friction was delicious, relentless, the pace sharp enough to steal the breath right out of her lungs. Her chest heaved as her hands grasped for something, anything, to anchor herself. His arm, the sheets, the mattress beneath her. She arched up into him, all shame long discarded, desperately chasing the release she could feel racing toward her.
His fingers thrust in and out of her at an unrelenting pace, mouth fixed firmly on her most sensitive spot, uncaring of the mess she made of his sheets. He could feel it building. Felt the way her legs tensed, the way her slick walls tightened around his fingers, the crescent marks her nails carved into his skin. She was grinding down into him, breath ragged, thoughts scattered everywhere and nowhere, all of them circling back to him.
Tamsy. Tamsy. Tamsy.
The coil in her core tightened, so tight it was ready to snap at any second. And then… he stopped.
The bastard actually stopped.
The warmth retreated instantly, the delicious pressure gone, his fingers slipping free and leaving her aching, empty. Her body clenched around nothing, confusion crashing through the haze as she blinked down at him with wide, bewildered eyes.
“Wha-..?”
“Tamsy, what the fuck,” she slurred, still wrecked and trying to catch up. Her expression a mix of confused and desperate pulled a quiet laugh from his throat. There it was again: that cocky smile, those piercing, sadistic eyes. He was back in control, back in his element.
“You didn’t really think I’d let you off easy after the stunt you just pulled, did you?”
His voice lifted at the end, almost mocking. Oh, how she hated what that did to her.
“If you want something, you’re going to have to beg for it.”
She felt heat rush to her cheeks, her gaze drifting away despite herself. She knew Tamsy was blunt, always certain of what he wanted and asking for it. But he so often faded into the background rather than demanding the spotlight that seeing him like this made her shiver. She wasn’t surprised, exactly, but hearing him speak like that without even a trace of shame, unraveled her. It wasn’t like her to shy away from a challenge but something about the look in his eyes, the pure amusement at her vulnerability, reduced her to a flustered version of her usual self.
“Please,” she started, not entirely sure what he wanted to hear, which words would make him touch her again. She needed him. Needed him now. “Please… keep touching me.”
Tamsy’s expression remained unimpressed. “Pathetic. You can do better than that.” He rose from the floor and once again straddled her lap, leaning down until his mouth hovered right beside her ear. “Tell me what you want.”
The sudden closeness, his breath warm against her skin, his voice barely above a whisper, sent a full-body shiver racing down her spine. Any lingering hesitation melted away as he dragged his tongue slowly along her neck, sucking softly here and there, deliberate enough to leave marks she wouldn’t be able to hide the next day. “I need you, Tamsy,” she begged. “Need you to - ngh… fuck me.” He bit down on the soft skin of her neck, tightening his grip at her waist. “Atta girl,” he murmured before bringing his fingers to her mouth. “Suck.”
She opened without a second thought, welcoming first two, then three fingers, coating them in saliva as he made quick work of his buttons, kicking both pants and briefs to the floor. Once he was bare from the waist down, he withdrew his fingers and nudged her farther back onto the bed closer to the headboard. He discarded his white button-down and tie next, giving her a moment to take him in. Soft pale skin littered with scars, hair half-falling into his face while the rest spilled down his back. His erection stood tall and proud, the tip glistening with precum and a frenum piercing decorating his shaft. He looked like a work of art, and she couldn’t stop staring as heat pooled in her core. Tamsy didn’t miss the way her eyes traced him, hungry and full of want.
Oh, how he was going to enjoy ruining her.
She felt herself reaching for him, sliding her arms around his neck and tugging him down into another hot, open-mouthed kiss. Her fingers skimmed over him experimentally and the surprised moan it pulled from his throat sent a thrill through her. Tamsy pushed his tongue deeper into her mouth, exploring her fully, circling and teasing her tongue. As the kiss deepend his hands found her thighs, firm and possessive, folding them back until they were nearly against her chest, and ran himself along her entrance, coating himself in her slick heat and drawing out delicious friction. His whole body tensed - his patience was fraying, the lingering frustration from their earlier conversation only amplifying his need. One quick stroke was all it took before he pushed all the way in, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it tore a loud moan from her lips, swallowed by the kiss. He smiled against her mouth, then pulled back just enough to look at her properly; he wanted to see her.
And she was breathtaking. Her eyes were glassy with want, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, a faint mark already blooming where he had bitten her earlier. Her soft skin glowed in the low light beside them. “Such a pretty girl for me,” he murmured before drawing back slightly and then slamming into her again. The sudden motion knocked the breath from her lungs; she threw her head back into the pillows with a sharp curse, fingers clutching the fitted sheet beneath her. Tamsy set a relentless, unforgiving pace, feeling how tightly her body clung to him, like it was determined not to let him go.
She fit him perfectly, and the realization cracked something in his composure. He dug his fingers into the plush of her thighs, using them for leverage as he pressed deeper, angling himself impossibly far inside her.
The air between them felt electric, thick with desire. The only sounds were their harsh breathing and the rhythmic slap of his body against hers. A selfish, but honest part of him almost wished the others were home just to hear the shameless noises she made, the way she gasped and begged him not to stop, to please give her more. He wanted them to know it was him who made her feel like this, who fit her perfectly, who ruined her so completely. Next time, he’d make sure she took him where Enjin could see wipe that smug grin right off his face.
The thought sent a sharp twitch through him, nearly undoing him on the spot. He couldn't wait to see how far she was willing to go.
Suddenly, He felt her tighten around him, her body giving her away as she drew closer to the edge. Tamsy brought his hand down sharply against her clit, the sting making her gasp and choke on a breath.
“You’d better ask for permission,” he said flatly, voice rough, “before you even think about it.” Her body clenched around him like a vise, so tight it made it hard to keep the pace he had set. “What a masochist,” he muttered, breathless. “You get off on this, don’t you?”
The words lingered between them, not truly needing an answer since the flushed, unfocused look on her face said more than words ever could. Tamsy laughed softly, shaking his head. “Tch, you’re hopeless.”
His fingers found her, firm against soft flesh, circling her clit with deliberate precision while his hips continued their slow, punishing thrusts. The sound she made was obscene, her body responding instantly, slick heat pulsing around him and soiling the bed underneath them. “Please, Tamsy, I-” Her words broke off into another moan as the tip of him dragged across that sensitive spot inside her and turning her vision white for a split second. “Can I cum?” she gasped. “Please, I- I need to cum, I..”
She begged openly now, shame abandoned completely, senses overloaded by him, by his scent in her nose, his voice in her ears, the steady pressure of his fingers and the way his eyes consumed her like she was something made solely for him.
“Not yet,” he said simply.
He picked up the pace. His other hand slid to her abdomen, pressing down, anchoring her. The sensations intensified all at once and she could feel every drag of him inside her, the way her body clutched greedily around him while his thumb worked her clit with ruthless efficiency. And suddenly, without warning, it was too much. His earlier demand slipped from her mind entirely. She arched up into him, back bowing, core pressing closer into him as her mouth fell open in a silent scream. The orgasm tore through her violently, leaving her shaking and helpless beneath him.
“Oh fuck,” Tamsy groaned.
He hadn’t expected that, hadn't seen the sheer intensity of her orgasm coming and it unraveled what control he had left. The older man followed moments later, unable to stop himself, spilling deep inside her and painting her walls white. She was marked as his now. The thought of claiming her like this nearly sent him over the edge all over again. If he could have, he was certain he would have lost himself a second time right then and there.
Gradually, he felt her body soften, her grip loosening as she drifted down from the high. She searched for his eyes. When she found them, his gaze had already sharpened. A thin sheen of sweat glistened across his skin, and the smile on his lips promised nothing but trouble.
“Not so good at following orders, huh, angel?” he said mildly. “Guess we’ll just have to try again until you learn to listen.”
And something in his eyes told her, unmistakably, that he’d been holding back until now.
I have a lot of Tamsy writings in my notes and some Enjin… should I post them all soon? And sorry if he’s ooc… I tried to display what his true personality would be like if he was comfortable enough to do it with another person. My inspo? I saw two Metalhead Tamsy fan arts that made me feral.
Context: Rich metalhead Tamsy. Normal AU.
Warnings: AFAB Reader. He does drugs lwk... It's implied though. Implied relationship... idk fwb? Smut at the end. Will be separated. Tamsy’s mind wanders off to noncon for a moment since I was thinking about exploring his personality.
Word count: 4.7k
Dark, thrifted clothing with every stretched out thread and hole imaginable lining the edge of his baggy shirt, pants nearly three times the width of his legs, and held up securely by a studded belt–it all somehow looked ethereal yet grounding. Probably due to his angelic appearance, you think… yeah, that’s part of why. He’s a naturally pretty boy.
His two contrasting looks: the sweetest round face and cutest button nose known to man, and flowing, nearly platinum blond hair, and a darker under displaying his true nature: all depravity. The picture-perfect embodiment of what would be worshipped at the altar. The savior you’d see in your dreams, and the kind of man you only saw once in your life and never again.
“Still don’t want to?”
“…you cannot be serious.”
The plastic baggy is held between an index finger and thumb as he sweetly smiles at you, golden eyes crinkling. The powder displaces itself as he shakes it–the very white powder.
White like his pristine home, excuse me, mansion. Amazingly pristine and enormous. Multiple rooms with a specific, arbitrary purpose. He even had a spiral staircase in the damn place.
His room? It somehow reflects the utopia of his home and the rugged uniqueness of how much he adored metal. It was a room that was regal enough to have a canopy, shielding you both in the sanctuary of his king-sized bed, and a chandelier, while also having stands and display cases for his multiple collected possessions–all sorts of guitars and knick-knacks.
A prized guitar on the wall too. It had the charm of being an outsider when compared to his room, having a golden and white aesthetic. He made sure to keep cleaned at all times. Yet, his status of being on the higher end of society showed with his bookshelf, nearly its own mini library, and walk in closet. Clothes and accessories you haven’t even seen online, yet it was somehow thrifted.
And with all that money he naturally had access to? He mostly spent it on cheap thrills. The one-time experience of a certain narcotic, but, interestingly enough, never on smokes or marijuana. The real shit, however? His band T's and collectibles? He made sure to get that through hard work from his admiration. No posers allowed, no matter if he was a spoiled kid.
“Like? Why do you even have that shit, dude.”
“Curious.”
“No, I’m not curious–“
He pops open the bag as he plops down beside you, legs stretching along the dark quilt as his back lies pressed on the pillows. His smile widens more, and you immediately cover your nose with a panicked expression.
“It wasn’t exactly a question. Here, sniff it.” Trails of blond slowly spill over his shoulder in strands as he leans toward you, hand gripping the sheets as his eyes darken with mirth.
“Get that shit outta my face, Tamsy.”
“You know, I’ve tried it before,” his expression sours for a moment as he lowers the bag and obviously ignores your discomfort. His fingers on the dark bedding slowly itch towards your form, then quickly cup the back of your neck.
There’s a brief shock to your system from how cold his fingers are, and he, surprisingly, doesn’t force your nose to take a dive in the bag dangled between his fingers. The hint of mirth in his eyes are replaced with disgust as his lips run to a tangent, the air spiked with hostility.
“I think whoever formulated the slightest idea of cocaine should jump off a building.”
You sigh annoyed his fingers tug on the curls on your neck.
“Okay, now you’re acting like you’re on meth, and nobody told you to cope that stuff neither.”
Torrents of blond and blue pour onto your lap as he lies his cheek on your shoulder, the portion that has the discolored scar, and the rest of the long strands fan his bedding. He stares at your profile through his thick lashes as the tense air smoothens into a soft, relaxing stillness once more. “Should I try methamphetamine next then?”
“No. Stop chasing a high.”
He smiles again then finally tosses the dastardly bag on his nightstand.
The scarred male's rough fingers whisper along your nape in a teasing rub, and you instantly arch away from his touch. His eyes follow you as you wriggle away from his hand.
He frowns, but it clearly doesn’t reach his eyes as you maneuver from his touch. His lips pull downwards, but his eyes crinkle more with a different story, one that decorates his fair features with amusement.
“First you reject my offering then you reject my affection?”
You snort. “You were tickling me.”
His voice is soft, naturally velvety, really, as he hums. “Would’ve been nice to see you laughing. I like the noise.”
You tilt your head down to his face still propped on your shoulder, nose pushing against his upturned one.
“Noise is a negative way to describe something you claim you like.”
He presses his lips against yours before you can blink, a taste of his plushness, then he pulls back. There’s silence between you two in the moment of his golden irises clashing with your depths, letting the heat simmer for a moment. His lips then hungrily meet yours again, abruptly as his fingers cup your nape, forcing your lips down to his.
He gradually lifts his head off your shoulder as his lips move quickly against yours, the quick and quiet noise piercing the silence of his room. They’re warm and soft with just the right amount of moisture–perfect, really.
His plump lips increase their fever, and you feel the ghost of his labret touching your lower lip. There’s a constant passing of coolness on your lower lip while his own continues moving against yours–the neediness exhibited in his unreasonable hurriedness. He could take his time with tasting you, and he could savor every slow tug and press of softness.
But his heart pounds faster and reaches heights not even the drugs could touch when he’s devouring you.
——-
“Come with me.”
You stand in the little bathroom of your apartment as he leans against the doorway. Dressed in his oversized shirt, you don’t bother turning your head to the male as you focus on flossing, eyes making conversation more with the mirror rather than him.
“To?”
His hair flutters behind him as he enters the bathroom and stands beside you. He takes two of the thick scrunchies on the counter and pins up his hair; thick hair like his needs more than one flimsy little hair tie to keep his mane in place.
He then turns on the faucet while staring at you through the mirror, the squeak of it a bit grating. “A concert I plan on going to.”
Your eyes remain locked on your jaw as your slide the thread between your teeth. “And when?”
He cups his hands under the faucet then leans over the counter hunched, “tomorrow,” and casually splashes his face with water.
You immediately pause your repetitive movement. Your eyes avert from your teeth to the male dampening his face as he twists the water off. The flossing pick gets debated on being thrown or not as he opens his eyes and reaches for the cleanser, clicking open the bottle and lathering a dollop in his palm.
“Are you dead ass?"
He immediately cracks open an eye with a smile as he rubs his palms together, evenly spreading the facial soap, then places them on his face, hands moving in circular motions.
“Hmm? Don’t want to go?”
“There is no way you invited me last minute.”
He shrugs as he stands upright and gazes at his reflection, washing the cleanser into his skin with the mirror’s aid. His face is immediately caked in white suds as his eyes avert to yours in the mirror.
“There isn’t. It’s next week. Thursday.”
You glare at him; the casual rage baiting doing its work.
You spit venom back at him as you wave the tiny flosser. “I should put hot sauce in your cleanser one day.”
Yes, he's constantly at your apartment to where his entire skin care catalogue takes up the space in your home.
Tamsy doesn’t falter in his practiced movement as he hunches over the counter again and flicks on the faucet once more. The running water answers you first, then his response, nonchalant but not hiding the amused lilt. His eyes glance at you from over his shoulder as a pretty lock briefly passes in his vision, gracefully submitting to gravity but subdued by the streaming faucet’s water.
“You little sadist. Is it to see me cry over my ruined skin or to suffer from the burn?”
You roll your eyes at his feigned ignorance. “How about a consequence for always trying to egg me on?”
He closes his eyes as he splashes his face a couple times then scrubs away the remaining suds. “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“No, it is.”
He stands up with eyes closed as droplets of water trail down his dripping face. His eyelashes are beautifully curled as the roundness of his cheeks glistens. You watch as a droplet escapes and plops itself on his shirt, then sigh as he blindly reaches for the fluffy rag on the rack to dry his face.
You cup the back of his wrist to stop his wandering hand then grab the rag for him. Your hand then slowly guides him to face you, and you begin to dab his face dry.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Shut up. You use that when you’re lying.”
He smiles and leans down more into your hands dabbling away the moisture. Feeling dry enough, the male then pulls away and slides open the medicine cabinet to pull out cotton pads and face toner.
“Don’t you want to come, dove?”
You place a hand on your hip as you place the rag back on the hanging rack.
“I didn’t say no. I just didn’t want you asking me something important last minute.”
He clicks open the bottle with a flick of his thumb and tilts it over the cotton swab, and a chemical smell wafts in the air for a moment. The liquid quickly bleeds into the white pad and drenches it, and he pats the Apple of his cheeks first as he stares at the mirror. He's quite the diva for a man who headbangs first in the morning.
“So, are you still coming?” His voice is soft and light, almost sounding innocent in its request, but you can easily hear the hint of impatience in his voice, wanting a true confirmation from your lips rather than an implicit statement. The nerve of him.
Exasperated, “Tamsy, yes.”
He dabs the pad on his forehead and chin, “Good. Match with me.”
You place your hands on your hips, growing more annoyed at his demands, then falter, knowing you couldn’t reject anything he wanted. “As in wear your clothes or actually match with you?”
“Wear my clothes,” he dabs the damp pad on his button nose then covers the rest of his face that’s untouched.
You lean on the counter, staring at his side profile, and admire his Cupid’s bow from the side, every angle of his face worthy to be mindlessly stared at. You’re tempted to touch his face, but you know he’d grab your wrist in an iron grip before it could even hover towards his cheek. Pretty, proper metalhead boy doesn't like it when his routine is disturbed.
The treacherous freed lock from his bun lingers wetly aside his cheek, and you brush it behind his ear without a second thought. The male pauses from your impulsive, considerate gesture, since the blond strand is wet enough from the faucet. He slowly pulls his gaze from the mirror. His lips then curl as his eyes become half-lidded, amused, and speaking with his usual amusement.
“What is it, Tamsy?”
“Moisturize my face.”
You take your hand away as he flicks the used cotton pad in the tiny bin beside the sink. Its purpose was served well for a pedantic man.
Sighing, you grab the face lotion from the medicine cabinet and pop it open with a flick of your thumb. You squirt a reasonable amount on your palm and lift your eyes only to smile at the comical sight he displays.
Tamsy, with quick motions and eyes closed, is fanning the toner dry on his face with his hands. He turned his face side to side to catch all angles for the manmade wind to reach. You immediately laugh at his prissy nature, the thing only you get to see, and set the moisturizer down.
With your freed hand, you, too, quickly fan the toner dry on his face, and he smiles more at feeling the extra coolness caressing his skin. “Sweet, you are. Especially after my continued pestering.”
“I guess I love you.”
His smile is gone within seconds, flattening into a line, and his eyes slowly crack open. The gold in his eyes somehow glows with a calculating glare, and you immediately turn your head away, not wanting to face his passive aggresive wrath. Though it was hard to ignore the grin creeping on your face.
The very last thing he likes to hear is you challenging your love for him. It wipes every trace of lightness in the air; Tamsy makes sure to have you uncomfortable and squirmy for souring his mood… buttt you’ve gotten used to his moody antics and always use a quick little side comment to rile him up. Payback, it is.
You immediately scurry away from him and towards the bathroom door, feeling the sudden drop in temperature, but thin, yet solid, arms quickly cage you to his chest.
They squeeze your soft sides, and you slowly crane your neck upwards with an innocent smile. His front pushes against your backside as he stares down at you from narrowed eyes, and his adorable nose.
“Don’t go leaving now. Say it again.”
You laugh, “I guess I like you.”
A hand slowly ghosts upwards, and his slightly damp fingers graze your chest. His hand cups one of your breasts, and you try to look away as his fingers slowly squeeze it. “Mmm... That isn’t what was said. Repeat it correctly.”
You look back up at him with a smile, and his gaze is still darkened, but his testing, faux smile is gracing his lips. Before you can respond, his thumb and index rub the nub beneath your shirt between his fingers–the clash of the harsh fabric of the shirt rubbing against it, along with his unmerciful movements. A puff of air is sucked into your nose at the action, and you cup the back of his hand from the mixture of pain and small inklings of delight sparking from the harsh touch.
“C’mon, that hurts. Let me just moisturize your face.”
He lowers his face and presses his chin atop your head, “Repeat what was said.” His finger then flicks the nub, sending a small shock to your system from the brief pain.
You jolt underneath him, finally correcting your statement, “I-I guess I love you…”
The tall male pauses his fingers, then cups both of your breasts. They overflow in his palms, and he looks over his nose with a delighted expression, “So you can listen.”
“Dude–“ You then immediately suck in a breath as his teeth unexpectedly bite, not nibble, bite on your ear. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough to pull a boxer’s move, but just enough to have you let out a gasp of pain.
“Who are you calling 'dude', hm?”
You grit your teeth and try to focus on the cool wetness still on your palm rather than the slow indent from his mouth. “Should I say bro then-ow!”
His teeth grind more into the sensitive skin, and more pain throbs on the side of your head, but his hands moving on your chest, slowly groping the weight of your breasts, has you leaning more into him. His thumbs rub your nipples as they continue kneading your chest.
“Do it right.... Say it properly.”
You squirm with a smile, “Master?”
He immediately pulls his mouth away with a deadpan and stops kneading your chest. “Ew…”
You instantly giggle and take it as a chance to turn around in his arms. The male’s expression doesn’t change as you take advantage of your opening, and his hands rest on your back as you face him.
You finally swipe a portion of the moisturizer onto two fingers and rub it into his cheek first in circular motions to evenly distribute the product. “So prissy. How are you even a metal head?”
“How are you even handling one?”
You snort, “I like the juxtaposition of your home life and genuine interests,” you swipe another glob and rub it into the other cheek. He leans into your gentle motions as his eyes remain locked onto yours, his honeyed gaze, sweet smile, and round face all hypnotizing.
“Incubus, stop looking at me like that…” You apply the lotion to his forehead and chin with your two fingers. You rub it into his silky skin.
“That’s quite insulting.”
“You are one.”
He hums, his polite shadiness bleeding through the conversation, “I’m not a certain umbrella weirder.”
You immediately laugh at the snide remark as you place your palms on his cheeks. He closes his eyes as you rub the remnants of the lotion into his skin, your fingers squishing his cheeks and pulling on his pretty face. Unnecessarily exaggerated with rubbing it into his skin, but he knows it’s you taking advantage of touching him again.
“Finished.”
You pull your hands away, and he immediately reaches a hand behind his head. He pulls his thick strands free and floods of blond and navy overflow past his shoulders. The side of his face is obscured by the blond of his hair, and he slowly pulls it to the side with the back of his hand as he smiles, scarred side of his face and pretty eyes exposed once more.
You scoff. “You’re such a flirt.”
He tosses the scrunchies back onto the counter, “All I did was free my hair.”
“Doing it flirtingly. With your eyes and that face.”
His hands reach out towards you, and he places them on your waist. He tugs you towards him and squeezes you closely to his chest. The pretty man's head tilts downwards to meet your gaze better, and you’re both curtained by his two-toned hair.
His face is soft, both skin and expression, as your hands cup his cheeks. Your thumb momentarily brushes the cool metal under his lip, and his lips kiss the pad of your thumb, golden eyes holding court and keeping you stationed.
“…like, how can you deny being a flirt?”
His lips pull away from your thumb, and he bunts his forehead against yours.
“Perhaps this Incubus should use his powers now?”
“In what way?”
His fingers tap the counter of the sink, and you immediately try to tug away from him with a slow flush rising at his hinted implication. His hand presses more into your form as you try to tug yourself away more at his suggestion.
“No. I don’t feel like cleaning the counter when we’re done because I barely finished brushing my teeth. We can fuck somewhere else, Tamsy.”
His hand reaches down to your thigh and slowly hooks the back of it, gradually propping the leg on the counter, “Then multitask.”
You snort and immediately hold onto the counter for balance, “Excuse me?”
“Brush your teeth now while I fuck you.”
“I am actually going to kill you.”
——
It's the aftermath of an exhilarating performance. The bass pounding your body inside out, music drowning out your own thoughts, and wild screaming with the mixture of a metallic-sweaty tang in the air.
It bleeds away into a dirt smell when you're long gone from the brute of the experience. You're situated at an empty lot, its flicking lamplights shining more on the hoards of cars rather than the small building that separates you and him from the drunk strangers revving up to leave... or possibly do what you're doing with their own partner.
“Higher–here.”
His hand holds the back of your knee, nearly up to your chest, as he hooks it over his waist. His hips stop moving their vigorous pace for a moment as he adjusts the position then mumbles to himself, satisfied with how exposed you are for him.
“There.”
You’re barely able to let out a word as his lips eagerly collide against yours again, and all that’s ringing in the secluded space are the wet sounds of skin slapping and desperate kisses. Your arms tighten their hold around his neck as he curls his body over yours more, attempting to press every inch of himself on you.
There’s already a creamy ring around the base of his cock from how long he’s been slapping into you, long after the band you both came to see ended their performance. Dribbles of your mixed lubricants plop onto the grass as his pace remains the same; hurried, hungry, and singleminded.
His piercing consistently whispers against your lower lip as he kisses you feverishly, eyes closed tight and heavy puffs of air leaving his nose. The long-haired male's fingers dig into the flesh of your leg as the fabric of his jeans roughly grazes your skin.
There’s a thick layer of saliva connecting your lips as he breaks away from the kiss, and he dives again, more so to lick it away than to steal another kiss.
Puffs of warm breath hit both of your faces as you both pant. Your arms squeeze more around his neck, and he immediately switches the position.
He hoists your body higher on the wall, and your legs wrap around his waist, resulting in his length sliding deeper into you. You sputter out his name and accidentally tug on his tresses from how sudden the movement was.
The fair male, with his puffy, pink, glistening lips, tilts his head more into your grip, groaning from the burn of his scalp. “Like that, keep… keep pulling.”
You tremble from the slide of his cock, deliciously rubbing against your walls, and tug harder on the navy strands of his hair. The male groans and squishes your plush waist. He hunches into your form, and you immediately let out a moan as his hips slap eagerly into you again.
His cock thrusts into you with an impressive pace, needy and rhythmically, but never breaking its rapidness. Your walls convulse around him, and it results in him digging his nails into your skin, blunt ends making crescents.
His pace, however, still doesn’t falter. Tamsy’s teeth rasp your neck as he groans through his teeth.
And then, affectionately, his hand cups the back of your head and slowly lays it on his shoulder–him knowing very well any sweet gesture he did soaked you even more for him.
It works too. Embarrassingly, another wave of juices coats his cock and drips down to his sack as your face buries itself into his neck. A knowing glint shines in his eyes as they flutter from the wetness sliding down his cock more, “Predictable.”
You whine into his shoulder, “Shut upppp…” You squeeze even more around him, barely able to speak or form a sentence. The high is mixed between the intoxicating fucking of his cock and the alertness of not wanting to be caught at the venue.
Tamsy wantonly moans in your ear, knowingly rousing you even more, and pulls on the strands of your hair as his cupping hand remains there. “You’re making a mess.”
Tears from his slapping cock bud into your eyes as you cling onto him while lifting your head, biting back at him, “A-and you're moaning like a pornstar, quiet down…”
The two-toned-haired male slowly smiles and stalls his hips. You immediately whine, annoyed, and pull your head back to meet his gaze, “Don’t do that…”
“Did you truly want me to quiet down?”
“No…”
“Then shut up and take it.”
Again, your juices spill around his cock from his assertion, and you bury your face in his neck wordlessly.
“Not like that. Kiss me again, and I’ll make you squirt as much as you can at this lot.”
Your face actually flushes, the embarrassment of his lewd words making your head spin, and you pull your face away from his neck. His piercing glints as he mockingly smiles down at you, “Good. That pretty head of yours can follow through on commands.”
You wrench his head down and urgently push your lips against his. The male groans through his nose and holds your hips to keep you grounded on the wall. He surges his hips deeply against yours. His quick pace resumes, and your messy make-out becomes nearly clumsy as the building sensations of his cock plunging deep, his soft, sweet lips sliding and sucking against yours, and the growing lightheadedness fog your mind.
Your body doesn’t thrum with the boom of the music venue, and your ears can’t acknowledge the discordant voices boisterous around you in the lot. Your body, instead, only hears the rich noise of his pants, feels the scratching of his clothes against your skin, heightening the pleasure of his enthusiastic thrusts, and thrums in tandem with the heart pressed closely against your chest.
The wet, loud slaps of lips merrily meeting each other, and his cock reappearing and disappearing inside you, are all that you hear. And then you finally feel it arise, insistently and rapidly as his cock slides itself back inside you.
Your hands tug at his hair as you try to break from the kiss, but his hand at the back of your head keeps your mouth glued to his.
It’s no worry, though. He feels it, your release strengthening.
Down to every quiver and clench hugging his moving cock. No, his pace doesn’t falter at all. Why should he stop when both of you are close to reaching the apex of your connection? You’re going to cum either way, no point in stopping.
His eyes slowly crack open and stare at your glittering lashes from the tears balled along them. His hand then slides down the softness of your stomach, and his thumb rubs the pearl standing stiff atop your pussy, nearly begging him to touch it.
Tears finally cascade down your cheeks as you open your mouth into the kiss, uncontrollably moaning, and he forces his tongue deeper. Your fingers pull his tresses tight, and his eyes roll back just for a moment at the concoction of blooming pain and his dick getting deliciously embraced.
For a moment, just a moment, he thinks about what if he made you scream in the venue? What if he kept going until you were sobbing and tugging on his hair for him to stop? Until you’re sniveling pathetically–fuck, he’s gotten harder somehow.
To force himself on you like that, would you want it? For no one to hear as he continued kissing you and biting you as if you were the toy he’s threaded with his teeth, pinching into your skin like a needle urging itself deeper and deeper.
The thought… the very thought of that…
The male seized up, and his hips twitched in their rhythmic pace for once, surprising you enough to open your eyes. Tamsy pulls his tongue out of your mouth as his eyes nearly cross, face flushed red and written in ecstasy at the thought of ruining and debasing you to where you hated him.
Your nails dig into his shoulder as warmth then pools inside your pussy, thick and hot, with spurt after spurt. His cheek presses against yours as his face morphs into a drunken, full-toothed smile as he laughs, mind fogging from his own orgasm and depraved thoughts.
His drool dribbles onto your cheek as his orgasm washes over him, but he somehow manages to keep his grip on you tightly against the wall.
His cock remains plugging all of his spend inside you as the last of his shivers die down. Tamsy breaks out of his pussy drunk spell and turns his head. He slowly licks his drool off your cheek, dragging his tongue languidly, and you immediately groan, a bit turned off at his behavior.
“What happened to makin’ me squirt, weirdo?”
His lips suck on the area then bite at your cheek, “You’re acting as if I still can’t make you.”
“Well, you clearly didn’t so-oh!”
You end up cutting yourself off as he pulls himself out of you, cock slapping against his jeans. Trails of creamy spend drip out of you, and you hold onto the wall, embarrassed at the mess, which wasn’t even yours... well, possibly a quarter yours.
The male doesn’t bother tucking himself in his pants as he immediately lowers himself to your leaking mound. His face latches itself to your thighs and laps up the juices at your thighs as he hoists one over his shoulder. His fingers ghost over his softened cock and pinch the head, waking it up for another round.
“T-Tamsy-“
“Shut up. I thought you wanted me to make do on my word, hmm?”
You stare down at him, flustered, and brace yourself on the wall. He looks up at you through his lashes as his tongue continues lapping to where he promised.
“Tie my hair up while at it.”
You whine, “Really...”
His face threatens to pull away, and you immediately oblige, pulling the strands out of his face and holding them into a makeshift ponytail.
Tags / Warnings: nsfw; smut; Tamsy Caines x reader; fem!reader; cleaner!reader; sexual tension; semi-public sex; cunnulingus; begging; multiple orgasms; rough sex; almost getting caught
Premise: After your encounter, your tension in your shoulder blades might have eased—but a different one has heightened.
Haven’t read the first two drabbles? Here you go to Part 1 and Part 2 :)
A/N: Had to take a little break from chapter 4 of Act III (it’s getting dark, guys, but I’ll try to pour in a pinch of something sweet in there, too, dw) and since this one felt unfinished after part two… oh well, let’s just dive in, shall we?
__________________
Tamsy wore a knowing grin the next day you’ve seen him. Presumptuous and teasing. The dining room was filled with people and the moment your eyes had locked, your shame caught fire. You couldn’t look at him for long, but you sensed the remnants of your encounter in the depths of his mind. And it was true that yours had wandered to recollect probably the same scenes as well—chasing the feeling of his fingers inside you, your body that forced a reaction immediately, swaying between disbelief and lust.
The game continued the moment you sat down with your food, well-aware to not choose the table he was sitting on. It was rare to have that many people around, but trash beasts have been tame recently and breakfast was highly anticipated among the Cleaners. Your hunger was dualistic. A constant rummage of more lingered in your loins, unable to be satisfied on your own. You had been thinking of Tamsy, just like he had asked; imagining his naked body hovering above you, doing unspeakable things with you until you screamed his name.
The way he looked at you from across the room made you think he had heard you. He held a promise in his gaze, something like an offer you weren’t sure to take. However, the longer you sensed his eyes on your figure, the braver you stood your ground, finally immersing yourself out of the conversation of your table to stare right into his eyes. He had already caught you, unbothered if anyone noticed, unashamed of what had happened—unlike you who still battled with a flushing sensation on the cheeks even though you managed to keep on looking at him. His smile was almost unnoticeable, a hint of a taunt and the past pleasure of making you come. He knew what he had done to you and it was visible in the way he grinned, licked his lips, slightly, as if he imagined to taste you. Your breath stuttered at the thought of him between your legs, how it resembled too much of your thought play last night after he had left you half-naked and leaking. Perhaps it was good that he sat a few metres away, so he wouldn’t sense you catching your breath.
His presence caught up to you until it had devoured you to such an extent, you had to leave your half finished plate and conversations to catch some air. Even the hallway seemed cooler. Relief washed over you but you weren’t sure of what. You pressed your hand against your forehead as you followed the corridor to your room. No one was here. Then someone gently tucked it away and pressed you against the wall. Tamsy didn’t kiss you immediately. Instead, he lured you into his presence until you stared at him wide-eyed. Since when had he followed you?
“You forgot to say hello,” he said and found your lips with his.
He still held your wrist, his fingers, which wandered along your palm as he devoured you. Your bodies melted together like sand particles in the desert, heat and motions settled you closer until you became one. The kiss was tamer than last night, gentle at first, slowly gaining confidence as you offered your tongue. He gladly opened his mouth to welcome you, stroking his piercing along your lips until he hummed in approval.
“Missed me already?” He looked at you, grinning so shamelessly that his tease elicited some courage inside you.
You freed yourself of his grip. Unable to react, Tamsy found himself yanked against the wall as you grasped his collar to turn him. You didn’t give him space nor a moment to process your longing. Your kiss turned greedier, devoid of embarrassment you left in the dining room. He appeared to have been thinking of this moment as well, so why not indulge in it. You stroked along his chest until your fingers reached the skin of his neck. He sighed into your sudden pull leaving your room to wrap your arms around him—and he did, too. It was too public for your liking, but everyone had still been eating as you left, so no one should see you making out like drunken teenagers.
It wouldn’t matter to you anyway. His hand found your nape pulling on your hair until you gave him space to kiss your neck. You heard him groaning, consuming you with his mouth, sucking your skin, a bite, a tease with his tongue, slower, further down. A pull on your shirt. Collarbone met lips. You sighed. Loud enough for him to reply with one himself.
“Come on,” he said pushing you off of him just to grab your wrist once again, “I’m done waiting.” It was more a phrase to himself as he dragged you to a small storage room for shared cleaning supplies, which everyone at headquarters could use to wipe away the dust that was constantly creeping in. Mostly unsuccessfully.
However, the room was no bigger than a niche that could barely fit one person. And two people had to huddle very close together to shut the door. Your bodies collided as soon as he pulled you inside, forcing the door to remain slightly ajar. The light from the corridor shone on you like a spotlight as he yanked at your shirt.
“Tamsy,” you muttered between his kisses along your chest, “Let me close the door first.”
He let go of you for a second. His eyes fixed on your reddened face. He straightened up, a twitch around his mouth as his jacket fell to the ground. Now the semi-darkness seemed brighter with his white shirt lying bare. He looked different without the jacket, almost approachable and less cold, a laidback companion you could have met anywhere.
Tamsy hummed again. His fingertips glazed along the hem of your shirt and finally pulled it over your head. You complied. At least this time your bra covered you. While your breath seemed to pull you deeper into your desire, how you leaned against shelves and stone, his hand moved to the doorhandle. He pushed it opened. A tad. Almost unnoticeable, but as soon as someone would turn around the corner, probably that person caught you. At least you thought it was easier to spy at your sins now. He looked at you the whole time doing so. A grin that laughed at you and your opened mouth.
“Well,” he knelt in front of you as if he had known all along what you have desired and pushed your leg on his shoulder giving him access to the part his fingers had already visited, “Can you stay quiet?”
His grin vanished between your legs. You felt him pulling your panties aside and his lips indulging in your wet tissue. The moan he elicited with his tongue echoed louder than expected in this small chamber, forcing you to press your lips together to swallow the next. He drew circles around your clit, teasing your lust that had been sitting there since last night. Kissing and sucking and biting you into an abyss of wanton sighs you could barely hold back. You rolled your hips forward, a plea for more, a desperate attempt to push him harder onto your lewdness.
“Oh, Tamsy, please,” you moaned and it took all of your composure to keep it as a whisper.
His sigh vibrated against your skin, begging for friction. He pushed your leg higher, indulging in your tissue even more that you couldn’t tell if his lips or tongue was caressing you towards your climax. You grasped onto anything that kept you balanced, grounded, somewhat sane. But it seemed inevitable to escape his fondling at your slit. Especially as soon as you gathered footsteps along the hallway in the midst of your haziness.
“Tamsy,” you sighed, “Stop!” It was all that you could vocalise. All that made sense as you stumbled further into the unyielding heat in your loins.
Tamsy, though, didn’t care. On the contrary, he only devoured you more. He grabbed your ass with his free hand and pushed you further into his mouth that you gasped, loud enough that you had to clasp a hand against your lips. Your sighs wouldn’t subside, even as the footsteps turned louder. Someone was close—and you were, too. And Tamsy liked that. You, on the other hand, weren’t keen on getting caught. Your hand wandered from your mouth to his hair pulling gently yet forceful enough to retrieve him from you. He looked at you a little amused and astounded.
“Someone… is coming.” Your whisper could have easily been a sigh. Your body betrayed your worries as it already missed his motions around the spot that pulsated now like a steady beat made of lust and unhinged fantasies.
“I know,” he replied with a devious grin, “Come for both of us.”
He leaned in again. Your eyes closed for a second just to open to a figure emerging from the corner. Zanka. He yawned, lazily strolling along the hallway, seemingly unaware of what was happening behind the opened crack. You pressed your lips together holding back the uproaring orgasm. Tamsy forced you to feel it, the moment Zanka vanished from your sight. You heard him pass. His footsteps echoed more quietly as you already came behind thin lips. Only as the hallway turned silent again, a moan, loud and unhinged, left you like a possessed ghost. Your hips rolled in waves towards Tamsy’s circling tongue, friction, a deep sigh as he managed to keep your absolution going until you got limp.
Satisfied with his work, Tamsy reappeared from the shielded darkness, licking his lips like in the dining room. You caught your breath, wondering if he had planned this all along.
“So you can stay quiet,” he said and straightened up. “I wonder if you can do that again.”
You stood on both feet, trembling and weak, but Tamsy made sure that it won’t be for too long. He yanked you on a forgotten shelf right next to you, using the little space on the surface to lean your ass onto it in some kind of sitting position. You couldn’t think about it too much. Tamsy already widened your legs and opened his trousers freeing his cock for you to admire. His length and girth promised you to be felt deep within you and parts of you wanted him to ignite you with roughness.
Your panties were still pulled aside. He came closer, collapsed into a kiss that tasted just like his fingers last night, salty and sinful. Those sins you two shared added up as he inserted himself with a long thrust. Your lips parted interrupting the kiss for some mutual sighs. You muttered a curse under your breath overwhelmed by his girth. He pulled out until you only felt his tip inside you—until he pushed into you. Harder now. Demanding.
He widened you every time his cock sunk into you and you approved the roughness with lewd moans. His hands held you in place, offered you stability and collision. How much you had dreamt of this, of his hands around your waist, his breath along your neck telling you how good you took him, of his dick penetrating you in harsh, short thrusts until you forgot your self-composure.
“I knew you would feel good,” he growled.
He guided his hand to your breasts, freeing one of them to the air and his lips. You reared up, holding on to the shelves above you, hoping they would be able to withstand your desire. He was everywhere. Heating up your skin to an extent that had you burning.
“Please,” you begged as you leaned into both his lips and cock, “Make me come again.”
He sighed onto your wet nipple, bruised by his sucking and bites, but you liked how desperate and swollen he made you feel. His thrust slowed down as his face appeared before yours covered in a neat redness and a smirk.
“Yeah?” He rolled his hips onto you hitting a spot that made you squirm. “You want that?”
He breathed a kiss onto the corner of your mouth as he did it again.
“Yes,” you sighed.
“Hm,” he followed your jawline to your neck, “Then turn around.”
You didn’t have to do it yourself because Tamsy had already pulled out and manhandled you off the shelf. Your hip bones nestled against the wood, your cheek leaned against the higher shelves, you were desperately holding onto, and Tamsy was uncovering your ass to admire.
“Put your leg up,” he demanded. You obeyed, kneeling partly on the surface to present your most intimate part to his.
He thrusted into you before you could prepare yourself. It wasn’t gentle. It thirsted for your climax, handling you to his liking until you bent almost unnaturally so that he could fuck you fast and relentless. It seemed almost impossible to escape him. How he leaned on top of you, held your leg in place even though it ached under the restraint. The pressure in your slit elicited moans beyond your control and as he lifted your leg even higher, you felt his tip pulsating against a spot that made you clench around him.
“Oh gosh, Tamsy,” you moaned devoid of all shame but filled with pleasure and anticipation. You felt it deep within you. How he managed to fuck you in a way no one else did before.
“Yeah, go on,” he moaned and it sounded strained like he was hitting a spot himself, “Fuck… come for me already. I know you’re close.”
It only took three more thrusts until you did. Your screams formed into his name, into approvals for his cock pushing into you, harder and harder, that you only heard his moans close to your ear as he filled you up. Rough and sweet. Blows that pulsated into you with fragile composure. You both collided and collapsed together, covered in the semi-darkness and fulfilled desire.
Tamsy was still close, breathing next to your heated skin as you both gathered yourself. He kissed your cheek, soft and tender.
“Next time I want you to see your face when you come,” he whispered and you couldn’t help but sigh as he pushed a little deeper inside you.
A/N: As requested a second part to my mini-drabble. This got out of hand VERY QUICKLY. Now, I gotta go back to my current Tamsy x reader fan fic, adios. Tried to maintain a certain quality but it’s also just for fun so bear with me. Also, I don’t tag age recs or mdni as I am not responsible for what you consume online—so be mindful of the tags and your internet experience.
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You remained still on his lap, solely listening to his movements that resembled those of a predator. His fingertips followed an unknown path along your shoulders to your neck and down the tendons that felt more at ease now. Your heartbeat pumped erratically around his touches, still clinging to his phrase from before.
“You’ve been training a lot,” he muttered, absentmindedly exploring your shoulder blades. “You should take better care of yourself.” His voice brushed over you like a soothing rainfall.
“I know,” was all you could vocalise, hoarsely and timid.
You could feel it then. A different kind of skin stroking along yours, lips, soft and tender, upwards until they formed into a kiss right at your nape. You breathed into the sudden intimacy. He dragged out the kiss until heat stirred up in your loins, ready to indulge in anything Tamsy would have suggested at this point.
“Hm, your whole back is stiff,” he said while his softness remained close. His hands caressed along your sides until they pooled at your hips.
You hummed some sort of approval and pressed your legs together slightly, clenching your intertwined fingers stronger together until you felt your heartbeat in your grip as well. It was easy to admit to your longing in your head, how he had entered your mind gradually, his presence slowly developing into a daydream you were unable to escape. His hands had been brushing your skin ever since, unconsciously and hidden in the depths of your fantasies, and as they grabbed your waist now, it seemed like your desire was impossible to ignore.
“Free your back then.” You obeyed to his gentle demands, pulling off your jacket until the coolness of your room reached your exposed skin. Your shirt served as a barrier to both the chilly air and Tamsy’s heated breath.
“I need more space to take care of you,” he said close to your neck and you heard him smirking.
“You can pull my shirt up,” you breathed and it sounded like a question. You couldn’t give in. Not to a colleague, someone you would have to combat trash beasts with the next day. Even though the anticipation lingered in between your legs.
He pulled you deeper onto his lap forcing you to nestle your back against his chest. You sensed his face right at your cheek, gently coaxing you to turn your head with his lips.
“Take it off.” He traced along your jawline and you tilted your head giving him space to devour every piece of your crumbling conviction.
It haunted you. The way he easily accessed your desire just by pulling you deeper into his sweetness. A sigh slipped through as he kissed your neck, deeper, demanding, like you owed him for his service. Your legs clenched together in need of an anchor or release—you weren’t so sure either. As soon as you softened the grip of your hands, they moved to your shirt and pulled it over your head. Nothing left to shield you except Tamsy’s positioning behind you.
“Good,” he muttered and you heard the opening of the ointment once again, how it spread along your back, down your spine to your hips.
He never lingered longer than necessary in one spot, gliding over your tense muscles as if he were simply doing you a friendly favour. But beneath the surface, you sensed something else, how your skin made something in him tense up that went far beyond collegiality. You had to admit that his touch left you trembling, like a boiling kettle over an open flame.
As he wandered to your lower back, massaging the spot that has been asking for a release for too long, you shifted your weight towards him. A motion that happened unconsciously, like a wave that begged for more. Subtle, constant little shifts until Tamsy inhaled with a hiss and grabbed your waist tighter.
“You’re really in need, aren’t you?” He grabbed you, pulled you close, so suddenly your hands grasped his thighs in an attempt to find balance. A chuckle coated in sweet smugness. You were tempted to turn around but your half-naked state deterred you.
“Tell me,” his touch shifted to your front asking you to lean against him, “what do you think about whenever you look at me with those needy eyes?” Slowly, he caressed along your stomach up to your breasts, covering them in a firm grip you gasped into. “Something like that?”
The pain was different to the one from before. Still striking you like a lightening as his fingers engulfed your nipple. Yet soon you sighed into a pleasure that was beyond your control.
“Tamsy,” you gasped as he continued to massage the sensitive spots. It could have been easy to yank his arms away, but your body leaned into his harsh touch like it yearned for sweet roughness.
“Let me release your tension,” he whispered right next to your ear and before you knew it, his hand wandered inside your underwear and quickly found the spot that was equally demanding attention.
He circled around your clit, devastatingly slow, as if he was giving you a chance to get used to it. Yet kindness was not a trait Tamsy was known for; patience perhaps, testing others boundaries until he had dissected one’s weak spots—and yours were right at his fingertips. You melted into the harsh demands of his motions, twisting your skin to his liking, circling in constant motions until your moans were all you could hear.
Your legs parted giving him space to sink his fingers into you. Deep enough that your head flew back, caught by his shoulder and a light-hearted hum he pressed onto your neck. The heat in your loins shifted into a lewd impulsiveness as your hips rolled onto his fingers. You tried to bury him deeper within you. He continued to tease your breasts, grabbing them until you only felt pleasure vibrating.
“Harder.” You probably sounded pathetic, how you voiced your need to be finger-fucked by your co-worker. Still, your sighs ended in a, “please.”
Tamsy approved your lewdness with a satisfied hum. He let go of your breast as he parted your legs wider with his, granting him an angle to thrust his fingers into you with more purpose. You cried out as he consumed you. His hand wandered to your neck and held you, pressing you against his shoulder so you could present him your slit for fucking.
The wetness of your desire echoed in your room, battling with your moans. Louder and louder. Demanding. His fingers would insert themselves in an angle you could only escape by writhing further to them. He curled them inside you until he went back to your clit. Circles. Pressure. Around your neck. Along your tissue that screamed for absolution.
“Now,” he muttered next to your shameless moaning, “time to let go.”
His circles sped up, forcing you to an orgasm in which the last bits of your consciousness drowned. You squirmed on his lap, his hardness pressing against your ass and as your release poured over you, you thought about how it would feel if his dick made you come that hard. He continued even as you tried to escape his unyielding touch. You couldn’t take it any longer, but mercy wasn’t on the menu. Instead, you watched him sink his fingers into you once again when you barely felt conscious again and caressed your inner walls with a delighted hum.
“I can already imagine how good you will feel,” he muttered with his next slow thrust. You replied with a sigh.
His other hand stroked along your side while his fingers slowed down, giving you space to an extent that made it bearable enough for you to speak.
“Please.” It wasn’t much, but at least it was a word that withdrew his fingers.
“Open your mouth.” His fingers parted your lips and entered mouth. Salty wetness coated your tongue and in all of your lewdness you sucked it off.
A blissful haziness collapsed onto you as he left you empty. He grabbed your jaw and pulled you into a kiss made of tongue and desire. Your orgasm may have eased the tension but the heat in your loins demanded more friction. Something you desperately needed like a glass of water.
However, Tamsy solely indulged in your sloppy kiss, leaving his bulge pressed against you, stating: “I have to go.”
Your panting resembled a marathon. Have you really crossed the finish line? That line you once drew? You looked into Tamsy’s eyes, muted grey met a hint of yellow that resembled some radioactive clouds you have once seen in the polluted zone and with that a drop of cyan you could only see close-up.
He leaned forward until his mystery vanished. His cheek caressed yours. A breath along your ear. A slight smirk. A “Think of me the next time you do it yourself.” A gentle bite. You were doomed to submit to him as soon as he would leave. Certain that your newfound bond would form into a trash storm you probably weren’t getting out alive. Now, you desperately wanted to fuck the company.
If you are a Tamsy’s girly like me and you don’t follow any of @cherriesandlolitas fics with him - what are you still waiting for? Go read all of them and follow her!!!
Tags / Warnings: suggestive content; massage; flirting; sexual tension; Tamsy Caines x reader; cleaner!reader; gen!reader
Premise: You pulled a muscle during training—good thing is, Tamsy is here to help.
A/N: A scenario I thought of recently, for which I had no room in a fic. And since ao3 is down, why not post a little treat on tumblr. Sidenote: This one has no connection to my current Tamsy x reader fan fic. Just a little drabble.
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It pulled right between your shoulder blades, a spot you couldn’t reach. A constant pain, biting, like a bolt of lightning shooting through your muscles with every movement your body deemed wrong. Your pain was the harvest for your constant effort of perfecting your abilities. A Giver was a gift but only if you would manage to conquer its faults. How often had you panted on the training ground, again and again, trying to figure out which hit would elicit a trash beasts’ last outcry. It was draining. So much you overstepped your limits until your body had cried out itself. The pain was sharp the moment you had practiced a complex hit combo.
Now, you were dragging yourself back to your room. Hunched back and eyebrows knitted in regret, now that the cost for your overexposure took its tolls. You hoped for some release as soon as you would lay straight on your back, the hard mattress eventually easing the strained tendons. Though, it would probably take a couple of days until you could lift your arms properly again. Shame! You really had made some progress that day and now that was what you had reaped? You sighed into another blizzard of pain trying to stretch out the soreness as a figure appeared next to your still closed door.
“You look uneasy.” It was a layered statement that only Tamsy could have delivered so unimpressed.
You watched him sizing you up meeting your frown as if he had sympathy with your curved figure. Standing up straight remained impossible for now.
“I just pulled a muscle during training,” you replied dryly like it didn’t matter and perhaps it wouldn’t to him.
Your previous interactions had only been short conversations since you’ve been part of the cleaning crew. A mere exchange of platitudes and casual jokes that meant nothing but to even out your grounds. You didn’t consider Tamsy as an unfriendly comrade, rather a nonchalant and distant colleague who liked his personal space better than intimate connections. Yet the one thing you have noticed over time were his eyes gradually remaining on you for longer than necessary. It didn’t bother you. Perhaps he was solely curious about this new Giver who trained too many hours alone.
Tamsy looked at you with a blank face. For a moment, you thought he would comfort you with a bland phrase and move on, but the moment you unlocked your door, he asked: “Which muscle?”
“Just between the shoulder blades,” you said as you tried to gesture at the spot but immediately refrained as your body resisted.
He hummed quietly. A second or two passed in which you stared into his clouded gaze.
“Tricky spot,” he muttered and the corner of his mouth curved into a subtle smirk. It wasn’t mockingly, rather a knowing observation he seemed to have caught.
You agreed. Your eyes wandered to his piercing, a round silver ball underneath his lower lip that made it appear like he always pouted slightly. You had to admit that it looked kind of good on him.
“Do you have some ointment?” Caring. In a way that wouldn’t fit into your previous taciturn encounters.
You nodded, unusually speechless. Perhaps your ability to speak had been impaired, too.
“Well,” he took some steps closer until the smell of dust in the hallway was replaced by sweetness and sandalwood, “then let me help you with that.”
The smirk grew wider. A promise and a challenge looked at you asking you to throw your professionalism, you clung so badly to, overboard. You swallowed the sudden shift between you down and instinctively looked into your room, untouched and covered in twilight. It was merely a collegial offer, a helping hand to soothe the pain. Why shouldn’t you take it? You rolled back your shoulders and hissed quietly as the lightning returned once again.
“Fine,” you said and walked into the room.
You merely heard the door close and Tamsy’s footsteps echoeing on the tiles you desperately wished to be carpet. The mornings have been cold in the trash desert and you still needed slippers. A lamp in the corner coated you in dimmed light and as you opened the drawer to collect the ointment you wondered what Tamsy thought of your room he had never seen before.
“You’re a minimalist.” It didn’t sound like a question, still you had the urge to answer.
“I’m still figuring out my interior style,” you joked and smirked at him in a way that challenged his on the threshold.
The drawer shut and with it you faced Tamsy once again handing him the ointment he took with a grin you couldn’t fathom. He appeared curious, almost joyous, like he had managed to collect a milestone. With astonishing casualness, he sat down on the edge of the bed and rolled up the sleeves of his oversized jacket. You wondered if the length must sometimes annoy him. He placed the ointment beside him and suddenly patted his lap.
“Come on,” he said as you just stood there, dumb-headed and out of excuses for his bold ambush.
“You want me… to sit on your lap?” You raised an eyebrow. He nodded. “Perhaps it’s better if we just stood a–…”
“I can access your aching spot much easier this way. Don’t be coy. It’s just a favour.” Smugness met uncertainty and even though, some shame crawled onto your cheeks, something else lurked in the pit of your stomach.
After all, you had noticed his gaze because yours have been wandering to his ever so often. Had he seen you daydreaming in his direction whenever you both sat in the dining room? You had tried to hide your upcoming appeal for your co-worker since you had no plans on indulging in it. Never fuck the company. As long as you could keep your legs closed, your problems would be kept in check. And your daydreams were none of his business.
You strolled towards him. Back turned to his sitting silhouette as he shifted more onto the bed to give you space to sink down. You first felt his toned muscles and then the warmth he radiated even through the layers of his clothes. However, you barely sat down, too afraid that your weight would be hurting him.
“Sit down already,” he demanded close to your ear. Hands on your waist pressed you further onto his lap until you fully relaxed into it. “Between your shoulders, you said?”
His voice softened the closer he came to your earlobe. It tickled, the way every word breathed along your skin that gradually heated up. Your closeness was unusual and you remained still, hands on your lap, legs awkwardly closed, and your thighs pressed against his in a sort of adjoining revelation.
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Take off your jacket.” Shudder. You tried to suppress it and the sigh that threatened to escape your throat as you did, revealing just as much skin as necessary.
It laid bare there for him to admire, your naked shoulders, and you couldn’t move, solely observing the sounds of his movements; opening the ointment, squeezing, silence, fingertips, still dry, caressing your soreness and stillness.
“Here?” The question was only a breath, too, as his fingers glided along the aching spot between your shoulders.
“Yes.” You inhaled. Brief. You had no idea what fingertips would do to you. He hummed and it sounded delighted.
His fingers vanished. Only to reappear coated in ointment that cooled your skin until it formed subtle goosebumps. He began to slide along your muscles, stroking them with gentle pressure, upwards, downwards. And then his thumb pressed harder into the spot that ached the most, so much, you hissed at the sudden pain.
You froze. He stopped. You sensed his face at the side of yours breathing steadily. He smelled like one of these candy shops in the alleys of the towns, like an escape, like a warm welcome.
“You’re okay?” You nodded easing back into his touch he continued more thoughtfully. The motions began to form a rhythm in which you got lost more and more. Circles drawn between your shoulders with both of his hands spreading the ointment on your skin like a second layer. The coldness of the unknown evaporated and you could feel yourself leaning towards Tamsy until his hands moved to your shoulders.
He massaged the tendons forcing your shoulders to relax and you couldn’t help but to close your eyes. A sigh slipped through as he wandered to your neck exploring your nape with his knuckles and fingertips. He had soft skin, you noticed, even if barely. The soreness left your body in a blissful haziness; so much you longed for his touch to go on even when the pain would be gone.
“Don’t stop,” you mumbled in between his strokes and you froze once again.
Your eyes flew open staring onto the tiles as you wondered if your ask was loud enough for him to hear. The giggle behind you proved your wrong-being. His fingers stroked along your neck in one soothing line meeting your delight with enough pressure until his hands rested on your shoulders again, innocent and tempting.
He was close again. Close enough that even his whispering was a clear offering for another promise.
“If you take off your clothes, I could do more for you,” he breathed and the light kiss on your nape forced you to sink onto his lap even more.
❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]
❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞
❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. mentions of arachnids. withdrawal. pet names. oral (f! receiving). p in v. nipple play. fingering. neck kissing. marking. body worship. size difference. praise. aftercare.
❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6'11".
❦ words ; 29.1k.
❦ a/n ; was listening to free by mother mother while writing much of this, thought some of you may enjoy listening to it as well :)
main masterlist || series masterlist || ⏮ prev || next ⏭ - coming soon
The realization that withdrawal is a cruel beast would sneak up on Sukuna sooner than he could have hoped.
As the sun creeps over the horizon, slipping through the blinds and coloring the wall in golden stripes, the brute groans at the staunch ache in his head. His limbs are heavy, ridden with an itch that spreads across every inch of his skin. There’s really no better word to describe the feeling than simply uncomfortable.
He rolls back, dropping his arms down to the mattress when he’s surprised to find something preventing his arm from touching the mattress. Squinting harshly at the early sun invading his vision, he twists to find you still curled up beneath the covers, facing away from him.
For a moment, that’s all the world is. Your soft breaths, a glimpse at your bare skin as his shirt rides up over your waist, your hair mussed with sleep.
You look beautiful.
He blinks, grateful he didn’t awaken you in his restless state. He brushes his finger down your upper arm, sliding his hand down to your elbow as you temporarily relieve the crawling sensation under his skin, giving him something else to focus on. He savors it for as long as he can, his gaze dragging over your form with deliberate care.
He keeps himself within that bubble until it threatens to burst, giving his mind an out from the craving threatening to pull him back into its clutches. He yearns to wrap himself around you, shut his eyes and wait for his heart to sync with yours as the waking world lets him fall from its grasp; but the discomfort sitting on the backburner lurks at the corners of his mind, and he knows this moment can only last so long.
He knew it would come, Uraume had warned him what it would be like based on the few times they’d tried to quit. An itch you can’t scratch, the constant cravings, hunger, restlessness, irritability. They hadn’t warned him about the pounding behind his head, nor the anxiety. Though he supposes symptoms likely differ.
But fuck, he could do without those two.
As the bubble bursts and everything creeps over him like a shadow, he rolls to his side in hopes that the headache might lessen.
It’s all in vain. If anything, it’s worse on his side and he rolls onto his back again, taking a deep breath. He can physically feel the tremor now. Or maybe it’s the itch, but it crawls and scuttles up to his chest with that horrific sensation that he’s choking.
Fuck, maybe he should have waited to do this until he felt more prepared. Until he was more secure in his relationship with you, and maybe he could have taken some time off.
But he’d wrongly assumed he could handle this.
Throwing the covers off, he glances back once more at you before heading into the living space and shutting the door behind him. His gaze washes over the living room; scattered blankets piled on the couch and the pillow thrown to the floor, the table pulled out from the wall with the candle now dormant and flowers awaiting the warmth of the arriving sun.
Staring out onto the balcony sends a fresh chill over his skin that has him recoiling as he’s reminded of smoking. Balling his hands into fists, he heads for the Ibuprofen cabinet in an effort to cure at least the headache. Grabbing whatever drink hits his hand first, he downs the pill and drink, wrinkling his nose when he stares down at whatever he just swallowed.
Expired orange juice.
Great.
Dumping it down the drain, he haphazardly tosses the carton atop the counter and takes a seat at the table, harshly rubbing his forehead in an effort to stop the incessant pounding.
Even as it lessens slightly over drawn out minutes, the sensation never fully dulls. Worse still, it leaves behind a dizzying sensation that he thinks might be even worse.
His morning is a slog. Slow, scattered, and distant.
Texting Uraume to ask how they dealt with it.
Cleaning up a dish.
Sitting down.
Growing frustrated.
Staring out the window.
Remembering the half-finished smokes are in the garbage under the sink.
Playing what feels like a losing game against his brain.
Putting away a dish.
Damn near losing his patience over dropping a sponge.
Sitting.
Standing.
Dishes.
Being informed that the feeling should pass in a few days.
Such bullshit.
Sitting again.
Pacing.
Going outside.
Coming back inside.
“Kuna?”
Just as he steps through the threshold from the balcony, he finds you still wrapped in the comforter from atop his bed. Your hair is a mess, your makeup is smudged across your cheeks, and your eyes are barely open.
You look like everything he could ever want in life.
“Did I wake you up?”
“I heard the door and you weren’t in bed,” you murmur, yawning into the blanket you have cocooned around yourself.
He sighs, scratching the back of his neck, but that itch never quite leaves. “Go back to bed, princess. ‘M just cleaning up a bit.”
You peer past him at the kitchen, though you don’t see any disarray for him to clean. The living room is back in order with a blanket messily folded and set on the cushions, the table has been pushed back into place and the water for the flowers has been topped up.
He’s been up for longer than he’s letting on. You know he’s an early riser, but that’s always been courtesy of the kids, who are still sound asleep given that the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and it’s been doing that earlier these days.
“Come back with me?”
Your request is soft, warm, and inviting. Your voice is thick with sleep and Sukuna yearns for the reality that lets him slip back under the sheets with you, but he knows the incessant discomfort won’t allow him that serenity.
Caught within a multitude of frustrations, it pisses him off.
He presses a thumb to his temple, tight-lipped as he shakes his head. “Don’t think I can sleep anymore.”
Clutching the blanket tighter around yourself, you drag it across the floor until you’re standing right in front of him. If your narrowed eyes are anything to go off of, you’re ready to call his bluff. Slipping your hand out from between the blankets, he recognizes the pointed shove that you’re about to give him, as though he might fall over with a little encouragement.
He didn’t think he looked that tired.
He doesn’t feel that tired.
But truthfully he’s not really sure what exactly he’s feeling.
He just knows that the last thing he wants is for the string holding him together right now to be pulled any tighter.
Grabbing your wrist before you can make your point, he huffs out a long and heavy sigh. “Angel, I don’t think I have the patience for this right now and I don’t wanna snap.”
You blink up at him, but you don’t recoil or pull back. No, because this is improvement. This is communication. You can see now that this is the sharp side of him, the one that bristles under pressure and snarls when you poke it. You’re not sure what’s brought this out, but that’s okay, because growth doesn’t happen overnight.
So… “What’s wrong?”
He inhales, his grip on your arm shifting as the tension from his body releases. His hand slides up your arm, fingers curling around your elbow as he gently tugs you towards him. Your warmth seeps into him, his shirt still cool from the early morning air as the faint smell of the city clings to him.
The harsh smell of smoke that would usually trail after him has faded, though.
And you figure you might have your answer there.
He holds you tight to his chest, his muscles rippling with each breath as though he can’t let go of the tension within them. “It’s not your fault,” he starts reassuringly, “just can’t sit still,” he grumbles in harsh contrast to the gentle nature with which he rubs your back over the thick blankets. You can’t really feel it, but the sentiment is there. “Everything is getting to me. The cars, the birds, even the fuckin’ fridge is pissing me off,” he sighs.
“Is it the withdrawal?” You query.
“I hope so,” he jokes frailly.
“I remember Suguru avoided everyone for the first few days after he quit. He said something similar,” you offer.
He nods, lowering his head and burying it in your hair. He was joking last night about getting his fix, but truthfully this is the only moment since he first awoke where the static of the world seems to stop. Maybe you are his fix after all.
“I can manage a couple of days,” Sukuna begrudgingly mutters into your hair, shutting his eyes.
Your voice has a muffled quality as you speak against his chest. “What’s it like?”
He searches for words for a moment. “Just… shitty. A little itchy. Don’t wanna do anything but I can’t sit still.” Headache. Cravings. Hunger.
“Did you get any sleep after you woke up from the nightmare?” You yawn against his chest.
“A little. Having you there helped.”
Warmth floods your chest. You nuzzle your face against his chest, earning a satisfied hum from deep within. His chest vibrates against your cheek. “I’m glad,” you murmur softly. “None of us are going anywhere, you know.”
His chest rises and falls. As much as he fears snapping at you, your presence in his arms is the steadiest he’s felt since dawn broke. “I know. Just feels like if I blink, everything will slip away.”
You kiss his chest. It’s terribly sweet and melts away another ounce of his tension. “We’re not going anywhere. None of us,” you assure him, your tone heartening in spite of the adorably sleepy lilt it also shares. “And if anything happens, you’ve got me, Toji, Uraume, Satoru, and everyone else in your corner.”
The silence that follows is neither heavy nor light. Something in between, like a bird ready to take flight. Finally, he sighs. His hand resumes its movement up and down your back. You smile against his chest as he settles.
“I can’t convince you to come back to bed?”
“I don’t wanna keep you awake.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, your weight slumping against him. “I don’t think you could,” you admit, another yawn warming his skin through the cotton of his shirt. It sends a chill up his spine.
He squeezes you tighter. Whether he’s trying to keep you warm or trying to steal your body heat for himself, he can’t be sure. What he does know is that you’ve given him something to focus on, something that isn’t the cravings, the discomfort, or the rattling. So with a soft “alright,” he gives in and tucks you into his side as he heads back with you to his bedroom.
Rather than spreading the blanket across the bed, you invite him into the cocoon of blankets you’ve procured. Limbs tangle together as warmth washes back over you.
He supposes you were right to assume that he couldn’t keep you up. You’re asleep before there’s even a sheep to be herded, let alone counted.
Curled around you once more, your words and actions stick with him. The fact that you didn’t pull away, you weren’t hurt when he dissuaded your teasing. He didn’t fuck things up for once. For all of his irritability, for all of the jitteriness slinking deep within his bones, he went about things the right way, and there’s relief to be found within that.
Like a mantra, he repeats the moment in his mind. Your gentle understanding, the warmth of your frame around his. The way your fingers clutch his shirt and he feels like he actually has something to give, whether it be warmth or comfort. There’s security within the fact that he doesn’t feel like he’s sucking the life from you any longer.
It isn’t all at once, but gradually the crawling dulls. The buzzing outside fades. The golden strips on the wall become a distant memory. And with each passing moment, the restless shuffling of Sukuna’s limbs settles until he finds peace again.
–
Every day that follows your date, Sukuna grows increasingly thankful that you convinced him to hop back in bed with you that morning.
By the third day of withdrawal, he’s running on fumes. Insomnia follows him like an old friend. A cold sweat clings to him, his skin slick with moisture that makes every movement feel sticky. His limbs are heavy and his mind is laden with a dense fog that only seems to heighten his frustrations.
The cravings are intense. It presents like a hunger that never dies as much as he eats, only to realize it’s all a trick of the mind. He’s dying for the subtle buzz nicotine provides and his body is begging him to rummage through the trash like some sort of animal in search of scraps.
He very seriously contemplates it at the dinner table one night.
The only thing keeping him in check is Uraume’s reassurance that once you’re past the first few days, it’s all a mental game and the physical rattling dulls. That, he can handle.
It’s the ache, the sweat, the itch. The exhaustion that doesn’t give way to sleep, making his limbs drag and leaving his mind on edge– that’s what he can’t take much more of.
It all comes to a head by the end of the third day when the kids’ door slams shut not once, but twice.
The first– Yuji. The second– Choso.
He stands in the kitchen, every little sound grating him down to his last nerve until there’s nothing left. Within the nothing– that’s when the guilt seeps in.
And he can’t tell if he hates the irritability and anger of his withdrawal or the guilt that bolts him to the ground like tar more. Really, what does it matter when they both lead to the same outcome?
The guilt is sobering, though. It pulls back the curtains on his symptoms just long enough for Sukuna to realize how much of an asshole he really is. It only makes it harder to keep holding out when one hit could bring him back to the median and keep him from pulling stupid shit like this.
Especially when just the other day he felt he’d been better. He supposes recovery and growth are never a linear path, but it still pisses him off.
His real saving grace though? You.
He pulls his phone out without thinking, scrolling to your messages. The past few days since you left his apartment the morning after your date have been spent texting non-stop. A constant back and forth of little moments in which you think about one another, discussions about the kids and plans for more dates. You passed your exams with flying colors– to no one’s surprise– and have been caught up in graduation preparations (well, preparations for Satoru’s final hurrah) and signing on full-time to the publishing house.
Life won’t slow down for either of you, but fuck he wishes it would. As he stares at your latest message, nothing more than an affirmation that you’re getting cozy in bed to read, he can only pray that you have a moment. His thumb doesn’t hesitate over the call button anymore.
You pick up on the second ring.
“Hey Kuna, how are you feeling?” Your voice is light, but edged with concern. He supposes he doesn’t call often.
Laying on his back in bed, his knee bouncing with anxiety, he lets out a sigh of relief at the sound of your voice. “Long day,” he admits. It’s roundabout, but it’s an admission in its own right.
Your shuffling on the other line might be the only static that doesn’t piss him off. Maybe he’s just that desperate to hear your voice. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Yes. “No.” Not yet. “Tell me about work.”
He can’t see your eyes narrow at the strained quality his voice has, but you oblige nonetheless. “Okay, so I told Yuki this morning that I passed all of my exams, and she seemed super excited,” you begin enthusiastically. He can hear you adjust again, practically able to envision you sitting up to excitedly tell him about Maya pulling you into her office to offer you a full-time position now that you’re officially graduating.
His eyes shut, and for a moment he has something to focus on. Something grounding and real that helps him ignore the sweat pooling at his lower back. He clings to every word like a lifeline, humming along to let you know he’s listening, congratulating you as your story comes to a close.
You notice his relative silence over the matter, though you don’t take it to heart. You know his last few days have been a stark contrast to yours, but you keep reminding him how proud you are that he’s working on himself. You hope it helps.
When he doesn’t offer much on his own day, you figure he just wants to hear your voice.
“Hey, um– my grad’s on Thursday. I know you’re probably working since it’s at eleven, but I kept a ticket for you.” You don’t mean to sound so sheepish, but a part of you hopes he can make it anyway, even if you don’t expect it given his busy schedule. “You’d be sitting with Sho, if you can make it.”
“Your parents not taking your tickets?”
“No,” you reply softly, bittersweet. “They can’t make it out here for it. Shoko’s gonna record it for them.”
He hums, recalling brief mentions that your parents couldn’t make it out here when you were struggling with your scholarship. “Promise when my head’s a little more clear, I’ll see what I can do, princess. I wanna be there.”
Your smile can’t be contained. “Thanks, Kuna.”
You appreciate both his communication that he’s out of it right now and the effort he puts into responding regardless. You appreciate that he’s trying.
He still remains relatively quiet, completely still aside from the rattle of cloth that you’re positive is his foot shaking. You move along, telling him about Satoru’s final frat party bash plans and how you’ve been roped in to handling the decorations with Kento, who has no opinion on the matter. Sukuna chuckles, sympathizing with the blonde in spite of your playful whine.
But with every passing moment, you begin to realize something is off. You know your crush is out of it. You know he’s got everything and nothing on his mind all at once, but the everything portion seems to weigh him down more heavily now.
“Hey,” you keep your tone light, but offer him the floor. “Is something wrong?”
His leg is still bouncing. You can hear the shuffle through the receiver, though it’s louder now.
“...I snapped at Yuji today.”
He can’t see your frown, but he feels it. “What happened?” Your tone remains judgement-free and he swears that the pet name ‘angel’ becomes more and more fitting by the day.
“Nothing,” he sighs. “Not really. I was just in a bad fuckin’ mood and he picked a fight with Cho.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he swaps the hand his phone sits in. “They were playing a game and Choso chose the character he wanted or something.” He settles his arm over his forehead, grateful as it blocks the warm glow of the lamp. “Cho gave up the character, but he wasn’t having it for some reason.”
He sighs, but it doesn’t relieve an ounce of tension.
“I dunno. I had a headache and was tryin’ to cook potatoes, chicken, n’ gravy at the same time and I’d already told them to figure it out themselves. He started pulling my sleeve and I dropped the spoon and gravy went everywhere and–” His arm plops to the mattress in exasperation, the sharp sound audible as it seems to sum up how exactly the night went for Sukuna.
You can hear the disappointment in his voice. He knows he’s better, that he’s grown, that he tries not to let genuine anger into his home any longer. This slipped through the cracks that once seeped with smoke and now he’s left in a pool of guilt.
And sweat.
He rolls his shoulder, adjusting as if it might help the way his sheets stick to his skin. “Worst part is things were good. We just got back from Cho’s therapy and he told me he thinks he’s ready to be on his own.” A brief pause. “Figuratively. With a babysitter. He’s mad at me too now, though.”
There’s an airy hum from your side of the call. “Choso doesn’t like when you and Yuji fight,” you agree. “Were you really upset with Yuji?”
“A little.” His brow knits. “Not really. Just frustrated.”
“You think it was the withdrawal?”
“Yeah. Fuck, I think. I hope so.”
Your lips twitch, sympathy in the form of a tight-lipped smile that he can’t see. “Did you apologize?”
“No. The kid wouldn’t understand why I’m in a bad mood. It’s a shit excuse anyway.”
“He probably doesn’t understand why you were so angry with him either way. What matters most now is how you handle it.”
His crimson gaze slides across the ceiling, allowing your words to hang within the silence. He blinks slowly, tears blurring his vision when he fights off a yawn. Rubbing at his eyes, he sighs. “You’re too good at this shit, y’know that?”
“Have I ever mentioned that Kento’s mom was a psychiatrist?”
“No, but that makes a lot of fucking sense.”
You giggle on the other line. “Yeah, I think I got a headstart on this sort of stuff.”
He cracks a hint of a smile. It bears a five o’clock shadow like no other and barely hangs on by a thread, but it’s the first one he’s managed in days. With a breathy exhale in shared amusement, he drapes his arm back over his eyes. “Guess I should go talk to him.”
“Things will work out,” you assure him.
“Thanks, angel.”
“Let me know how it goes. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Mhm.”
“Take care, Kuna.”
The hard edge of withdrawal softens briefly as he exists within your world’s embrace. “You too, princess.”
He lets you hang up first, his thumb hovering over the red button for longer than he’d care to admit. The reality of stumbling through an apology feels harder without you to cushion it.
In the short time since he snapped, shame has already made itself a home within his chest. A nest made of jagged branches settled between his vitals. He doesn’t know how to rid himself of it without scathing his lungs– or worse– his heart. Particularly when every branch has a thorn that reminds him just how the little boy sees him.
The kid’s dad. A subtle reminder of something he fears he can never provide for a soul as genuine as Yuji’s.
He curls his fingers around the first branch anyway. Wiping sweat from his brow, he tears through the shame and makes his way to the door that slammed an hour ago.
Twice.
The floor creaks beneath his heavy gaited steps, alerting the boys of his presence without a doubt, but he still hesitates to rap his knuckles against the door. Sucking in a breath, he lets the sound echo within the silence of the apartment.
Without your voice to focus on, the anxiety creeps in. Particularly when he’s met with a complete absence of a reaction. Pale, his knuckles still rest against the door. His head falls, staring at the hardwood beneath his feet, scratched and worn from where their door hangs a bit too low on the hinges. He shuffles from foot to foot, restless.
Your voice no longer provides him sanctity from his symptoms, which creep up over his shoulders. He rolls them, as if to rid himself of the sensation, but it remains steady and unrelenting.
Rubbing harshly at the dull ache behind his eyes, he pushes through and knocks on the door again. “C’mon, I know you’re both in there. You can keep being mad at me, just let me in.”
Choso’s ambivalent scowl greets him after a moment. A storm brews behind his eyes, as heavy as the gravity that pulls Sukuna’s arm down when the door opens. He exchanges a glance with the older Itadori, giving his brother a chance to slam the door in his face again, but he doesn’t. He leaves it barely ajar and returns to his bed.
Across from him, Yuji is curled into the corner of his bed facing the wall. He’s tucked beneath the covers, sniffling every few moments as though he’s tired himself out. With a heavy sigh, Sukuna steps carefully through the minefield of toys that almost feel purposefully left out given the frequency of sharper objects.
The mattress dips under Sukuna’s weight. Yuji doesn’t move, the soft rise and fall of his form remaining steady aside from sniffles.
“Hey, Yu.”
Nothing. And fuck, Sukuna is starting to get why he tends to win arguments with his sharp and pointed silences.
He curses under his breath. “I deserve that.” Staring down at his hands draped over his knees, he eyes his thumb, the tremor in that one digit much stronger than the rest. It’s the only outward sign that he’s going through anything.
Well, aside from the miserable sweat clinging to his skin.
“Look, I’m–” His throat betrays him, words catching. “I’m sorry. I didn’t handle what happened right and I shouldn’t’ve yelled at you like that.”
To Sukuna’s pained relief as he struggles through an apology, Yuji shifts to eye him from over his shoulder. The little boy’s eyes are still red as though he only just stopped crying.
Sukuna tugs a little harder at the branches nestled within his ribs, letting the thorns graze him. “I was mean, alright? I want you to get along with your brother, but I coulda like– told you that. I didn’t have to snap.” He swallows hard, the words threatening to choke him. “You have every right to be mad at me.”
“I don’t like when you yell,” he finally mutters a pitch too high, muffled by his arms as he rubs his eyes.
“Yeah. Me either.”
Yuji’s still pouting and puffy-cheeked when he flips onto his back, fiddling with the tiger plush that Sukuna can now see is tucked under his arms. It only serves to further break him.
How the hell do you explain something so complicated to a five-year-old? Reluctantly, he tries anyway. “Can I tell you why I yelled?” When he’s met with a tentative nod, he continues. “I’ve been… sick, these last few days. I–”
“You don’t look sick,” Yuji interrupts, and although it comes across in that offhanded blunt way that little kids have mastered, there’s genuine concern swimming within the child’s eyes.
He nods in agreement, dragging a hand down the thickening stubble along his jaw. “Yeah, it’s a weird kind of sick.” He parses his brains for a comparison the child might understand. “Y’know when you eat ice cream too fast and your head hurts?”
The little boy nods.
“That’s kinda how I feel.” He takes a breath to continue, but Yuji pipes in.
“But you’ll get better right?”
Sukuna’s shoulders fall as his little brother’s priorities flip on a dime. No longer upset, but worried. He often wonders whether Yuji fully understands what happened to Jin, or if he understands at all, really. He doesn’t know where the line starts and ends when it comes to how Yuji views Sukuna and how Yuji views his father. He’s not sure where it blurs.
All he can say for sure is that he’s not sure the average kid Yuji’s age would be this worried over a little illness.
“‘Course, just gimme a couple of days, okay?”
Yuji nods, cautiously scooting a little closer.
“Point is, I’m feeling pretty shitty–”
“Bad word!”
Sukuna throws a scowl in Yuji’s direction for interrupting over something so menial. It lacks any real heat though, and the little boy is well aware as their more familiar back-and-forth clicks into place.
Huffing, the brute continues. “I’m feeling bad,” he sneers in reply, the tension in his muscles releasing somewhat as the little boy triumphantly smiles. “And your argument with your brother got to me more than it should’ve. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I’m sorry, Yu.”
Shitty apology. Shitty excuse. But it’s a step forward, right? It’s what he tells himself as the little boy crawls into his lap, arms around his middle as he squeezes with all his tiny might. “It’s okay, Kuna.”
He hugs his little brother back, his gaze hollowed as he stares at the floor. Movement catches his eye, his sightline rising to meet Choso, still staring at him from across the room. Choso may not sport a pout or a scowl, but the brute can still make out that he’s upset if his unwavering stare is anything to go by.
Sukuna frowns. “Sorry to you too, Cho.”
The older Itadori– who hates when Yuji cries– finally averts his eyes, his guard let down. He takes a moment to reply, not as immediately forgiving as the youngest. “Thanks,” he murmurs, letting out a breath.
“Kuna?” Returning his attention to the pink-haired bundle of energy in his arms, he hums. “Can I have a cookie?”
An amused puff of air leaves Sukuna’s nose. “Yeah, alright. If you agree to be nicer to Cho. He gave you the character you wanted n’ everything, didn’t he?”
Yuji pouts, averting his eyes. “Yeah…”
“So what even happened?”
“I changed my mind…”
Sukuna snorts. “Brat.”
“Hey-uh!” Yuji tugs on Sukuna’s hoodie as he leads the way to the kitchen, beckoning Choso along with the promise of cookies for both of them.
As Choso obliges, Sukuna rustles his hair. “Don’t let Yuji boss you around. He ain’t even half your age.”
Swatting Sukuna’s hand away, Choso half-heartedly protests. “I just wanted to be a good bro–”
“Yes I am!” Yuji interrupts as he bounds between his brothers, insistently holding up six fingers. “I’m almost six!”
“Almost six is five,” the oldest dryly states, grateful that the atmosphere has fallen back to what he’s used to. “And don’t interrupt Cho.”
“Okayyyy.”
Opening a cabinet and pulling down a box of cookies purposefully kept out of reach of grubby hands, Sukuna works on opening the new box. Yuji is excitedly tugging on his sleeve with both hands, the sensation of the material dragging against his skin heightening the itch of withdrawal. It’s as though the discomfort has grown tenfold and it grates against his nerves. A muscle in his jaw ticks as thorns grip his lungs and cravings crawl up his throat.
He whips his head towards Yuji when the little boy tugs hard enough to choke Sukuna, lip curled as he nearly snarls at his brother again, only to catch himself. He sets the box down, harshly dragging his hands over his face as he takes a moment to breathe. He has to tune the little boy out briefly as he comes to his senses, but he shakes his head as he stands upright.
“You’re choking me,” he grumbles out as he finally manages to pull the inner bag of the box of cookies open and hand one down to the little boy.
“Sorry Kuna!” He apologizes, entirely unaware of the man’s inner turmoil as he reaches cheerily for the cookie. He turns to bound towards the table before pausing and holding his palm back up at the older man. “When I feel sick, cookies help me.”
Yuji’s offer could melt the coldest ice. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Yu.” With an encouraging nudge towards the table, Yuji nods in satisfaction and hops into his seat.
“He threw up last time he had more than two cookies,” Choso points out with a wrinkled nose as he reaches up for his own cookie when Sukuna offers the box, trusting the brunette to be more responsible.
“Why do you think I didn’t hand him the box?”
Choso smiles, a near laugh parting his lips as he reaches into the box. With the treat in-hand, he exchanges a glance with his older brother. Both aloof and quiet, they’ve gained something of a silent language over the years. Within the hidden dialogue is an understanding that Sukuna is trying.
It’s not perfect. It’s messy, and at his core he’s still a grumpy brute with a sharp tongue.
But he’s trying.
And that’s enough.
–
Excitement is electric in the air around you. Chatter brims the room from back to front; students, faculty, friends, and family alike.
You always anticipated being excited for graduation, but after the past year, it feels emotional too. The kind where you hold onto every moment, committing each speech to memory because it feels like a blessing bestowed upon you.
Though that would be discounting everything Sukuna has done for you. Twisting in your seat in an attempt to see over the crowd of graduates, you try to search the stands to see if he was able to make it, but you can scarcely see over the crowd.
Putting your focus into the ceremony, you fiddle with the loose gown draping down to your ankles. For as excited as you are, it’s hard not to be equally nervous. Some cruel part of your brain seems to insist that this is a dream, too farfetched to be true when everything was nearly stripped from you.
As the ceremony draws nearer to accepting your diplomas, a buzz heightens the energy of the room as you await the signal to move towards the stage. Your nerves are more frazzled than you care to admit as the word is given and you shuffle to the side of the room.
You scan the crowd that doesn’t don caps and robes, but you can’t make out either Shoko or Sukuna. Mr. and Mrs. Nanami should be among the crowd too, but there’s so many people that it makes anyone hard to spot.
Reasonably, you shouldn’t get your hopes up, either. The kids aren’t in school anymore and your crush works two jobs. You can’t expect his presence when he’s needed in so many places at once.
Sucking in a breath, you cast a glance up at the stage facing far too many people for comfort. Shrinking back behind the row of students, you do what you can to stay out of sight from the large crowd, trying just about every method you can to rid yourself of nerves. With each long, deep breath, you just try to remind yourself that you don’t have to speak. It’s nothing more than accepting your diploma, a quick photo, and you’re off.
You just didn’t expect the crowd to be this big.
Shuffling from left to right, you suck in a breath as the stage grows closer but it doesn’t quell the jitters rattling your lungs.
It’s barely a moment on-stage. Not even a minute. Not even thirty seconds. A handshake and a photo. Most people won’t even be paying attention, all you need to do is take a breath and smile for your photo.
The back of your neck remains warm. There’s a subtle tremble in your fingers in spite of your own mental pep-talk as you make your way up the stairs.
The room feels even larger from atop the stage. The graduating class of this year stretches to the ends of the hall, while risers for friends and family feel as though they reach the ceiling. As you near the front and accept your diploma with a nervous smile and trembling fingers, you make your way to the front of the stage for your photo.
Cheers break out from throughout the crowd, catching you off-guard as you’re able to spot Satoru, Suguru, Yu, Atsuya, and Toji cheering you on from one side of the graduating class, while Kento and Uraume both cheer from another. Beyond them, another small group cheers loudly for you too. Shoko sits alongside Kento’s parents, and beside them–
He made it.
A grin breaks out on your face, the photo snapping as it captures not a meek smile, but genuine glee at the overwhelming support of friends and family.
Your parents may not be present, but you can feel their pride from afar too. You already know tears are being shed as Shoko sends photos and videos.
After the second flash, you duck your head and slip across the stage, heart still pounding as you take your seat once more. In spite of the blood pumping in your ears, it doesn’t feel quite so harrowing with all the familiar faces cheering you on.
You cheer for each of your friends in turn, and as the ceremony comes to a close, you laugh along with the rest of the graduates as you toss your caps into the air. The hats all come tumbling down as the laughter and applause settles for the casual buzz of an excited room of new alumni.
The ticketed crowd files out to wait for their respective former students, while each graduate begins the search for the cap that you all paid for. You fall into step with Kento and Uraume first, embracing them each as you greet one another with congratulations. Even Kento seems jovial today, his usual serenity blooming into a wide grin as he releases you from a hug.
“So, what plans do we all have post-graduation?” Uraume queries as you all begin the search for your caps.
“I actually received an offer to interview for a position in the finance department of the school this morning,” Kento begins, his eyes brimming with the joy he doesn’t express. “My professor recommended me for the position.”
“No way, congrats Ken!” You pull him in for another hug. “I got onboarded full-time at the publishing house earlier this week,” you boast, unable to hide a grin.
Uraume tilts their head knowingly. “Sukuna mentioned as much. He seemed pretty thrilled.”
“Yeah?” You sheepishly reply as you set a cap aside, suddenly wishing you hadn’t written your name on it so that you could just take any unmarked one.
“I’m fairly sure he cheered louder for you than my parents did for me,” Kento chuckles, nudging your shoulder as your cheeks warm over the teasing.
You laugh, unable to deny his claims when you’re equally sure it’s true. Before you can get a word out, Satoru comes barreling into your group, followed shortly by Suguru, Atsuya, and Yu. Congratulations are exchanged once more, alongside hugs.
“You found your cap already?” Uraume’s brow raises as Atsuya returns with one already on. “Fuck no. I just grabbed the first one without a name I could find. I knew this would happen.”
“Smartass,” Toji snarks at his side as the rest of you continue your search in high spirits. Chatter is thrown left and right and slowly but surely you all begin finding your caps within the pile of navy.
Fixing yours atop your head, Kento nudges your arm. “My parents would love to say hi.” He motions back towards the waiting area, your heart palpitating at the thought that Sukuna is back there too, alongside Shoko. “They sent me several questions over ‘the pink-haired man ’,” he smirks, amused. “It sounds as though they put him through a quiz once he mentioned taking you on a date.”
“Oh god.” With a hand covering your lips, you let out something between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah, we can head out.” You turn back to the group, gathering Uraume’s attention. “Ken and I are going to meet with his parents, Sho, and Kuna. In case I don’t see you before then, will you be at Satoru’s on Saturday?”
Giving you another hug, they nod. “Definitely. Congratulations again, I’ll see you Saturday!”
Catching Satoru’s attention, he waves a hand over his head. “You better be at my party!”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” You call back as you head for the door.
“Bring your man!”
A nod and a laugh satiate the fratboy as you wave back, catching up to Kento to push through the doors.
The halls outside are a mess of navy and echoing cheer as relatives try to locate their graduates and vice versa. If you weren’t on cloud nine from the high of moving on to a new stage of life, you might find it overwhelming.
“Hey!” Shoko finds you first, pulling you and Kento into a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you both, oh my god,” she breathes as you all share a moment together.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t graduate with us,” Kento’s head tilts to face Shoko.
She sighs. “Can’t believe I’m the only one not graduating this year.”
“You would be with Suguru had he not taken extra courses,” Kento offers a thin-lipped smile. “We won’t be far though, this won’t change anything.”
“I know,” she sighs. “And I’ll hold you to that. I’m not losing either of you. Any of you, for that matter.”
“Never,” you agree.
“I can introduce you to Hiromi, if it’s any consolation,” the blonde offers beside you.
“Hiromi’s really nice, I think you’d like him.”
“Guess I’ll have to take you up on that, then.” Shoko smiles. “Oh!” She perks up suddenly, turning back towards the growing crowd as more students file out. Getting on her toes, she tries to look over the heads of the crowd to no avail. “Come with me.”
Threading through the sea of navy, she leads the way towards a back corner that allows for a bit more peace and a break from the crowd. Tucked within the open corner are Kento’s parents and none other than your crush, donning a black button-up and slacks and the red tie you gifted him. His brow is curled into a scowl as you’re certain he’s still being quizzed by the couple across from him.
As you break through the crowd, his gaze flickers to the movement, staying pinned on you as the attention of the couple shifts to their son. Sukuna glances to his side in an effort to make a good impression on Kento’s parents, but upon realizing they’ve already parted from the conversation, he lets his guard down and closes the distance to you in a few long strides.
“You made it!” You laugh as his arms envelop you, lifting your feet off the ground as he buries his face into your neck in what can only be described as a bear hug. You cling to his shoulders, hands sliding down to his pecks as he sets you down.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Warmth radiates from his gaze as he smiles down at you, genuine and proud.
He wasn’t present to see you during the presentation you were forced to give alone so many moons ago, but it’s a thought he’ll never let himself live down. No matter what it takes, he wants to be there– at your side or in the crowd– to support you during those moments where anxiety clutches your chest. He doesn’t want to let you down again.
“And look at you,” he adds, bending down to your height with a smirk. “So cute in your robes.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, tugging your lower lip between your teeth sheepishly. “Are your brothers alright right now? How’s Choso doing?” You inquire.
“He’s… actually at a friend’s place right now.” Relief floods his being as the tension in his shoulders automatically dissipates at the thought. “And Yu’s bein’ babysat.”
You can’t help a smile at the thought. “He’s come a long way.”
Your crush hums his agreement. “Which is why…” He takes a long breath, standing upright as he musters up courage. “I wanna take you out. Tomorrow night, if you’re free. For a real date.”
“Our last one was fake?” You tease knowingly.
He glowers down at you, playfully trying to pull your cap over your eyes as you duck out of the way, snickering. “I’d love to, Kuna.” You beam up at him, earning a smirk. “Oh, and…” You begin, a slant to your eyebrows as you stare up at him with admiration. “Thank you for the scholarship thing.”
Lowering down to your level again, his smirk shifts to something more earnest as he brandishes his signature grimace. His palm brushes up the column of your neck, thumb settling along your jaw. “Quit thankin’ me.” His lips capture yours briefly. When he pulls back, he squeezes your cheeks until your lips form a kissy face. “We went over this.”
“I know, but–” Your thoughts are cut short when Kento’s parents call your name, beckoning you both over.
“I need to get a photo of you and Ken together,” his mother insists.
With a smirk, Sukuna steps aside as you’re showered in the closest thing to parental love that you can get right now. Kento has to step in with a chuckle in order to get his mother to stop fixing his hair, only to earn the kind of smile a proud parent gives their child who’s officially moving into the next stage of life. You’re grateful that their pride extends to you, even if it means she insists on straightening your gown and cap.
After snapping a photo of you and Kento that mirrors one you took on your first day of school years ago, she beckons to Shoko. Your best friend smiles as she slings her arms around her you both, but Mrs. Nanami is still insistently watching the spot where Shoko just came from. Sukuna’s smirk morphs to shock as he’s beckoned in as well, at the insistence of clearly being dear to you.
He averts his gaze in an effort to keep you all from noticing the rose that dusts his skin, but he doesn’t deny the request. Sidling up behind you, he rests one hand on your waist, the other briefly hovering in the direction of your friends before settling over Shoko on Kento’s shoulder.
“Alright, smile!” The flash goes off, much to all of your dismay as a photo is taken that immortalizes Sukuna’s blush. “All of you smile,” his mother insists, still holding up the phone.
You crane your neck to get a look at Sukuna, who is smiling, albeit a very subtle one.
“Hm? I’m smiling,” he dryly insists, though it brings on a scowl.
“Don’t be a grump,” Shoko insists, laughter coming over the group as Sukuna huffs.
Rather than heat, the huff has a jovial quality like he’s trying not to join in on your laughter. “I’m smiling, I’m smiling,” he insists, the honest expression captured alongside his blush for eternity.
“That one’s perfect,” Kento’s mother grins at her phone. You reconvene with her, letting her fawn over how proud she is of you and her son, showering you both in hugs. Mr. Nanami, the much more aloof of the two hugs you both as well, quiet pride shining behind auburn eyes.
Although it’s obvious she would keep you longer if she could, his mother eventually shoos the four of you away, insisting you make the most of the day. Shoko practically begs for Korean Barbeque as you reconvene with the rest of your friends ahead of Satoru’s party after all.
The buzz of the day keeps you all in high spirits around the long table as horror stories from your years in school together are exchanged. More than anything though, it makes you grin from ear to ear to see Sukuna at your side throughout the whole thing. Even when he starts going at it with Toji, fighting over everything and nothing at all, there’s a spark behind his eyes beginning to rekindle the fire within him.
–
“You sure this thing won’t crap out on me?” Sukuna skeptically stares at the dashboard of Toji’s car. The football player’s hand rests atop the car as he leans in to take a look at the amount of lights on the dashboard that flicker on upon turning the ignition.
“Your auto shop fuckin’ fixed it.”
“I don’t work there anymore,” Sukuna unhelpfully points out.
“Still, no faith in y’r old co-workers?” Toji snorts.
With a sigh, Sukuna pushes a hand back through his hair. “They don’t normally leave three fuckin’ warning lights on.”
“It’ll be fine. The old man who owns the place told me it’s fuckin’ faulty ‘r some shit,” Toji shrugs nonchalantly. “Told me to code check it every so often.”
“Do you?”
“The fuck do I know ‘bout code checking?”
With a forlorn sigh, Sukuna surrenders and opts to take Toji’s approach. Ignore the problem. “Check the fucking code when I get back,” he mutters under his breath, going ignored by his best friend. “Thanks for lending me the car.”
“I would say no problem but you’re bein’ a fuckin’ prick so bring me back an energy drink or some shit on your way back,” he sneers in reply, though there’s a shit-eating grin on his face when Sukuna fixes him with a glare.
It morphs quickly into a smirk as Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”
Satisfied with that response, Toji claps him on the shoulder. “Go treat your girl.”
“Mm. Text me if you need a hand with the kids.”
“Nah, we’ll be good.” Toji casts a glance back at his building where Yuji had been determined to make the ultimate sleepover blanket fort mere minutes ago. “Kids’ll have me busy all night, ‘m sure.” Standing upright, he pats the hood of the car and backs away towards the door. “Don’t keep her waitin’!”
With a smirk, Sukuna pulls the car out of the parking lot. His nerves are far less prominent for your second date, though his palms still sweat against the leather of the steering wheel. For as confident of a man as he is, you break down every wall until he finds himself with sweaty palms and feelings of inadequacy. You also somehow manage to build him back up with your effortless ability to make him feel human and wanted, though.
His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he nears your complex, pushing away the thorns prodding his mind. Swallowing down his nerves, he sends you a message to let you know he’s out front, getting out in his full suit and tie get-up. He’s been wearing it a lot around you lately, opting to put on a nice watch from his father, while his chains and rings adorn his collar and fingers.
It feels a little less formal and a little more him.
Despite giving you a heads’ up to dress fancy, his heart batters against its cage as you emerge from the building. You’ve done your hair in a style he’s never seen on you, while jewelry and a clutch serve as accents to the floor-length dress with a deep ‘V’ neckline that hugs your curves beautifully.
He swallows hard, the only action that keeps his jaw from dropping to the ground.
How is it that his confidence can slip away at the drop of a dime when it comes to you?
You command a room so effortlessly and you don’t even know it.
As he steps towards you, another realization crosses his mind that has his heart hammering at the bones that keep it in place.
You match. And if he knows anything about you, it’s not an accident, either. You deliberately chose a dress in the same shade as his tie. Somehow the action manages to be painfully cheesy, startlingly sweet, and undeniably hot all wrapped up in one crimson bow.
Or– tie, he supposes.
The thought has him tugging at it, straightening the fabric as he lets out a breath to expel the nerves creeping up within his chest. Before he can tell you how jaw-droppingly gorgeous you are, you’re already sheepishly rambling, growing nervous over his unwavering saucer-wide gaze.
“Sorry, is it too much? I can change or–”
“No,” Sukuna interrupts, too quickly. He clears his throat, gaze rising from the dress he hopes to take his time sliding you out of later. His crimson gaze settles on your saccharine expression. “No, you look gorgeous like this. I mean– you always do, but–” He cuts himself off as you giggle, that telltale divot forming between his brows as he fixes you with his stare.
“Thank you, Kuna,” you murmur, peering up at him from beneath your lashes.
Your reaction settles a modicum of his nerves, regaining some confidence as he slides his palms down the sides of your torso, settling them on your waist. “You matchin’ with me on purpose, princess?”
Bashfully, you avert your gaze, confirming his suspicions. His chest rumbles in amusement and satisfaction that everyone will know you’re out together.
“C’mon, let me treat you to dinner.” With a quick peck of your lips, he wastes no time leading you to your (not so) fancy ride for the night, a rusting Honda Civic that you recognize as Toji’s.
You both welcome the conversation that settles the joint air of nervousness on the way to the restaurant as you excitedly tell Sukuna the decorations that you and Kento settled on getting (courtesy of Satoru’s fancy card) for the graduation party. Truth be told, Sukuna doesn’t see a need for any sort of decorations for a frat party, but he’s not about to burst your bubble when you’re happily chatting with him.
He pulls into a parking lot in a familiar neighborhood, not terribly far from his apartment.
“Wait there,” Sukuna gruffs as he rounds the car to open your door. He offers his hand, pulling you into his side with a little smirk as your hip collides with the side of his thigh. Your sheepish but eager laughter does numbers for his ego as he gets to walk you towards the restaurant, a hand splayed over your hip.
Your destination isn’t in the lot where you parked, the walk only a few blocks away. It’s a welcome stretch of excited chatter under overcast late afternoon skies as you’re pulled towards a building covered with windows with a sleek black canopy over the door. You immediately recognize the restaurant, though you’ve never been able to try it in spite of its stellar reviews. Phenomenal or not, its price tag has never been something you could afford.
With a wide-eyed glance, you purse your lips. You’re not about to question Sukuna’s decisions, but because you’ve seen the menu before, you know the prices. You also know this isn’t your date’s scene, nor is it really yours. You can appreciate a fancy dinner, but this is outside of even your repertoire.
The interior is gorgeous, dark mahogany accents standing out in the lowered lights of the open entrance. A large diamond chandelier hangs from the center of the dining hall that opens to the host’s right, casting soft glimmers of gold across the black walls.
As you take in your surroundings in awe, you’re led to a table in a back corner, the dim lighting moody and romantic, while a candle flickers atop a silken white tablecloth. The atmosphere is gorgeous, it positively seeps adoration, in spite of the way Sukuna shuffles in his seat across from you after pushing in your chair.
“This is gorgeous, Kuna,” you compliment, bright-eyed and cheery.
“Yeah?” His gaze searches yours deeply, a glimmer of something you can’t place held within the intensity of his irises.
It’s in that moment that you can really make out how uncertain he is. His gaze shifts left and right, his thoughts written across his face as obvious as the ink along his jaw. He doesn’t feel adequate. You’ve known for a long time those thoughts are there and you’ve done your best to dispel them and reassure him. But in an environment like this? One he’s never even considered being able to afford, let alone walking through the doors? Those thoughts are emboldened.
There’s soup on the menu worth more than his whole suit.
But you still do what you can to reassure him. “Yeah,” you grin, swallowing your own doubts. “You really went all out.”
The tension in his jaw releases just an ounce as he hums. “Wanted to uh– show my appreciation.”
“I’m definitely feeling appreciated,” you beam.
As he leans forward, his expression softens, slowly adjusting to the environment just as your waiter makes their way over. He introduces himself, before offering a bottle of wine. He goes over the specials for the night, politely pointing them out on the menu for you. The price is hard to ignore.
Casting a glance up at Sukuna, you can just barely make out the deepening grimace on his face as he looks over the same prices. Still, he juts his chin towards you. “Your call, princess.”
Your lips part, but you’re at a loss as uncertainty pools in your stomach. You can’t order wine that’s more expensive than your rent. You don’t have it in you. The same goes for the main courses that are smaller than your fist but cost a small fortune. Decidedly turning towards the waiter, you smile politely. “Can you give me one more moment, please?”
The waiter excuses himself with a nod.
Shutting your menu on the table before you, a knit forms between your brows in spite of your smile. “You know, I never would have guessed how much of a sweetheart you are under all that grumpiness.”
Grumpiness is right when he fixes you with a deadpan frown.
Still, you giggle as you continue, masking your nerves. “This is beyond sweet of you. Like, seriously, this place is gorgeous.”
Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you try to gauge Sukuna’s thoughts, but it’s impossible behind those fiery crimson irises. Reaching for his hand over the table, you settle a modicum of your nerves when his grip closes around you. You can only hope he doesn’t take this the wrong way.
“I really love the thought behind this, but this wine won’t taste any different to me than the wine we had at Itadori Restaurant.”
His lip twitches up at the mention of your previous date.
Grateful for the response, however minute, you continue. “And I’m sure the food is great, but I like mac and cheese too, you know?” His tension releases as you tilt your head sweetly. “I just wanna spend time with you. I really appreciate the thought, but… This is a lot of money. We don’t need to do all of this–” you motion to your surroundings with your free hand, settling it atop the menu, “if you don’t want to. Is this what you want, Kuna?”
His jaw tightens. “I just wanna make you happy,” he stubbornly replies.
“I know,” you crack a smile, “and I am. But that’s not what I asked.”
“Then, no,” he admits begrudgingly. “It…” sliding into comfort with you once again, he cracks a smirk. “Looks like they wash the walls with bleach every night.”
You grin. “It does, doesn’t it?” Giving his hand an experimental tug in the direction of the door, you lean in. “Do you wanna head out?”
His tongue runs over his lower lip. “You sure?”
“Positive,” you affirm with a nod. “The night’s young, we can find another restaurant.”
Sukuna gets to his feet, your hand still firmly clutched within his. He weaves between tables, excusing the both of you to the host with a meager apology. Leading you back out into the early evening air beneath the awning of the restaurant, he curses under his breath at the sight that meets him.
Summer showers have caught up with you, the sun peeking through dark clouds as droplets hit the ground with vigor. It shows no signs of letting up in spite of the golden rays fighting for dominance.
“Fuck,” he huffs, turning to face the direction the car is parked, several blocks away. You don’t share the dejection in the creases of his frown, squeezing his hand as you drag him out from under the awning. “Princess, your dress–” he tries to protest.
He’s met with a bubbly grin in spite of everything going wrong already, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. “My dress’ll dry, come on!”
The world is a blur as hair sticks to his forehead and neck, the white of his collared shirt showing a peek at his chest tattoos with every fresh droplet. He can’t make out whether the slick of his palms is sweat from his nerves or the rain seeping between your clasped hands. Your dress clings to your every curve beautifully still. Even with makeup smudged around your eyes, you look radiant under the sparse sunlight.
As your heels trip you up about halfway to the car, Sukuna tugs your hand to the side, leading you into the first open door before he can consider where you even are. Momentarily safe from the summer storm, he throws his head back, pushing hair off his forehead. Giving you a once over to make sure you didn’t break your ankle in the process of being pulled in here, he lets out a relieved sigh, before taking in his surroundings.
“No shit,” he breathes, some sort of irony to be found in your surroundings. Black and white tiling covers the floor beneath your feet. A bar stretches the length of the wall across from you, equally if not more worn than when you were last here, and red leather booths line the wall closest to you, stretching all the way to a jukebox in the corner. The lights from the old machine gleam over the scratched flooring in shattered neons, accentuating the classic diner’s appeal.
Strip Joint. The very reason this area was so familiar when you were making your way to the restaurant.
“Oh, come grab a seat, dears,” a familiar drawl catches your attention. Spinning to face the voice, you smile kindly at the older woman who served you free tea upon seeing your distress with Uraume, and served you and Sukuna so many moons ago; drunk, a little high, and in need of some ice cream. “Don’t worry about the mess, nothing a mop won’t fix.”
“Oh no, we’re just–” Sukuna cuts himself off with a glance down at you when your hand rests atop his chest. You tilt your head sweetly, motioning to the warm, and dry interior of a little diner that encapsulates a moment so heartwarming to the bond you share.
“Why don’t we have dinner here?”
Sukuna’s gaze flits down to your dress– soaked– but gorgeous nonetheless. “We’re overdressed.”
“So?”
He glances back up at the kind older woman, a rag in one hand as she runs lemon-scented soap over worn oak with a familiar knowing gleam in her eye. Then, he stares back at you, patient as always, with that little smile he doesn’t know how to say no to. He reaches up to brush a strand of wet hair from your temple, a breath leaving his nose as he nods.
“Thanks,” he murmurs to her with a small wave, ridding himself of the heaviness of his soaked suit jacket as he leads the way to the same booth where he sat across from you many moons ago. He drops his jacket down on the leather seat, the sound of droplets slipping to the floor unavoidable as you both slide across the cherry-red material.
The waitress, who you’re willing to bet at this point is the owner, makes her way around the counter with two empty mugs, settling them before each of you. “Can I get the two of you dears something warm?”
The air is brisk on your skin as you nod. “I’d love some tea, please.”
“Black coffee, please,” Sukuna gruffs across from you, his tattoos emboldened under the thin white shirt sticking to bulky muscle. He has a concentrated scowl on his face as he smooths the water out from the tie you gifted him. There’s a layer of frustration baked into the crease of his brow that you’ve learned to read over the past several months all-too-well.
Once the waitress nods and returns to the bar along the back, the coffee machine humming to life in the background, you grab your date’s attention with a nudge to his foot. “What’s on your mind, Kuna?”
He pauses his motions, briefly examining your expression before sighing. His forearms settle along the edge of the table as he leans forward, a stray droplet dripping from his hair down to his chin. “‘M sorry. I thought things would go well this time, n’ the food menu was priced–” he hesitates, because you both know it wasn’t priced well. “It was priced okay,” he settles on the word sourly. “You’re worth the price, I just–” he struggles with words, his nose wrinkling as he grows frustrated with himself.
Your lips press into a tight-lipped sympathetic smile. You regard him with warmth at the kindness behind the gesture. He seems to have these ideas in his mind of how everything should go, convincing himself of what the right way to do things is, as though everything about your connection hasn’t been chaotic from the get-go. As though you don’t embrace the chaos with him, hand-in-hand.
Your teeth sink softly into your lower lip as you slip from your seat, moving around the table to settle into the booth beside him. His eyes convey mild surprise, but they’re still stormy as he shuffles over to give you space to sit. The only break in the storm comes in the form of him gently reaching up to wipe smeared makeup from beneath your eyes.
“Thanks,” you breathe. “And stop beating yourself up over this,” you nudge his shoulder with your own, his warmth welcome in the air conditioned diner. “I told you, I like you for you. You’re still my best friend, you know that, right? I like that we can just talk and hang out and there’s no real expectations. I like the chaos and,” you wave a hand towards the soaked disaster you both are, “messiness.”
Coming around to your words, he nods slowly, the thorns pricking at his mind beginning to unfurl.
“I mean, come on,” you nudge him again. “We’re not fancy people. It’s really sweet of you to wanna bring me somewhere like that, but–” you shrug. “That’s not us.”
Nearly free from the grip of inadequacy, he lets out a long sigh, when his deepest fear pours from his lips before he can pluck the thorns from his mind. “No, but– you deserve the best.”
“Kuna, sweetheart,” you reach up to frame his face with your palms, your heart leaping within your chest at the way he melts as you use a pet name for him. The tension in his shoulders releases, the storm within crimson eyes dissipating as he allows himself to settle within your hold. His cheeks are mostly dry now aside from a stray droplet or two from unruly salmon strands, his skin warm beneath your palms as his face flushes under your attention.
As he allows himself to indulge in the moment, you brush your thumbs along his cheek bones, trying to find the right way to convey your thoughts.
“It means a lot that you feel like I deserve all that,” you tilt your head kindly, “but you know what some of my favorite moments with you have been?” You don’t wait for his reply. “Ice cream at midnight in the middle of a diner that sounds like a strip club. Spilling ramen all over myself and having to wear your jacket because my top was see-through. Watching you point out the planets while we look at the stars on your balcony.”
Tenderness swarms his chest, the cool air no longer touching his damp skin as he’s warmed from the inside out by your words and reassurance. “Me on my knees in the snow?”
His lop-sided grin earns a laugh from you, your palms sliding down to his chest. “God, no. That was too much,” you brush him off, your cheeks warming at the thought. You continue as his chest rumbles beneath your touch. “That, back there,” you point over your shoulder in the wrong direction, although he gets the point. “That sort of thing doesn’t last. It’s all fake, it’s just a bunch of rich people trying to impress one another and then going home and not talking to one another.”
A breath leaves his nose, amused. Finally managing to shed the thorns that had lodged themselves within his mind, he nods. “Guess so, huh?”
“And honestly, nothing would make me happier than knowing you have that money in your pocket for something for your brothers. Or yourself.” Your fingers curl into the damp fabric beneath them. “I, um– I hope I didn’t come off as rude or anything, and I know this is something that you spent a lot of time on, but I promise I’m not trying to change you or–”
“Princess.” Sukuna’s hand rests over yours. “You’re fine. I don’t think there’s a rude bone in your body and you’re right. I was tryin’ too hard to be something I’m not.”
So focused on your date that you forget about your order, you jump when the waitress returns with two mugs atop two small plates, and a small metallic teapot. A selection of teabags are laid out beside your mug as options for you to choose.
“Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologizes, her gaze both kind and knowing as she regards you both, now on the same side of the booth. “Are you ready to order food?”
“That’s alright,” you brush her off. “We need a few minutes, sorry!”
“Not a worry at all, I’ll be back in a bit.” Something about the way she carries herself has you wondering if she remembers you both, though you suppose Sukuna’s relatively recognizable. The pink hair and tattoos certainly make him stand out in a crowd.
“Scaredy cat,” Sukuna snorts under his breath. You shove your shoulder into his bicep playfully, grinning as he laughs and uses the action as an excuse to pull you into him. His warmth is beyond welcome, serving as a reminder to make yourself some tea.
As you pour the boiled water over your teabag of choice, you eye Sukuna from your peripheral. “What has you so caught up on details, anyway?” You query, taking notice of how particular he’s been over your dates and how much it’s gotten to him when everything goes awry.
He frowns, contemplative in the way he rolls his shoulders back as though bracing himself. He wants to admit to the sensation that he’ll never be enough, but there’s a serpent, bitter and venomous, wrapped tightly around his throat. It constricts his lungs and clamps its fangs down in an effort to choke the admission like some sort of cruel self-sabotage.
You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, spitting the words out through the cracks. “I can’t get it out of my head.” His body begs for water, the expanse of a desert held within the tightness of his jaw. His gaze traverses the table, settling for coffee that doesn’t quench the sudden dryness.
Your head tilts as you watch his strained reaction. “Can’t get what out of your head?”
“I put you through so much shit this year,” he croaks, tension present in his gravelly voice. “I don’t deserve to be here with you, when–”
“Sukuna,” it’s your turn to swiftly cut him off before the thoughts can spiral any further. “Don’t say that.” You pause, searching his expression, though the storm has returned. His expression is clouded, walls that match the weather outside rising as he admits to something that’s clearly been getting to him. “I know a lot happened this year, but–”
“Don’t downplay what I did,” he grunts, raw. There’s an aching chill that spreads through his body as he prevents you from brushing off his actions.
Your lips purse as you slowly nod. “I won’t.” It’s a near-whisper, the saddened look in your eyes at his dejection worsening the ache in his chest. “But people change, you know. They grow. And I know that you know you’ve grown.” You poke a finger into his chest, garnering his attention as he sucks in a breath, denial settled on the tip of his tongue.
“What if it’s not enough?”
“Then we talk things through. We figure it out.” You shrug like it’s nothing, just another facet of life, because it is. “We’re a team, Kuna. Don’t make decisions about what’s enough when it comes to us without me.”
His shoulders fall as your words hit like a moving train. They wipe clean through him, but more importantly, they take a modicum of the doubt too. Poison still lingers, but your words are burned into his mind, serving as a reminder not to let his thoughts get to him.
The chilling ache of the evening dissipates, warmed by your sincerity. It pumps through his veins and in spite of his soaking clothing, the cold doesn’t touch him. Still not a man of many words, he simply pulls you close, burying his face into your damp strands. No words are exchanged, but he lets you know he hears you.
“Stop beating yourself up. Please.”
His chest rises and falls, his heart rate steady, though you note that it seems faster than usual. “Okay,” he yields, kissing the crown of your head. Another huff leaves his form as if dispelling the last of his uncertainty, before he pulls back to open the menu.
You follow suit, looking over options. “What are you thinking of getting?” You query.
Sukuna doesn’t look up from his menu, though the corner of his lip twitches. “Chicken.”
With a roll of your eyes, you give him a playful shove. “You’re such a smartass, you literally said that last time.”
With a lopsided grin, he lowers his menu, tilting his head in your direction. “Oh yeah, well what are you having then, princess?”
Pursing your lips, you cast a glance towards the menu. Your voice is small as you concede defeat. “Chicken, probably…”
He snorts with a light flick to your forehead as you fall into familiarity with him, only this time you have no doubts of where you stand. As you attempt to flick him back, he catches your wrists and brings them down to your lap, gentle but firm so as to not cause you any harm.
The waitress returns with an amused simper. “Have you decided what you’d like?”
“The original three-piece meal, please,” you order, glancing over at Sukuna with a subtle tug of your wrists in hopes that he isn’t paying attention, to no avail. He barely even budges, ignoring your pout as he orders.
“Extra hot five-piece meal, please.” Using his free hand, he shuts both menus and slides them towards the waitress.
He bears a smirk as she makes her way to the kitchen. The sidelong gaze he shoots at you is as warm as it is shit-eating. “Brat,” he murmurs, low and teasing.
Protest lies among your tastebuds, but Sukuna swallows it with his lips, only letting go of your wrists when you give in to him. He pulls back slowly, a victorious smirk still plastered to his lips.
Sitting upright, he sighs, though there’s an air of satisfaction to it. As though he’s finally let go of every thought tying him to uncertainty, finally at ease not just in life but with himself. You admire him quietly. The curve of his jaw, the strong angle of his nose, the mild flutter of his lashes as his gaze stares through whatever’s ahead of him. What strikes you the most about your date at this moment though, is that the crease in his brow has softened, and the circles beneath his eyes aren’t quite as dark as usual. There’s a peaceful appearance to the man that bears a near-permanent scowl.
Even without a smile, even with lidded eyes that still bear a tired expression, he seems happy. You don’t interrupt whatever goes through his mind, enjoying the moment’s peace.
That is– until he shuffles and he’s reminded that his shoes are two small ponds and the scowl returns to his face.
With a giggle, you follow his gaze down to his shoes. “Your socks must be soaked.”
“They are,” he gruffly agrees.
You poke your heels out from the base of the dress plastered to your figure. “Guess I made the right choice.”
“You almost fell flat on your ass while we were out in the rain,” he points out with a raised brow.
You part your lips to protest, but you can’t conjure any meaningful arguments in your favor when the entire reason you ended up in here was the near-wipeout. “That wasn’t the heels’ fault,” you weakly utter. “I’m just clumsy.”
Sukuna’s large palm rubs up and down your waist in teasing comfort. “At that point, just blame the heels, princess,” he murmurs into your ear. “They don’t look comfortable, anyway.”
“They’re not,” you shrug. It’s something that comes so naturally to you that you barely even think about it until your toes are rubbed raw and the balls of your feet ache. “But they’re cute.” Your gaze lights up as you launch into an explanation where you recall a time that Shoko once begged Kento to switch shoes during a fancy dinner party that her parents had begged the three of you to attend, only to hand Shoko a dress and a pair of heels that didn’t suit her fancy.
“There’s no way that guy put on heels,” Sukuna scoffs, met with your giggle of agreement.
“No, but he did wear socks for the rest of the night and carry the heels around. You know the worst part though?”
Sukuna doesn’t give you much more than a questioning hum in a reply when his gaze is pulled towards the waitress making her way over with each of your meals. You thank her in turn and begin making work of your meal.
Swallowing your first bite of food, you continue your story. “Her parents had a backup outfit in case she hadn’t liked the first one, and it still had heels. She had to buy Ken a new pair of shoes because they took his shoes and she never found them.”
“If there’s an opposite of karma, it’s that,” Sukuna snorts between bites. You chuckle in agreement as he recounts a story from before Yuji was born– finding a receipt for a new pair of Kaori’s shoes, only to return them and swap them for one size too small, just to piss her off. You laugh in tandem at the mere concept, grinning from ear-to-ear as Sukuna opens up about a time far simpler.
You lean into him, fries in one hand as you laugh into his shoulder at childhood stories. He doesn’t hold back, joining in on your glee as his form vibrates in unceremonious chortles, his cheeks faintly flushed. You can’t say whether that’s from the heat of the chicken he hasn’t had the opportunity to finish as you eagerly pull stories from him, the ardor of happy memories, or the warmth of being wrapped up in a date that encapsulates you both perfectly.
As his chuckles die down, something shifts within his gaze, wistful as it is reminiscent. “Y’know, my dad never got mad at Toj’ or I. Not really, anyway. But man, when I took his car right after I got my license when we were sixteen–” he shakes his head, a long exhale leaving his nose. “The old man was so pissed.”
“Why’d you take it?” Your head tilts quizzically as you regard him, your plate of food done as you don’t dare interrupt Sukuna’s stories. Your voice is soft, grateful to hear about his father. You can’t recall a time where your date has so openly talked about Jin outside of tear-filled moments or bitter recollections brought to life by the trial.
He scoffs, shrugging dramatically. “Dunno. Guess I thought it’d make me look cool to pick up Toji n’ a couple of friends for a movie.” He winces at the mere thought. “Y’know that ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ thing that parents do? I got that big time. Toji, too. The poor guy didn’t even know my dad said no to taking the car.”
“That’s way worse than any kind of punishment,” your nose wrinkles at the thought of your parents’ version of that. The look you would get.
“Y’know what the worst part was?”
You shake your head, leaning in.
“Got my license on my birthday, n’ my dad told me I’d need to hang in there for a gift. I told him not to worry about it, I knew we didn’t have a ton of cash and didn’t really care.” He shrugs the thought off. “The day I asked to borrow the car was payday for him, which is why he asked me to wait, I guess.”
“No,” you gasp as the dots connect in your mind.
“Yeah,” he groans, dragging his free hand down his face. He runs it back through pink locks with a sigh. “He got me a fuckin’ car and him and Kaori needed the one I took to go pick it up.”
Both of you sport twisted expressions of horror at the mere thought. “So, what happened?”
“Honestly? He could’ve been way more pissed. Should’ve been.” He shakes his head, his gaze softening as he stares down at the chicken, now lukewarm, still remaining on his plate. “Might’ve been the nicest any parent has ever been grounding their kid,” he snorts at the thought. “But uh– yeah, he grounded me. Got my car officially a month later.”
“He sounds like he was a great dad.”
“Yeah,” Sukuna murmurs, voice barely more than a gravelly whisper. “He was.”
With a small smile, you give the brute a moment as something within his expression twists, from recollection to a scowl, before he seems to come to a conclusion about something. Whatever it is, he blinks it away, finally bringing more of his meal to his lips as he moves on.
“How was your chicken?” He asks between bites.
“Great,” you grin. “Yours?”
He nods his approval, mouth full. He finishes a bite before motioning to the chicken. “Want a bite?”
“Didn’t you get the super spicy one?”
“Mhm.”
You idly chew on your lip in consideration.
“You a little bit of a wimp, angel?” He teases, nudging your thigh with his.
“No,” you bite back, pausing long enough for Sukuna to grin. “That just smells spicy.”
“Try it,” he shifts his plate an inch towards you, his gaze flickering up to the kind older woman across the restaurant helping someone who walked in recently. “I’ll get you some water, just in case.”
With a glass of water on the way, you take a bite of chicken from Sukuna’s plate. It’s flavorful beyond belief, and for a moment, you really enjoy it.
Until the pain hits.
Your face contorts as you suck in a breath of air, trying to play it cool. Much to your disdain, Sukuna is grinning knowingly beside you. His head tilts down into your line of vision. “So?”
Smartass. “It’s great,” you murmur between breaths in an effort to cool your mouth. It’s not a lie either, it is great, even if it’s as hot as the fiery depths of hell.
“Yeah?” He teases, thanking the amused waitress as she sets water down before you. He moves it towards you, which you don’t hesitate to down. It helps in the moment, but the heat returns mere seconds later.
“How do you even eat that?”
Sukuna snickers at your side. “High tolerance,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “When the kids aren’t around, I usually get spicier food.”
Sucking in a breath after a sip of water, you crane your neck towards him. “Why not just have it around them?”
“You seen Yuji’s grubby hands? That kid eats off my plate more than his own.”
“Something tells me you know this from experience,” you laugh over the rim of the glass in your hand.
He sighs, letting his head fall back as he stares at the ceiling, recalling the incident. “We’d just run out of milk,” he mutters. “The brat was a mess. I had to order a fuckin’ carton online.”
You stifle laughter, though you’re empathetic both to Sukuna’s situation and in this particular moment, Yuji’s too. With another sip of water, you peer over the rim at the rippling liquid. “You’re a good brother, you know.”
The words hang in the air, stagnant but not stifling. His gaze is locked to the glass in your hands, though he stares straight through it, deep in consideration. After a long moment, he finally reaches for your statement with a sigh. “‘M tryin’.” He sits upright, casting a glance out the window as the sound of children laughing seems to taunt him. “Things are gettin’ easier with Cho,” he admits, “but Yuji…” he shakes his head.
Perplexed, you tilt your head. “Yuji?” They have their disagreements, sure, but everything always seemed more strained with Choso.
His jaw hangs ajar for a moment as he contemplates his reply. “Sometimes I dunno what to do with the kid. I always told him I wasn’t his dad, but–”
Right, he told you Yuji called him dad. Cried and screamed for Sukuna, his dad, as Kaori locked him in a car and drove away. “It’s not easy,” you agree. “You’re both, in a way. And sometimes you have to pick sides, I guess.”
“Hard to pick sides when I’m on both of ‘em,” he scoffs.
“Yeah,” you shrug, “but I think you know in the moment what you need to be for him better than you think.”
He blinks down at his lap. “Just hope I’m doing right by them.”
“You are,” you assure him. “Just remember that you do still get to be their brother, too,” you offer the thought. “Both of them. Not just Choso. You can still play Nerf with them,” you shrug with a smile.
He snorts. “Yuji lost all o’ the darts for those things.”
“All of them?” You gape.
“Mhm.”
“How?”
Your date shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “They’re probably under his bed or some shit.”
“Still,” you murmur. “Impressive.”
“That’s Yuji for you.”
“You know,” you smirk, “I bet you were pretty similar when you were his age.”
Sukuna raises a brow, his lips quirking up. He sets his mug down before him. “Can’t say I remember much from his age,” he starts, “but Toj’ n’ I used to spend so much time around my dad while he was watching history shows that we would do dramatic re-enactments of the Ides of March with action figures. My dad was horrified when he found out.” He snorts at the thought, staring fondly at nothing in particular. “Apparently it was ‘too morbid’ for eight-year-olds.”
“He has a point,” you agree, but you’re still giggling cheerily at the thought of Sukuna’s father, mortified as he watches his child reenact the famous murder of Julius Caesar.
“It gave us character,” Sukuna grins.
“It explains a lot, honestly.”
Still, your date is happily laughing at your side as he reminisces on a time long past, launching into another story of how they horrified his father. There’s a little dimple in his cheek as he grins that you’ve never had the chance to notice with all his scowls and aloof stares. It suits him, and between that and the pale flush to his cheeks, you hope to see it more often in the future.
“So, y’know,” he finishes with a simpering shrug. “I was a pretty good kid.” He gives you a nudge. “What about you, princess? You always such a sweetheart?”
You breathe out a laugh. “I don’t know about that, I was still a kid,” you point out. “But until Kento moved in beside us, my parents always said I was a handful.”
Sukuna hums. “Coulda fooled me that his mom wasn’t yours.”
“Oh yeah?”
He shifts to lean on the table, his hand sliding down to the top of your thigh. He idly squeezes at the plush of your leg with no regard for how odd the material feels over wet skin. “Shoko called me your hot date,” he snorts.
“Aaaand she had a hundred questions for you?”
He grunts in reply, mild irritation woven within the lines of his expression.
The sound of your giggle causes him to lean against the table, his elbow folded beneath his cheek. “And now you know why I wasn’t a handful after she moved in,” you laugh.
“It explained a fuckin’ lot about Kento.”
“He’s somehow a perfect blend between his parents,” you agree. “But yeah, their place was a second home to me. I guess I calmed down after that. Ken and I used to go to swimming lessons and book clubs and summer camps together.”
“Book club? Cute.”
Bashfully glancing down at his hand on your thigh, you smile to yourself.
“So that’s how you decided you wanted to work in publishing,” he concludes.
“Mhmm!” You hum your confirmation. “I just wanted to read more,” you chuckle at the thought.
“And look at you now.”
When you crane your head up to Sukuna, his crimson gaze is lidded. Honeyed in the way he only ever gets towards you. You never let yourself believe it was anything more than friendship, and how foolish was that? To think that you’d ever equated his obvious infatuation for anything less than that– anything less than profound adoration– is a thought to behold.
In an effort to divert his heated affection and keep warmth from crawling up your neck to the tips of your ears, you flip the subject back on him. “Um– you know, I still feel bad that you’re giving up two years of your life for that– for me.”
He blinks, unmoving as his gaze briefly flickers to the wall in thought. “Don’t. I’m not giving anything up.” His voice is low, firm, as he reassures you.
“Don’t you have– like– dreams, or anything, though?”
“‘Course I do.” His hand squeezes your thigh gently. “Think mine are just a little different from what you’re thinking of.”
Your line of sight flickers between either of his eyes, pools of sanguine clearer than they’ve ever been as he gives you his full attention. “What do you mean?” You query softly.
The little tilt of your head you never seem to realize has such an effect on him has him breaking into a hint of a smile. He inhales softly, letting out a long breath as he enjoys the sanctity of spending time alone with you.
“Your dream was to finish school and become an editor, yeah?”
You hum in acknowledgement.
“Well, I never really had a career in mind. I kinda just took after my dad because I liked history. That and art were the only things I really could see myself studying,” he admits. Before you can ask the question on your mind, he continues. “I know my dad would have supported me no matter what I chose, but by the time I was applying to schools–” he hesitates, his jaw locking open as he speaks. “I knew. He was sick and we were a couple of months in, and–” he shakes his head.
The air has an edge that Sukuna’s certain only he feels, while you give him the space he needs to find words fitting of the moment. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat bobbing before he parts his lips again.
“You know what everyone says about art school and not making it n’ shit. History felt like it opened more doors for me to support myself,” he sighs. “Hindsight, or whatever,” he squeezes your thigh in place of waving a hand nonchalantly through the air.
You give his statement a moment to settle, shuffling an inch closer to him. Your voice is soft and steady as you quiz him further. “What about as a kid?”
He sucks in a breath. “I mean, sure, I wanted to be a fuckin’ astronaut like every other kid.”
With an airy laugh, you shake your head. “That’s cute, but I mean when you were like a teen.”
Sukuna’s lips press together tightly at the concept of being called cute, his grimace immediately twisting into a glower. He side-eyes you, but reserves any snide commentary for if you push the matter. Brushing off your choice of words, he shrugs. “Sure, I guess. I wanted to be a fucking street artist, but that’s not a job.” He pauses, shrugging as his gaze falls to his hand over your still-damp thigh. “I know it’s not street art, but I still get to work in art because of you. I don’t mind takin’ on some extra work doing something I like to see your dreams come true.”
He delivers it as though it’s natural, like he hasn’t just said the sort of thing that only seems true of a cheesy romantic movie. There’s no grand orchestral note to follow up something so sweet it rips the air from your chest, just his natural mild expression, as though even he sees it as just another day.
It sounds an awful lot like a confession of love to you, though.
“Sukuna, what–? I don’t– That’s so much,” you breathe, struggling to wrap your head around his words when your heart is doing circles around itself.
“Not really,” he shrugs, the air of nonchalance still throwing you off balance further. “I’ll have some late nights, but I quit the auto shop and I can do most o’ my work remotely. I’ll still have time for you and the brats.”
Completely at a loss, all you can do is stare. Your lips are pursed as you attempt to digest the knowledge, brows pulled together in disbelief. “I–” Still, words befuddle you. With a shake of your head, you tilt your head back up at him. “Wait, then what is your dream?”
He blinks slowly, his gaze drinking in every inch of your face. The muscles in his shoulder flex beneath the thin layer of damp polyester as he adjusts his arm to pull you closer by your waist. It’s effortless, the way he moves back into his casual position leaning over the table on his folded elbow after pulling your thigh flush to his. He slips his hand from your waist to settle along the back of the booth, running chilling lines up your spine with the tips of his fingers.
“This is.”
No flourish. No jokes. No teasing. He’s dead serious and wholehearted as he stares unwaveringly into your eyes like this isn’t yet another confession when you haven’t even wrapped your mind around the first one.
“There has to be–”
“Princess,” he interrupts the spiral you’ve started down before it can go further. “I watched my dad chase someone who never gave a shit about him for years. To have you here with me now and know the kids are safe and not with that fuckin’ monster who fucked over my whole damn family–” he shakes his head and shrugs all at once. “That’s all I could ever want.”
Your hand settles on his thigh, still grappling with his confession. In spite of the cool air still chilling against your damp clothing, warmth spreads through you at the realization that Sukuna’s found a slice of heaven. He got the push he needed to find his way in life in the form of a person, and your heart pounds wildly at the thought. Even though his fingers run featherlight along your spine, you’re certain he can feel your pulse, if not hear it.
“I’m happy,” he admits. “And I didn’t that was an option.” His brow twitches, downturning as he glowers down at your empty mug. “I figured I’d just kinda go through the motions as long as my brothers were okay and then,” he shrugs listlessly. “Dunno. Someday they’d move out, and I’d figure my own shit out then.” His gaze cements on yours, his face still contorted into his signature scowl, though he’s firm in his statement. “So, yeah. This. This is my dream.”
Even with his grumpy disposition, it’s sappy. Beyond belief. The kind of thing reserved only for the quiet moments with you where he finds safety within your presence.
You, on the other hand, are still at a complete loss. Sukuna can tell as much, between the owlish look you give him and the way you keep squeezing his leg. “What about after the kids, then? What do you wanna do?”
He continues to quietly examine your expression, reading every blink and twitch, every flicker of your gorgeous eyes across the diner’s walls as you search for an explanation as though he hasn’t laid his thoughts bare before you. Sukuna’s been vulnerable with you before, he’s given you more than the once-cold shouldered and pissed off brute could ever have dreamed; but this– here, now– is the truth, unfiltered and raw without an ounce of guardedness that you’ve grown accustomed to.
So, yeah, he supposes it makes sense that you’re a bit bewildered.
“Dunno,” he admits, sitting upright and rolling his shoulders. He pushes the hand back through his hair, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “I wanna travel. Do some of the things I never got to with my dad or in college. Sports games, concerts, see the world n’ all that.”
Your expression softens, still trying to wrap your head around everything, but falling into familiarity with him once more.
“With you, if you want.”
Something flickers within his crimson irises, a hint of uncertainty, no matter how brief. You quell the thought before he can dwell on it by drawing his attention to your hand as you squeeze his thigh. “I’d love that.”
The smirk he shoots you is lopsided, but it’s genuine. If only for a moment, his sharp edges dull and he bares his soul to you, offering his heart on a silver platter. It’s beaten and bruised, but it beats steadily still. Maybe even stronger, now.
“What’s next for you?” He grunts.
Pulled from your trance, you blink a number of times, still caught up on his sincerity. “Um–” you shake your head, “I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t expect to get pretty much my dream job right out of school.” You take a moment to consider what a future looks like for you. “I mean, there’s always opportunities to grow my career. I think someday I’d like to edit books for adults,” you chuckle at the thought of the children’s adventure novel awaiting you on Monday.
“What, sick of knock-off kids’ books?” Sukuna teases, the serious air beginning to dissolve around you.
“It’s cute and fun, and I think there’s a part of me that hopes kids like Cho and Yuji find something they love in them,” you explain your thoughts, leaning into his hand that continues soothing strokes up and down your back. “But, um– yeah. I'm a little sick of them.”
Amused, Sukuna exhales a harsh puff of air. “Alright, so you wanna edit smut books–”
“I didn’t say–”
“But what about outside of work?” He continues, pleased with himself as you throw him a little pout with narrowed eyes. He can feel heat rising along the back of your neck, a thought that makes him smirk as he teases you.
Cute. Always cute.
Brushing past his commentary, you quirk your head to the side, eyes grazing the ceiling in thought. Second dates don’t feel like the appropriate time to admit that you hope for simplicity and domesticity and that you see him in all of your visions, but he did just admit himself that he wants you to be a part of his distant travels, long after the boys move out.
Sucking in a breath, you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “I guess I’m not really sure,” you admit, “but I’d like it if you, Yuji, and Choso were a part of it.”
Relief flickers within the cerise of his eyes, for as much as he tries to hide it with a glance away. Something about hearing you repeat his own wishes back to him feels like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. The world must agree too, because the harsh pitter patter of rain softens to something far calmer. He swallows hard, casting a quick glance back at the golden rays peeking through clouds to cast a warm glow on the slick asphalt.
“Think I speak for all three of us when I say we want that too, angel.” His voice is low, words spoken only for you when he looks back over at you. With a glance cast up and down your figure, he figures this is a good opportunity to get you back to the car without drenching either of you any further. “Why don’t we go get you warmed up?”
He calls politely for the waitress, but you catch his attention with a hand on his bicep as she makes her way over. His pupils flicker down, awaiting your reply.
“As long as the night’s not over just because of a little rain.”
He smirks. “Nah. But I’m still not letting you catch a cold, I can feel your goosebumps, y’know.”
With a glance down at the evidence of goosebumps rising along your arms, you hum your agreement. You thank the waitress as Sukuna pays and apologizes for the fact that she’ll probably need to mop. He grabs his suit jacket and leads the way back out into the brisk evening breeze.
The summer days are long and the sun– although low– still graces you with its warmth, thankfully. It almost counteracts the bitterness of the light wind passing over your wet clothing. Sukuna’s palm radiates heat as he squeezes you close by your shoulders as well, grateful for whatever small respite from the cold you can get.
Beginning the walk down the block as close as you can get to the heat he radiates, you bask in the smell of fresh grass and wildflowers sprouting within the cracks and crumbling pieces of the sidewalk. Birds call and sing to one another as the clouds shift and churn. Another bout of thunder growls overhead in the deep grays above, but your walk isn’t far.
Even with the sky warning you the storm isn’t over, you still find yourself stopping when you round the corner of the block, the tall buildings parting just enough to reveal a faint rainbow in the distance. It stretches behind the next block, sparkling as though droplets cascade down it.
Sukuna follows your gaze as you halt suddenly, his scowl softening as he finds the subject that’s captured your interest.
“Maybe mother nature’s apologizing for raining us out,” you offer.
Sukuna hums his acknowledgement, craning his neck to watch your expression. He admires the smooth curve of your lips, the lift of your brow as you examine the sky, and the endearing sparkle in your eye over something so little. He isn’t one to stop and smell the flowers or chase rainbows after a storm, but with you? It doesn’t seem so bad.
He might even get why people do it.
His grip on you tightens as a thought crosses his mind and before he can dismiss it, he swallows down any apprehension and faces his inadequacy, uncertainty, and fears head-on. The scowl he bears isn’t borne of frustration, irritation, or even any of the very beasts he faces, but rather determination as he turns to face you.
Your expression changes to something inquisitive as his arm leaves your shoulder in a cold shiver (that he swears he’ll fix as soon as he can). With a sharp inhale, he steps forward and cements his hands to your waist. His thumbs slide up and down your sides, frowning as his mind races through words that he had prepared…
Back when his plan was to do this outside of the first restaurant.
Not in the rain.
He also would have preferred if had admitted that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough for you on a fifth or sixth date, not the second.
But he supposes you have a point. Everything about Sukuna’s life is chaos, and you’ve chosen to be a part of it and embrace it.
So what the hell is he waiting for?
His fingers curl into your waist, his expression hardening as it always does when he’s deep in thought. “It’s funny, y’know,” he starts, glancing at the rainbow as though it’s suddenly caught his attention. “I had so much shit planned out, right down to the fuckin’ weather.” He blinks, his gaze trailing down to the sidewalk. “I don’t think anything I planned worked out,” he admits, though he seems a bit more confident in his admission than he did a couple of hours earlier.
You crack a smile at the ease he seems to find within your presence. You’re sure he’s completely unaware that he’s rubbing circles into your sides, completely caught up in finding the words suiting the moment.
“But you’re right. That’s not who I am, that’s not how my life goes.” He shrugs, shaking his head. Working up the courage to say what he really means, he swallows down the nerves climbing to the surface. “Shit goes wrong all the time, and I’ve fucked up a lot, but–”
“Kuna–”
“Wait, just–” he interrupts, his jaw tightening as he grapples for words. “Sorry,” he clears his throat, his gaze finally centering on your face. “Doesn’t matter how shit everything is, you’re always there. You’ve been a goddamn angel to me and–” He harshly cuts himself off to stop the claws of inadequacy from being able to get a grip on him. Picking up where he left off, he speaks with more confidence, certainty breathed through his every word. “I don’t wanna waste anymore time not calling you mine.”
Your fingers curl into his chest, your lips pursed. You swear your heart leaps from your chest and takes off, but the wide grin that spreads across your face says otherwise. Any thoughts of being cold disappear as fire erupts in your chest, erupting as it engulfs your entire body in molten thrill.
“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Sukuna?” You whisper, eager and gentle.
“I’d be a dumbass not to.” To your delight, his lip quirks up into a hint of a smile; uncertain, maybe even a little flustered, but hopeful. “And I’m tired of bein’ a dumbass.”
“Yes.”
Sukuna surges forward in an instant, causing you both to stumble back. All precaution and regard for being on a street corner under storm clouds is thrown to the wall as he slots his lips over yours. Everything about the way he captures you is so him. It’s messy, fiery, passionate, and filled with fervor. Whatever it was that was holding him back has unlatched itself from him as his hands roam your body as though he doesn’t know where to keep them.
One slips up your waist, cradling your back as it slides up your spine only to move to your hip and slide back up into your hair. The other squeezes your waist before moving to the column of your neck and finally cupping your jaw.
His tongue glides along your bottom lip when a stray droplet suddenly hits your forehead and you pull back with a gasp of surprise. Your boyfriend scrutinizes the droplet like it’s done him a personal offense, wiping it with a thumb before turning his attention to the darkening sky. Whatever rays broke through the cumulus long enough to grace you with a rainbow clearly decided your makeout session wasn’t meant for a public street corner.
In Sukuna’s eyes though?
Mother nature is smiting him.
One droplet turns to two, and then four, and suddenly the rain is back in full force, pelting you with large droplets.
“Oh fuck off!” Sukuna loudly exclaims to the sky, unable to withhold the frustration that nothing seems to be going right. His hair is plastered to his forehead again when he glowers down at you like a cat caught in a rain storm. The edges smooth just a bit though, when he catches you laughing, your fingers still laced between his.
You shine brighter than the strongest rays that broke through the clouds, radiant as you stand beneath the rain. Unbothered by the droplets catching in your lashes, you simply grin at the grumpy man before you, enjoying his (mostly) faux disdain.
To your delight, the sight of you laughing has him rolling his eyes with an amused puff of air leaving his nose. It’s the first domino that leads him to join your laughter, pulling you by your hands into him. He smooshes your face into his chest with a palm to the back of your head, his laughter rumbling through you like the purr of a cat.
Only once it dies down does he take the time to get a look at your soaked form. “C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go dry off. My place?”
With your nod, he pulls you by the hand across the street, leading you beneath any overhang and awning that he can as you make a dash for the car. It may not be far, but it’s long enough that you’re dripping all over again by the time you reach the vehicle.
Sukuna blasts the heat. Although it hasn’t warmed up much yet, you both shuffle uncomfortably against the old leather. It sticks to any exposed skin and tugs at the wet fabric of your dress, a sentiment that Sukuna clearly feels with the way his slacks stick to his thighs. With no solution to his issue than to change, he huffs and casts a glance towards you.
Before pulling out of the parking lot, Sukuna leans over the center console to kiss you again, short and sweet. Before he can pull back, you take his face in your hands, cupping his cheeks. Stubble is just barely beginning to break through his skin, a five o’clock shadow growing in already.
Your thumbs travel his cheeks, pausing briefly on the faint scar that still protrudes beneath his right eye. It turns more prominent on his forehead where it tears through his brow.
He’s beautiful. Every tattoo, marking, and dimple. Every scar, the slit in his eyebrow, and frown lines that make him who he is.
“I think I like being able to call you my boyfriend,” you murmur, concealing your eagerness by biting down on your lower lip.
Although his face remains aloof, the increase in temperature of his skin within your hold gives him away. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, leaning in to kiss him once more, though you surprise him by pecking his forehead.
His face pulls into a scowl as he steals a kiss on your lips, the hunger from your moment in the rain still lingering in the way he presses you into the seat.
When he pulls back, he adjusts himself in his seat, the tightness of his damp slacks now causing a completely different issue. You barely manage to stifle your giggle, but he catches the humorous breath you let out.
“Don’t,” he growls, pulling out of the parking lot before you can embarrass him.
The latest pop on the radio serves as a backdrop for a comfortable silence. The kind that settles like a warm blanket. Coupled with the heat that finally kicks in, you enjoy watching the trees blur by on the short drive.
“Sorry.” It slips from his lips like he doesn’t mean to say it.
“Hm?”
“That it took me so long to figure this shit out. My feelings.” The last words sound a bit like they choke him, but you appreciate his honesty. “Satoru and Toji of all people kinda had to spell out for me how stupid I was.”
“It was a bit confusing with all the handholding and hugs and stuff,” you admit, before realization hits you. “Wait, you’re getting your relationship advice from Satoru and Toji?”
The salmon-haired man snorts, flashing you a smirk. “Yeah, no wonder I suck at this shit, huh?”
You giggle at the thought of Toji offering any sort of love advice. “I don’t know, I think you’re doing pretty good right now.” But another thought has you stifling more laughter. “If they didn’t point it out first, I think Yuji would have made it pretty obvious when we watched Ice Age 2.”
With a scoff, he pulls into his building’s lot. “The little brat doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“I think he’s pretty funny,” you tease.
“‘M sure you do,” he grumbles. He chooses to ignore you as he makes his way around the car to help you out, relieved to find that the slew of reporters has begun to dwindle. He wrings his suit jacket out a bit before draping it over your shoulders to protect you from the onslaught of remaining photographers as he blocks you to the best of his ability, still refusing any questions.
By now, he hoped they would have given up, but Noritoshi Kamo is a big enough name to really gather attention.
Making your way up the building to his door, Sukuna locks it behind you and finds the both of you met with silence, something his apartment hasn’t heard for some time. Normally, he would hate the silence, but with the knowledge the kids are safe and he’s here alone with you, it’s nice. Intimate. A pocket of time all to yourselves.
He kicks off his shoes, watching you stumble over yourself in an effort to bend down in your form-fitting attire to undo your strappy heels. Clicking his tongue at the sight, he gives your lower back a guiding press in order to lead you to his couch.
“I’ll get it wet,” you protest with a pout.
There’s an all-too-smug smirk crossing his lips at your statement. “I don’t mind.”
Playfully shoving his bicep, you conceal your shy smile with a look at the floor beneath you.
Although Sukuna’s glad you aren’t quite as meek as you were when you first met, having grown more willing to stand your ground, he’s equally glad to find that he can still fluster you. Especially given the effect you have on him.
Plopping down onto the couch, your pupils blow wide at the sight of Sukuna getting down onto his knees before you for the second time since you’ve known him. This time, the sight sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you straight in the eye with an expression that sends a wave of hunger through you. From his lidded eyes to the relaxed line of his lips that isn’t quite a smile, but something that tastes of more.
His calloused skin grasps your calf as he undoes and slides your first heel off, tossing it aside. He follows suit with the next one, before both hands settle in the ditch of your knees and he pulls you towards him. With a shocked and mildly embarrassing squeak, your hands brace on his shoulders. Your knees collide with the wall that is his abs, before instinctively parting as he pulls you to the edge of the couch, stationary between your legs.
Your dress is bunched up around your upper thighs, barely covering anything as it sends heat straight to your face. Your heart pumps loud enough that in this silence, you’re sure he can hear it.
If he does, he gives no indicator. His focus is solely on the skin of your legs, bared to him and still-cold from the moisture clinging to them. The lump in his throat bobs once as his palms glide from their place beneath your knees, sliding up to grip the top of your thighs. His thumbs create divots in your skin from subtle pressure, sending your heart leaping from your chest with the attention he pays you.
Your breath hitches when his gaze holds yours with insistence as he brings his lips down to one thigh. It’s a form of worship that’s enough to make you shudder.
When he pulls back, his hands glide up your thighs until they reach the wet dress bunched up by your hips. Pulled from his trance, he’s reminded of the reason you both turned in for the night in the first place. A muscle in his jaw shifts, and when he looks up at you, the crimson eyes that make him stand out so much have nearly been swallowed by his pupils. “Let’s go warm my girl up.”
He pats your thigh once, pushing up to full height and offering his hand. Even as you take it, your brain is still short circuiting as it tries to figure out whether that’s an innuendo or not. He doesn’t leave you long to consider it before you’re standing behind him at his closet as he pulls a handful of comfy clothes out for you.
Peering curiously at what he chose for you– a metal band shirt and the pair of sweatpants that barely fit him that he always reserves for you– you find yourself tilting your head and rotating the shirt in an effort to decipher the band’s name. It’s borderline illegible, the white streaks and strands across the black hoodie supposedly meant to spell something, though you can’t make it out.
You suppose it isn’t just borderline illegible after all.
Oddly enough though, it is in the shape of a frog. Which is cute, you suppose.
Pulling out a hoodie for himself, Sukuna snorts at your squinting expression. “You’re not gonna figure it out.”
“What does it say?”
He cranes his neck to take a look at it. “Frog Mallet, I think.”
“Oh,” you tilt your head uncertainly. “Yeah, I think I see it. Do you listen to them a lot?”
“Not really,” he shakes his head. “I’m more of a grunge metal or nu-metal guy, but they opened for a concert I saw, have a fun gimmick, and I liked the design. Thought you might too.”
“What’s their gimmick?”
“All of their songs are about frogs.”
You crack a smile at the absurdity of a metal band singing about frogs as he turns back to his closet to grab a pair of sweatpants and boxers, which reminds you of just how much you’re looking forward to warming up.
In more ways than one.
“Hair dryer’s under the sink if you need it,” Sukuna grunts over his shoulder as you slip over to the washroom. You return feeling a fair bit warmer, albeit a little bare after deciding a hair dryer would not fix your soaked bra.
In an effort to dry them, you hang up your soaked clothing and make your way back to Sukuna’s room as he pulls his hoodie on over sculpted muscle. His gaze slides towards you, his expression remaining aloof in spite of the leap in his chest. Seeing you in his clothes bears a new meaning knowing he gets to call you his now, too.
He clears his throat as you bound towards his bed, plopping down at the edge of it. Leaning back on splayed palms, you gaze up at him with the kind of smile that could melt glass.
“Warmer?”
“Mhm!”
“Good,” he hums as he collapses on the bed, relaxing against the headboard with shut eyes. His whole body decompresses, an air of peace curling around him like the wisps of smoke he’s let go of. His gaze flickers open, his head tilting as he beckons you closer with a curl of his fingers. “C’mere.”
Scooting back on the bed, you barely make it halfway before you’re caught by bulky arms and dragged over his lap. You sit stationed on one side of his thighs, your legs thrown over his lap as he cradles you close to his chest.
There’s a light thump as he lets his skull drop to the headboard. “Fuckin’ rain,” he grumbles. “I was gonna take you to a market after dinner.”
“Ooh, like a flea market?”
He lifts his head as he nods. “An art market. Figured it was the kinda thing we’d both be into.”
You pout at the saccharine thought poured into your night together, even if things hadn’t worked out from the beginning. “That would have been fun! Maybe next time? They’ll probably reschedule if they got rained out today.”
He hums, sliding his hand up your leg to squeeze your thigh. “Next time,” he agrees, shifting to steal a kiss. “But this is nice too,” he smirks against your lips, finally finding his footing to shake the sensation of inadequacy.
“I definitely don’t mind this,” you breathe, splaying your hands over his built chest as you lean in to reciprocate.
The world slows. He moves slow. You both do, in tandem as you match one another. Your breaths, your lips, and the minute shuffling of your clothes under each rise and fall of your chests are all that permeate the air.
His mind no longer swims with shortcomings, drawing blank while simultaneously flooding with wave after wave of you.
Your smile, the gleam in your eye when you’re happy, the way you laugh when Sukuna does something stupid.
Your unending support, the way you always put others first, your effortless ability to reel him into your security.
The curve of your nose, the way your hair falls into place, how everything you wear compliments you beautifully.
Your thighs.
Your curves.
He doesn’t intend to, but his jaw parts, pulling away with a hitch of his breath. The silence is thick, cut with every inhale, but it’s the look in your eyes that gets him the most.
The way desire speaks for itself in the form of blown out pupils. The heat he feels radiating from your cheeks, running warmer than he is. A simultaneous desire and bashfulness that encapsulates everything he’s come to know about you.
He grips your thigh, guiding you to straddle his waist. It’s familiar in the kind of way that should be terrifying, but with an official title tying you to one another in a pretty red bow, neither of you lets it stop you.
His lips don’t move quite as slowly when they capture yours again. There’s a newfound confidence that he was born to inhabit, one breathed into every movement. His palms settle on your hips like gravity, his grip curling into the fabric of the oversized shirt hanging from your shoulders.
He kisses you like he may never get a chance again. The grip he has on your hips grounds him, it grounds you, as your head spins when his tongue glides across your lower lip. Your lips part on instinct as the taste of him floods your mouth. It’s different than all those months ago– both in the way he takes his time learning you, and the smokey quality to his taste having completely disappeared.
He curses under his breath when you pull back for air, giving you no time to get your bearings when he pulls you back by the nape. His pulse hammers against your palm, synced to the speed in which yours races in your ears.
“Kuna,” you breathe his name like a prayer. His fingers curl into your hair as he kisses the corner of your lips in a silent reply. His eyes flicker open. The gaze you’ve grown accustomed to is eclipsed entirely by his pupils blown wide with lust. The sight sends a shiver down your spine, your thighs clenching around his waist on instinct.
He swallows thickly at the sensation. You feel him then, long and hard as every shuffle of your hips has him twitching beneath you. Your breath catches in your throat as you experimentally roll your hips down.
Your boyfriend’s eyes roll back, fluttering shut as he lets out a breath. “Fuck,” he breathes, wrecked. “Can’t get enough of you.”
You can’t be sure whether it’s selfish or servicing that you roll your hips again, searching for the dizzying sensation of friction as a wet patch forms on your panties. He shudders beneath you, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt as his hands explore your curves. His fingers trace over stretch marks, scars, and goosebumps alike, mapping them out like constellations as he stares at you reverently.
His gaze lowers as he takes the hem of your shirt and makes a move to bring it up over your head. Your nerves rear their ugly head as he barely lifts it halfway, your fingers curling into his hoodie as you go rigid. For all the attention he’s paying to you right now, of course he notices. He stops dead in his tracks, lowering the hem as he scrutinizes your expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing–!” You insist, too quickly. Sukuna straightens, his brow pinching as he searches for answers. With a breath to steady yourself, you let yourself relax, mentally assuring yourself it’s just nerves. “It’s really nothing, I promise.”
Your shirt falls to your thighs as Sukuna cradles your face. “Talkin’ to one another isn’t a one-way street, angel.”
Letting out a breath, you nod. “You’re right. Sorry.” His thumbs brush your cheeks in reply. “I’m just nervous.”
“Mm.” You don’t get much more than a grunt in reply, as though he’s awaiting something more.
In an effort to quell the butterflies winding up within the pit of your stomach, words fall from your lips to fill the space. “I just– I like you a lot and I don’t wanna mess up, or disappoint you, or–”
Shutting you up with a kiss, Sukuna pulls back with a tight-lipped frown. “Where the hell’s this comin’ from?” But before you can even get a word in edgewise, he’s already connected the dots. It’s not exactly easy to get a reputation in college, especially when you’re not in a frat. No one gives a shit to get in others’ business when you’re drowning in exams.
He’s no stranger to the words that stick to him, bolder than his tattoos. That he’s good, big, but not to catch feelings. That he won’t acknowledge hookups after. That he’s got a penchant for being on the rougher side. That he’s a colossal asshole.
But he wants to leave that in the past, stack it up with every other terrible decision he’s been trying to make up for lately.
“You’re not gonna disappoint me.”
“But–”
Another peck on your lips. “Princess.” It’s just about the sweetest way he can tell you to shut up, though you know the words are on the tip of his tongue. He’s only holding back because every little shuffle of your hips makes it hard for him to think straight. “If you think I don’t feel the same way about you, then I need to do better. I worship the ground you fuckin’ walk on,” he gruffs, furthering the pounding in your chest.
“No, you’ve been amazing,” you murmur, cheeks heating up with embarrassment that the thought had even crossed your mind. You try to avert your eyes, but his hands hold you steady. “You’re right. Sorry, Kuna.”
“Stop worryin’ yourself over nothing. Let me treat my girl.”
If your face was warm before, it’s on fire now. “You know, you’re kind of a sap when you wanna be,” you tease.
“Mm, you’ve turned me into one.”
His grip on your cheeks loosens to let you fall into him. His eyes flicker shut as he figures you’re leaning in to kiss him, but your arms slide around his neck, your head burying into his shoulder. He blinks once, before snugly holding you.
“Y’know,” he ponders, “you’ve got me all worked up, too.”
You giggle, pulling back to look at him. “I can tell,” you hum, grinding down against him.
He huffs, his lips parting. “Brat. That’s not what I mean.” He returns his grip to your hips to stop you from shuffling around impatiently. “I’m nervous too,” he whispers, tentative but raw.
“You are?”
He shrugs, averting his gaze. Sex has never meant anything to him until now. It was a way to satisfy his needs, and that was the end of the story. But saying his thoughts like that to you right now feels entirely too vulgar, so he settles for something tamer. “You’re my first relationship. This means something to me.”
You suppose it’s never occurred to you that you might be. But putting the pieces together, everything adds up. “I trust you,” you offer. “This means something to me too.”
At the admission of your trust, he lifts the hem of your shirt again, waiting on you to give your consent.
“Go ahead,” you breathe, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his large hands roaming your curves. His gaze trails greedily across your bare skin, his hands following as he commits the sight to memory. His gaze settling on your breasts blows his pupils out further if it’s even possible, the crimson of his eyes a distant thought with every second he spends admiring the canvas of your body.
His palms round the plush of your breasts, giving them a tentative squeeze to test your reaction. You feel him twitch beneath you in response to the break in your breath, a smirk tugging at his lips. The worn pads of his thumbs slide up to brush your nipples, tearing a gasp that has him breaking into a full smirk.
For all his bravado, however, it softens, when he glides a hand up to your collar, beneath your necklace. His palm halts over your heart. Its beats stagger and leap, matching the beat of the blood in his ears. His lips purse, a chill running down his spine at the raw trust an angel like you has placed in his worn hands.
Your fingers curl into his hoodie when he pauses to admire you, giving it a faint tug, but he knows what you want. His arms cross over his front as he pulls it up over his head, adding it to the pile of discarded clothing on the ground.
Muscles, scars, tattoos, and the silver chain beneath his hoodie are bared to you, your gaze roaming down to the salmon happy trail running down into the hem of his pants. You shift your weight to glide palms down the washboard abs you’ve thought about more than you’d care to admit to him. His abdomen clenches as you do so, and whether it’s from the way your hips shifted or your fingers sliding over every peak and valley, you can’t say for sure.
He doesn’t move, watching every micro-expression with the intensity of a man starved. His patience comes as a surprise, but he’s so caught up on you that every moment is an eternity and a blur all at once. Minutes could be hours, but he couldn’t tell you if he tried.
Black ink carves stories into his pectorals, followed in a trail by your fingers until you reach his shoulders once more. The sensation of your small hands exploring the hard mass of his muscle has him shivering, actually shivering, and if he hoped you wouldn’t notice, he’d be out of luck.
A bashful smile crosses your face, equally sharing in his apprehension and eagerness. “You’re gorgeous,” you breathe.
You’re met with a raise of his brows, the wall of sudden interest to him as his already-flushed cheeks harshen. “Gorgeous?” His breath fans the bare skin between you, warm. His tone low, as sultry as it is gravelly. “That’s a new one.”
“A good new one?”
His chest rises beneath you. After a moment, he nods, finding your curious eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, good.”
“Good,” you whisper through the fluttering in your chest, pressing your weight against him to lean down and kiss him. Whatever tension remained in him finally gives as he melts within the warmth of your adoration. The world narrows, the sounds outside fading, the hum of the fridge distancing itself. It’s just the two of you, the sounds of smacking lips and the exchange of breaths.
For the first time– but not the last– sex isn’t just an act. It’s not about getting off and moving on.
It’s about connection. It’s about the way his arm wraps around your middle, holding you with the utmost care as he flips you, hovering over you without breaking the kiss. Even as you gasp, he swallows it, positioned between your thighs that spread on instinct for him.
It’s about the way he smiles. Not a smirk, or a grin. A genuine smile. The kind that matches the saccharine looks you always shoot him. It’s infectious, until you’re both smiling into the kiss.
It’s about the way every sensation and reaction is raw and real. That your nerves are shared, but soothed by the mere presence of the other.
As he pulls back, you would expect the room to feel cooler, but when his lips roam your jaw, lingering on your throat, everything heats up exponentially. Your hands fly to his hair as your head falls back into the downy pillow. A soft whimper parts your lips and Sukuna isn’t sure he’s ever heard something so intimate.
His breath shatters over your skin, the hitch evident when it falls like glass over your collar. He moves further down your body, your breaths turning to soft moans when he grazes your nipple. His gaze lifts when your fingers curl in his hair, a low grunt pulled from him as you unwittingly tug him away in the haze of euphoria.
Pulling himself back down, the flat of his tongue glides over your peaked nipple, your chest rising and falling in quick breaths beneath him. It sends sparks of electricity through your veins like lightning burning bright across a sky, shocking from limb to limb.
The way he moves, the way he learns, it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced. The first touch is always experimental, but he watches you with so much intensity that it’s like he knows exactly what you want before you do.
You suck in a harsh breath as he latches onto your nipple. “Sukuna,” you murmur, light and airy as he explores your body. His tongue flicks out and circles the sensitive skin, but what really makes you jolt is the sensation of him groaning at the sound of his own name dragged from your lips. He repeats his movements over your other nipple with more urgency, not out of a lack of patience, but from need. Chasing the sound of his name sung within your moans.
As he sucks on the peak of your breast and your fingers grip his hair, his eyes shut on instinct when he’s rewarded with a louder, more sure honeyed moan of his name. He’s quick to move up your body, crashing his lips against yours in ardor.
“Say it again,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over you.
“Suku–”
He swallows the sugary whisper before you can even get it out. You latch your arms over his shoulders, fingers curling into the inked skin laid over muscle.
When he pulls away for air, his back rises and falls harshly beneath your fingers with each breath. His gaze flickers across your expression, drinking in your pleasured expression.
“Feel good, angel?” His voice has a heady quality that hits you hard. Your stomach flips as heat blooms between your thighs, instinctively tightening around his torso. He cracks a smile, something between smug and adoring, something so Sukuna, that tells you he already knows, but you nod anyway.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, something soft and sweet, before moving down the bed. He settles between your legs, the jittery sensation of bubbling nerves making themselves known when his fingers settle along the band of the rolled up sweatpants you borrowed. Reaching for the sheets, you ground yourself by gripping them.
His eyes, always attentive, flicker to your hands, cementing themselves in your gaze as you tentatively watch. “Nervous?” His words aren’t meant to tease. For once, there’s no condescension or grin, but a genuine search for understanding.
Pulling your lip between your teeth, you give a nod. “Just a little.”
His thumbs rub soothing circles into your waist. Leaning forward to press a kiss just above the sweatpants, he murmurs his next words against the bare skin. “I’ll take care of you,” he assures, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. You squirm at the sensation, met with another smirk.
Giving his face a little shove at the realization he’s purposefully searching for ways to fluster you and make you squirm, you shake your head. Your smile isn’t lost on him, though.
His fingers curl around the waistband once more, silent searching permission swirling within his wide pupils.
“Please, Kuna,” you breathe as you flutter around nothing, lust outweighing your nerves.
It nearly undoes him to feel your hips shift eagerly. He doesn’t waste a moment sliding the sweatpants from your legs. He picks up right where he left off on the couch earlier, palms gliding up to your hips as he maps your body. “Shit, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous,” he huskily groans. His gaze dips to the wet patch in your panties, lacey and the very same shade of red that you chose for your dress and his tie.
Chosen to match his fucking eyes.
He swallows thickly, squeezing the plush of your thighs. His thumbs are so close to your core that you can’t help the buck of your hips. Pulled from his trance, he smirks, slow and pleased. “Cute,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over the lacey fabric clinging to your hip. “Bet you did this on purpose, didn’t you?”
You try to hide your bashful smile, but it breaks though. “Maybe. The bra matches, too.”
Sukuna’s voice is rough as he lets out an amused hum at your reservation. “Sweet girl,” he hums, hooking his fingers around the fabric clinging to your hip. With a kiss to your inner thigh, he pulls them aside, tossing them into a forgotten pile of clothes.
You shrink slightly as he doesn’t move for a moment, admiring the sight of you laid bare in your entirety beneath him. He doesn’t let you shy away, though, strong forearms wrapping around your thighs and tugging you closer. With a surprised yelp, your hands fly to his hair again, barely given a moment to ground yourself before he lowers his lips to your dripping entrance.
“Fuck, you’re wet, princess.”
It takes your breath away from the moment he connects with you. The sensation of his tongue dragging through your folds is soft at first as he measures your every reaction. Your moans grow louder as pleasure doesn’t just bloom but blossom, unfurling in your stomach with every flick of his tongue moving between your entrance and your clit. He doesn’t waste any time seeking what has you keening for more.
Sukuna groans as he etches every tremble, jolt, and shudder to memory. The bedside lamp frames you like art meant to be kept in a museum, now selfishly hidden from prying eyes. He keeps your thighs from closing around him with strong arms, amplifying the sensation of his tongue as he eats you out fervently. His grip on you is firm as he doesn’t let you shuffle away from him, set on tasting you when he pushes you over the edge.
“Ah–” You gasp as his tongue pushes between your folds, unintentionally pushing him deeper when your fingers curl in his hair. He groans, and that has the knot in your stomach tightening. It pulls so taut that the wave of your orgasm teeters right at the edge, ready to flood over at his beck and call. “Fuck, please–” You moan, your back arching off the bed in search of release.
You so rarely swear that Sukuna finds himself smirking, smug to pull such debauched noises from sweet you. Your walls flutter around his tongue, he knows you’re close, shifting forward to nudge his nose against your clit and send you over the edge.
“Ah–! Sukuna–!” You moan his name loudly as your abdomen clenches and you see stars, your climax rolling through you in rocking waves. Your boyfriend slows his movements to work you through it with slow drags of his tongue over your slit, pulling back once you slump in his arms. His lips are slick when he runs his tongue over them, cleaning up what he can of your orgasm from his chin before peppering kisses over your inner thighs in his grasp.
He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with you in spite of the aching tent in his pants that twitches with every moan and whimper that parts your lips. Pushing up onto his forearms, he shifts his body back over you, wiping his chin with the back of his hand before lowering back down to share the taste of you.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters between kisses.
When your lidded eyes finally flutter open as he lets you catch your breath, eyes hazy and undeniably mirthful, he grins.
“Hey, princess,” he gruffs. There’s a grit to his voice that has you biting your lip as you admire the bulky man above you. In spite of the lustful and smug aura that clings to him like the smoke he’s since put-off, there’s something charmingly eager and jaunty that fans it away as he yearns for your approval. “How was that?”
Too dazed to give much more than a nod, you smile back at him. “Felt so good, Kuna.”
“Mm.” He leans down to kiss your throat again, making use of the knowledge that it never fails to make you shudder. “Good.”
Sucking in a breath, you watch his movements stutter and his jaw lock as your hand trails low down his torso, bringing one finger to his waistline. He watches you intently, his jaw falling open as you trail your fingers over his clothed length. His eyes roll back, blinking intensely.
You’re no fool, Sukuna is almost seven feet tall and he’s all solid bulky muscle to go with it. He’s a big guy, and some part of you has always known he would be big. You’re not innocent to thinking about it. Not when he manspreads on the couch like it’s the only way to sit and wears the sluttiest gray sweatpants known to man.
Not that you’re complaining.
With everything you knew about him though, you hadn’t expected him to be so patient. To take his time worshipping you, to be so gentle when his hands know only how to be harsh.
But that’s Sukuna at his core, isn’t it? A man left to his own devices, facing the harsh cruelty of the world with a jaded lens, whose layers peel back to reveal a kindness reserved for those closest to him.
The man panting above you now– veins rippling over muscle as his chest heaves, sweat speckling the expanse of his chest– he proves that beneath snarky rebuttals and frustrated huffs lies someone even softer still than the amused banter and smirks you often share. Still undeniably sharp and a little vain, but leaving room for the vulnerability, weariness, and now something far greater. Something akin to devotion.
Still Sukuna.
But your Sukuna.
He swallows thickly, the lump in his throat bobbing as you stroke him over his sweatpants. A broken groan parts his lips. His mussed hair begins to stick to his forehead as sweat beads at his hairline. “Shit, I–”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish whatever’s on his mind when you slip your fingers beneath his waistband. He groans, his hand flying up to catch your wrist. Pursing your lips as his eyes snap shut, you tilt your head.
“Kuna? Do you not want me to…?”
He blows a breath out through his nose, long and even. Even after being eaten out and cumming on his tongue, you’re still timid to the subject of sex. Cute.
What’s not cute is the dismay tinting his cheeks red. “I do,” he grumbles, his expression unreadable as his head hangs. He releases your wrist as you softly pull back, gathering his cheeks in your hands. When his expression meets yours, he’s tight-lipped, frowning with red that reaches the tips of his ears.
“What’s wrong?”
He frowns, then huffs. Heavy, but not irritated like usual. No, his pink-tinged cheeks tell you all you need to know. Reluctantly, he grumbles his confession like it might choke him were he any louder. “‘M not gonna fucking last if you…”
You smile, soft and reassuring. “Kuna–”
He tugs himself free of your grip, but rather than withdrawing, he chooses to bury his face in your shoulder, slumping more of his weight against you. “Don’t,” he warns in a low growl.
Running your hands through his hair one after the other, nails softly raking his scalp, you do your best to quell his nerves. “I’m not gonna tease you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” You don’t get any acknowledgement from him, so you continue. “It’s normal.”
Another huff. An indignant ‘not for me’ that sounds an awful lot like a pout.
You smile softly, kissing the side of his head. “It’s flattering that you’re that into me. I promise.”
Another huff, softer now. He cranes his neck to place a kiss below your ear, lingering featherlight against your skin.
“It’s our first time together,” you offer, “we’re still figuring things out, right?”
He catches the subtle way you seek your own reassurance, still nervous yourself. He doesn’t point out, merciful to you as you are to him. His voice is muffled in the crook of your neck. “Right.”
But performance issues are something Sukuna has never struggled with, something he doesn’t know how to move past. It taunts him. He’s still hard. He aches for you. But his mind won’t move past the blockade.
“Kuna,” you breathe, soft. “Baby.” His muscles slump into you further, more of his weight pressing down against you, unbeknownst to the man disarmed by your sultry name for him. “It’s fine. I promise. It’s kinda hot, honestly. You’re doing good.”
His cock twitches once, twice, in quick succession against your thigh. You blink, the pieces falling into place that your brutish and aloof boyfriend might like the embrace of your softness and praise more than he lets on, but he doesn’t give you the time to think it through. His lips are on yours in an instant, the first kiss a silent gratitude, the second starved.
He lifts his weight again as your hands resume roaming his body. Gripping the flexed and bulging muscles of his veiny biceps, squeezing and exploring the arms he’s so often used to move you at his leisure. Manhandling you like you were his from the start. Like maybe the distance after your argument wasn’t when he started to feel a shift. Like it was well before that, and he just never knew it as anything more than lust.
Your fingers graze his pecs, passing up over the silver of his dangling chain and back down his abs. Every scar tells a story you long to know someday, but you’d be lying to say it’s what’s on your mind when the smell of sex clings to the air.
This time, when you reach his waistband, he doesn’t let up. He lets you move the waistband past his hips, as far as you can manage without breaking the kiss. He even helps, slipping them off with a hand splayed by your head to hold himself over you. You swallow his groan, pulling back yourself to switch the focus to him.
The bold font of branded boxers clings to his hips, unfairly framing him in a way that makes your stomach drop and flip all at once. You can hear the teasing already. ‘Like what you see?’ Hell, you expect it, expect to laugh and roll your eyes, but it never comes. Glancing curiously back at his expression, you find your answer.
He is smirking, you know he’s thinking it. But with a single layer of clothing between you, he’s nervous too.
“I want you,” he growls, low and heady. His gaze searches yours for permission. “Wanna feel you around me,” he rolls his hips, a muscle in his jaw working as a sharp breath passes through your lips with the sudden friction.
“I want you too.” You nod, fingers curling into his back. “Please, Sukuna. I’m yours.”
He reels back, stepping away to let his boxers fall to the floor.
Right. The thigh tattoos he’d mentioned. Matching the bands around each of his limbs. But that’s not where your focus is.
He’s undeniably long. Thick, too. Prominent veins pulse as they run up to the flushed head, curving slightly to one side. Precum has already gathered on his tip, leaking from the angry red head that jerks at the mere sight of you. Like a testament to how much he means it when he says he’s attracted to you.
When he hovers back over you, it becomes increasingly obvious just how much bigger than you he is. He towers over you in every sense, and the cock that hangs heavy over your abdomen sends jitters to the pit of your stomach.
Intently watching your expression as he leans back over you, his fingers glide through your folds. Gathering slick on his fingers as your jaw falls open, he slips a finger in your entrance, moving slowly as your stomach clenches. Any other day he’d make a comment about how he knows he’s big and isn’t about to try to push into you without first taking care to ease your tension.
Today, his thoughts scream only of you. Your pleasure. Your comfort. So he leaves the pride behind.
“Ah–” Your hand flies to his forearm, clinging to the muscle holding your boyfriend upright. The sensation of one finger slowly pushing into you is pleasant in spite of the accompanying mild sting, but his thumb rubbing steady circles over your clit is intense. Once he’s sheathed within you to the knuckle, a shiver rocks your body as the cool metal of the ring adorned on that finger kisses your entrance. “Fuck, K-Kuna.”
“Mm.” Sukuna curls his finger, a groan ripping from the back of his throat when you jerk your hips as it takes him no time to find the spot that has you clenching around him. He smirks as your nails dig into his skin, wasting no time in littering kisses across your breasts. His tongue smooths over every spot his teeth graze as he leaves a multitude of purpling marks across your skin, heightening the sensations as another finger slides in.
With two thick fingers buried deep inside and his lips marking your skin, you see stars with every curl of his fingers. His name falls from your lips like prayers for a man who’s scarcely ever seen an altar.
Your legs tremble with every skillful curl of his fingers, instinctively closing around his torso. “Hah– That feels–” You can’t finish your train of thought when your mind goes blank as he repeatedly presses the gummy part of your walls. His movements are steady, pleasure flooding you with each curl as you coat his finger in slick.
“Feels what, angel?” Sukuna spurs you on, husky.
“Feels– hah– so good, baby.”
He loves your nickname for him, he loves hearing his name fall from your lips in moans, but he adores to be called terms of endearment. There’s a hitch in his breath as he twitches against the bed, growing more and more hungry and desperate to be inside you.
He pulls his fingers from you, waiting for your pretty gaze to flutter open and meet him. Sliding them between his lips, he cleans his fingers with a pop! Smirking as your grip on his arm tightens, you feel your mouth go dry when his length glides through your folds, lubricating himself with the evidence of your lust.
Swallowing hard, your gaze flickers between the erotic way he sucks on his fingers and the sensation of the heaviness resting between you.
He makes you look small, and he’s thick to boot. You cast a nervous glance back up at him.
His smirk softens, craning his neck down to kiss your jaw. “I’ll go slow,” he assures you.
At your nod, he lines himself up with your entrance, when a thought occurs to you. “Kuna?” Your hand splays across the sturdiness of his chest. “Condom?”
He blinks like it hadn’t even occurred to him, corners of his lips falling. “Fuck… Fuck,” he mutters, grunting as he pushes back from you.
At the bedside, he rifles through his drawer, casting a glance at you as he digs through all the junk and paperwork he’s tossed in there over the past few months. When he spots you grinning, lip pulled between your teeth in an effort to conceal it, he pauses, leaning over the bedside table on locked elbows.
“What?” He grunts.
You shrug, turning onto your side to face him. His gaze flashes down your body, sparks flying through your veins. “It’s just sweet to see you so flustered lately.”
“I’m not flustered,” he deadpans.
“Baby.”
If he wasn’t before, he is now. His cheeks take on a whole new shade of red as he stares at you with a continued frown.
“You know everything tonight’s been perfect for me, right?”
The quiet of the room stills. Something settles in the drawer but Sukuna pays the noise no mind. “Me forgetting a condom is perfect?”
You laugh, an airy sort of sound. “I mean, no, but,” you shrug, “I don’t know. It’s real. It makes the nerves and how clumsy and awkward I feel like I’ve been a little easier.”
The tension pulling his lips back dissipates. He may not reply, but the flare of exasperation settles. He pushes up from the desk, shooting you a sidelong glance as he pulls a condom from a box. “Found them, by the way,” he mutters. He tears it open with his teeth, which somehow feels like the most guy thing on earth, tossing the packaging aside and hastily rolling it down himself, though he pauses barely a quarter of the way down.
He sighs, forlorn, and blinks at you. You tilt your head questioningly, and had you blinked, you might have missed it. The faintest hint of something greater than just a smile. Like he’s choking down a laugh.
“It’s inside out,” he mutters. Embarrassment laces with humor as he fights his own laughter when you have to cover your mouth in any sort of attempt to spare him.
It doesn’t work for long. It slips out, natural and bubbly, as Sukuna hangs his head.
Like the final notch in a dam, his laughter slips loose, too. It breaks through the barricade as his shoulders rock with every chortle.
Because you’re right. For the first time, this isn’t a hasty attempt to wet his dick, but a moment of genuine nerves shared between two people so genuinely into one another that it intensifies everything tenfold. And really, what would your first time be together if not everything that embodies you both? Chaos, comfort, and a whole lot of stumbling and clumsiness along the way.
Dramatically discarding the condom in a garbage can beneath his desk, he pulls another one out, tearing it with his teeth again.
“Do you… need a hand?” You tease, grinning up at him as the atmosphere shifts with your laughter as your nerves settle at last.
His eyes narrow as he sheathes the rubber over his length, crawling back over you. “‘Do you need a hand?’” He mocks, scoffing warmly. “Fuckin’ brat.” He steals a kiss between your laughter as you practically double over, squealing gleefully when he presses his thumb into your waist just enough to tickle.
“Kuna,” you wheeze, breathless. “Wait, please–!”
He’s grinning now, his eyes crinkled at the corners in an unguarded fashion as he releases your waist. “Maybe you’ll think twice about making fun of me next time.”
Desperately trying to catch your breath, you give him a lazy one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe.”
“Done being a brat for now at least?” He queries with the faintest of warning squeezes on your waist. Your hands fly to his chest, nodding. “Good girl,” he purrs, the sound vibrating straight through your veins to your core. You clench around nothing, your hands gliding up to his shoulders and tugging him down closer to you.
“I need you,” you breathe, heat still coiling in your loin.
He meets your words with a nod. Obliging your needs, he dips a hand back down, slotting his lips against yours to swallow your moans. His thumb moves in deliberate circles around your sensitive clit, groaning as your nails graze the skin of his shoulders.
Pulling back for air, his restraint pulls taut as he shifts to line himself up with you. Lifting your head, you cling to his heavily rising and falling chest to ground yourself as you watch him sink into you with a sharp hiss. Just the tip first. The stretch is nothing like his fingers. There’s a sting first, one that he lets you ride out until it shifts into something different.
“Relax for me, angel,” he coaxes you as your muscles still give him some resistance. He licks his thumb, reaching back down to rub your clit. “Breathe.”
He must be able to read you like a book, because every time the burn of being stretched open shifts into pleasure is when he feeds you another inch. Every movement comes with a surprisingly sweet reassurance. Doing so good for me. Just a little bit more. Look so fuckin’ perfect.
When he’s buried to the hilt, your gaze flickers up to his. He’s already watching you, warmth swimming within shadows of lust– and something more. Something you’re not quite ready to put a name to, but something real.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, swallowing around the tightness of his throat. Every ounce of restraint is being poured into letting you adjust, but it snaps like an elastic pulled taut when your legs wrap tightly around his waist.
His hips stutter as he lowers himself over you. His forearms settle on either side of your head, holding himself at an angle where he can still watch you in spite of your overwhelming height difference. He’s slow first, your tight walls testing just how long he can last when he’s imagined this so many times.
You whine as he rolls his hips, feeling so full that every thrust leaves you feeling breathless. “K-Kuna,” you gasp as the last of any restraint dissolves into white-hot pleasure. “Don’t stop.” You can feel every vein that brushes your g-spot, every thrust carrying a weight that you’re certain is intentional, but his eyes are as hazy as yours. Acting on pure instinct and feeling.
It’s like nothing either of you have ever experienced. Pleasure unbound, coiling tight and ripping groans and moans from both of you. His breaths are heavy, his skin sticking to yours as sweat clings to you. He hunches down to lower his forehead to yours, the connection intensifying the sensations in a way you never thought possible.
The emotions that swirl in his eyes are so intense you can feel them dancing off your skin. Your nails drag across his skin, leaving harsh red streaks along the canvas of his back. He lets out a heavy breath between pants, every thrust intentional. It’s hot and overwhelming in spite of the slow way he chases your pleasure.
It builds slowly, like a song establishing its hook as he keeps a steady, deep rhythm. Every thrust feels as though it reaches your lungs, the overwhelming weight of him within and around you deafening you to the world.
He murmurs not your nickname, but your given name like a mantra, something you so rarely hear from him that it feels sacred.
Every twitch and jerk becomes more frequent within your walls, and he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot on your shoulder. “Been wanting this for so fucking long,” he groans, distracting himself in an effort to hold off on his climax when he already feels so close. “It’s everything I fucking imagined.” His hips still stutter, still drawing inevitably closer to falling apart, so hopelessly attracted to you. You’re everything he imagined.
“You f-feel so good, baby,” you breathe, unable to piece together a real reply when it’s the only thing on your mind.
One hand buries in your hair, cradling your head as he grounds himself. He kisses your neck over and over, his mind keening for more. More praise. More pet names. More of this. More of you.
It nearly sends him over the edge, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “You’re mine.” It’s muffled, barely over a whisper when his teeth sink into your skin, careful not to harm you.
You cry out in pleasure, throwing your head back. His lips travel the length of your neck, kissing your throat, before crashing into your lips. Hard, heavy, fast, needy. His tongue pushes into your mouth like it’s all he knows, his hips pistoning at a pace that has you seeing stars as he pulls you back to the edge.
You tremble under him, whimpering his name until it all breaks. Wordless, the edges of your vision brighten a shade as the world spins.
His forearms tense. But what undoes him is the sensation of you clenching down on him in waves as the dam breaks once more and your arms and legs tighten around him. His hips harshly stutter as he cums with you, short and purposeful thrusts drawing out the moment for you both.
The room is a flurry of panting. Breath trying to be regained under the heady weight of sex. Neither of you move for a moment, lost in the feeling of you continuing to milk him, his abdomen seizing with every clench of your walls.
As he slowly relaxes, his weight presses down on you like a blanket of comfort. The cool sensation of his chain draped over your skin makes you shudder when he buries his face into your neck again. You stay like that for a long moment, reassured by the steady beating of his heart pressed to your sweaty chest that he’s slowly coming down from his high with you.
He shifts with a hiss of overstimulation as he lifts himself back up, a modicum of crimson visible once again in the rings of his eyes when he’s only a breadth away. He leans in, slow, gentle as he slots his lips against yours. They brush as he pulls back a hair’s length. “How’re you doing, angel?”
With a contented sigh, you nod. “Good. Really good.”
He smirks.
“You?”
He hums, unable to put an adjective to how lucky he feels, so he settles on something simpler. “Me too.”
After all, you get it.
And he was stupid for ever worrying that you wouldn’t.
He waits a beat before pulling out with a groan, sliding from the bed as you yawn tiredly. You unabashedly stare at his sculpted figure as he bends over to pick up a shirt and boxers. He pulls on the boxers, momentarily staring at the shirt before he uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and tosses it into a laundry basket across the room.
Sitting upright, you move to swing your feet off the edge of the bed when he clicks his tongue. “Lay down,” he gruffs. “Let me take care of my girlfriend.”
You have to chew on your lip to hide your bashful smile.
He scours the floor for your panties, setting them beside you and kissing your temple. “Be right back. Stay here.”
“Can I have a pair of your boxers?”
He glances down at your panties, then across the room to his dresser.
“My panties are wet,” you pout. “Actually, they have been most of the day.”
He smiles sleazily.
“Not like that,” you reach out to lazily smack his hip, met with a snicker.
“Anything else, princess? Need water? Do you need a shower right now or somethin’?”
“Just water,” you smile at his thoughtfulness. “And my boyfriend.”
Pride swells in his chest as he makes his way out of the room to fulfill your needs.
He returns shortly, condom discarded, water in-hand, and two cloths– one damp, and one dry. Carefully, he cleans your still-trembling thighs before handing you a fresh pair of black boxers. Choosing a side of the bed, you pull the blankets up over yourself, awaiting your boyfriend as he finishes cleaning himself up, taking off his chains and rings, and discarding condom wrappers.
He pauses at the foot of the bed with a gruff “move over”.
“Oh, is this your side?”
His lips pull tight. “No. I just don’t want you near the door.”
Your lips form an ‘O’, at a loss for words as he watches you shuffle over.
His usual mild or disinterested expression has been replaced with something far warmer, albeit a bit fatigued. Though weariness clings to the circles beneath his eyes, it’s not the kind that plagues him. It’s peace. It’s the kind that allows him to gently slip under blankets with you, reaching over you to turn off the lamp like it’s where he belongs.
The blanket of darkness settles over you like an embrace as the lamp gives way to silver light weaving between the blinds. The warmth that surrounds you isn’t brought on by any amount of light though, it comes from the sensation of Sukuna’s bicep wrapping around your middle, pulling you into his chest as he lays on his back. Your leg tucks between his thighs, your arm draping across his abs.
His heart loudly beats beneath your ear, far calmer than it was when he was buried in you.
Undeniably still fast, though.
The room is still, silver tones bathing everything in a dull glow. The world outside has calmed, engines few and far between as the night draws in on all sides. Birds are dozing in their nests and the city has mostly turned in for the night. It’s just you and him, enjoying a pocket of peace, untouched by anyone else.
Your hand traces small patterns atop his pecs, rising and falling softly. You curiously explore the expanse of his torso in ways you couldn’t earlier, too drawn in by temptation. Your fingers pause over bumps, marks, and scars, mapping out stories long before you ever met him.
Your finger glides over a former tear that bites into his shoulder, pondering what sort of thing Sukuna might have gotten himself into.
Your thoughts must be loud within the silence, because he seems to read them. “I was four,” he hums, shifting to glance down at the mark he’s carried most of his life.
“What happened?”
He smirks, craning his neck towards you. Resting your chin on him, you watch him with a curious smile.
“I don’t remember it happening,” he starts, “but y’know those animals on springs at playgrounds that rock back and forth?”
“Yeah.”
“I violently threw myself off of one in an attempt to attack Toji on horseback.”
You barely manage to stifle your laughter.
“Not really sure how I landed on my shoulder. I got stitches there, Toji got ‘em on his back.” He cracks a fond smile. “My dad told me he only looked away for two seconds. He was mortified.”
“You two must have been a handful for him.”
He snorts. “Yeah. Apparently the intake nurse at the ER knew me by name.”
Your brows raise at the revelation. “You were there that often?”
He shrugs. “Broke both o’ my arms. Separately. An ankle, my nose, a few fingers…” He squints in thought. “Dunno. Other shit, too. I’ve gotten a lot of stitches. Was there for Toji sometimes, too.”
“How did you two even manage that?” You gape.
He smirks, rubbing a soothing thumb over your bare waist. “I threw myself off an ATV Toj’ stole from his family, fell in a box of Cho’s Lego, smashed a finger in a car door. Nothing that serious, just wasn’t a very careful kid, I guess.”
“Throwing yourself off of a stolen ATV definitely qualifies as serious,” you point out with an exasperated laugh at the idea of Sukuna’s poor father chasing after him.
“Not if you don’t get caught.”
“How in the world did you not get caught?”
He grins, now. “We returned the ATVs before his family found out. My dad didn’t know they were stolen, and didn’t talk to the Zenins.”
“You are so lucky.”
Sukuna takes pause at that thought. Back then, he wouldn’t have considered himself so fortunate. Toji was always running from his family, while Sukuna avoided his own house whenever his step-mother’s bright red overpriced car was in the driveway. Choso struggled to put things together until everything began to collapse and Sukuna never knew what to make of his relationship with his half-brother. That’s only the tip of the iceberg that Sukuna held up on his shoulders.
But looking back, he can finally see the moments worth cherishing. His entire childhood isn’t a smear on his record anymore. The poison is bleeding out, leaving behind a heart that beats stronger for it.
He remembers laughing with Toji as his dad picked them up from the theater after their first movie alone.
He remembers teaching Choso how to skateboard, buckling a helmet over his head in an effort to keep his dad’s worries at bay.
He remembers how proud his father was as they wandered through a museum and Sukuna curiously pieced together artifacts with the fragments of knowledge Jin had taught him at the time.
He remembers picking a cap up off of the floor at his high school graduation and handing it to his father as he wheeled him out of the ceremony. Jin’s voice, hoarse from treatment, had been fond as he teased Sukuna for having a big head.
He swallows hard as he regards the memory he had once locked away, so filled with grief he couldn’t bear its weight. For the first time, it feels… lighter. Maybe still a little bittersweet, but it doesn’t loom over him like a snake preparing venom.
Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “What about this one?”
Your fingers trail over a scar the length of your thumb that trails across his pelvic bone. He grunts, nudging your hand away before wrapping it back around your waist. You chalk it up to being a sensitive area, unaware that he was deathly close to admitting it tickled.
Something in his expression shifts, lighter than the mild scowl he just shot you, though he masks it before you can figure it out. “Toji n’ I vaulted over a fence and I impaled myself on a nail.”
“Oh my god,” you gasp in disbelief. “Really?!”
That shift in his expression gleams now as he flashes you a shit-eating grin. “Nah. My appendix burst.”
You give his chest a light smack. “You’re such a dick,” you groan as he laughs, his chest rumbling beneath you.
“Mhm. Your dick, though.”
You roll your eyes, settling your chin back on his chest with warmer cheeks than before. “Yeah. My dick.”
“My girl,” he reciprocates the thought, his hand raising to move some stray hair from your forehead.
His fingers trail the length of your spine, gliding over skin smooth, scarred, and everything in between. He maps your stories as you tell him about the meaning of the paths that etch your skin, his gaze never once leaving as you speak. He commits everything to memory with the attention of someone cataloguing the stories away as though they’re his own.
When your voices wear thin and your eyes grow lidded, the quiet of the night slipping in around peaceful souls, you slowly find your head lowering to Sukuna’s chest. Your lashes flicker in an effort to stay awake with him, but his muscles are loosening too.
You yawn, your voice lowered under the blanket of fatigue. Cracking your eyes open just enough to see his peaceful expression, you smile to yourself, your gaze landing on the ink carved into his chest.
“What do your tattoos mean?”
He sucks in a breath, his eyes still shut as he replies. “Nothing, really.”
“You just liked them?”
He takes a beat before replying. For a split second, you think he might just have fallen asleep. “They were a rebellion or something, I guess.”
“A rebellion,” you parrot his words with a yawn. “Against… who?” You can’t imagine based on the way he talks about his father that it would be him.
“Dunno,” he admits. His mind grapples for a reason behind them, but truthfully there’s no meaning to his reasoning. “They just felt like something I could control, I guess.”
You peer up at him, though he’s still the picture of a man nearly asleep. The lines of his brow have smoothed over, his entire body sinking into comfort. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen, I think.”
You bury your face into his chest at the thought of a young Sukuna grappling with the fact that his life seemed so out of his own hands that he reached for anything to feel a sense of control. And to think it was probably booked before his dad even got sick, you can only imagine how your boyfriend handled things after.
“They let you get tattoos at that age?”
“They shouldn’t,” he huffs, half-amusement, half-seriously. “The shop was pretty careless. The artist was good, though.”
“I like them,” you smile against his skin. “They suit you.”
He yawns. “Thanks, princess.”
For the first time since the trial, Sukuna’s nightmares turn into dreams.
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❦ a/n ; hiii my loves!! i genuinely can't believe this series is coming to a close in one more chapter :') it's been such a blessing to share this journey with you all so thanks for sticking with me on the slowest burn ever
i hope it was everything you all hoped for <33 i took a lot of time working on the smut to make it special and i hope it lived up to expectations. those two saps are so in love and such yearners but i also wanted to share that first times aren't perfect and that's okay and i wanted to capture that realism here :) they're the kind of people who get to find comfort in one another and can talk and laugh together during sex and that's the foundation that builds a lasting relationship
the same goes for their date of course!! i really wanted to capture the fact that sukuna will go to any length to make her happy, but that's not really the kind of couple that they are at the end of the day. i wanted to find a sweet way to show that they've learned to embrace the chaos and that they don't need extravagance to have a sweet date
i'll quit yapping but i'd love to hear your thoughts as always and i hope it all lived up to your hopes <33
❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.
To my Tamsy-fic-readers, I’m in a dilemma—so you may decide when you’ll read the next chapter… 🚯🧵
Post now and wait a little longer for the next one
Post later and waiting time is same-ish
Voting ended onJan 18
When shall I post the next chapter of “Act III: Interests”?
To clarify the possible answers: The next chapter is basically ready to post. I’m only withholding it since the fourth chapter might take a little as well since I am out and about in the big world (aka holidays). BUT I don’t want to torture your patience.
So lemme know what you’d prefer. Either get it in the next days and have a longer waiting time for the fourth one OR I’ll post it in the end of next week and the wait for both chapters will be more or less equally long.
Can we talk about how lonely Tamsy actually is? I’m currently writing a WIP with him and I was going over the chapters where we have an insight on his life and… it is so lonely if you actually pay attention to it.
If you look at with details at his room you will realise that it is not just “clean” and “put together”; it is empty and very lonely. He literally has a table with only one chair for it which made me wonder if he just sits there by himself during breakfast/lunch/dinner and eats by himself while everyone else is surrounded by at least their team, because he, himself, doesn’t like being around people and here comes my theory:
Inner/Alter-ego Tamsy is a product of his loneliness. If you think about it Tamsy has no one to talk to, like really talk to, and by his own words: “People has misunderstood me my whole life.” - what if he has just given up on being understood? What if he has just given up on explaining himself as no one ever tried to put the effort off getting to know him, and despite all the schemes he is doing behind everyone’s backs, he has genuinely given up on basic human connections? (I also have this theory that he was taken advantage of one way or another for how he used to be before the person he turns to be now, but this I’ll comment on another time.)
Another thing we know about him is that, as he has said it himself: “The person I’m right now harbours no anger and resentment. I have something stronger than those emotions.”
Which means Tamsy has grown up with a lot of it boiling inside of him (just like Rudo), but to not feel any of these feelings anymore must be to something breaking/twisting inside of him that he reached that state. “Love” (which is said to be stronger feeling than hatred and resentment), as we all know, is the emotion that he justifies his actions with so I don’t want to imagine what has happened to him to twist his mind so badly that his perception of it is so fucked up.
Given the similarities between how Rudo has been feeling his whole life and what Tamsy “used to” feel before, no matter what (or who) the connection is between them, in Tamsy’s mind he is really helping Rudo out, because he knows, in fact from a first hand experience, what Rudo feels like, which makes me believe Tamsy knows about Rudo existence long before he killed Regto, but that is not what the post is about now.
The post is about how I think that most of his personality and behaviour is based on his loneliness that he might be choosing to bury or not acknowledge. Because me, as a person who spends her whole life in her head and having conversations with myself most of the time as I didn’t have anyone who understood me growing up, I think I recognise and see big part of his character in myself, therefore, I believe that Tamsy is very, very lonely…
Of course, I might be wrong, but Tamsy has also said: “I have something stronger than those emotions. Something more right than anything else. Something that will trail after me for eternity.”
This leads me to believe that Tamsy is more than aware that once Rudo finds out what he has done, he will be most likely killed by him, and Tamsy is not very subtle about it if you have paid attention. He has dropped many hints to Rudo about it, but this makes me believe again that Tamsy is subconsciously also doing it because of loneliness, and because of his conversation he has had with Rudo when they were in Canvas Town about death, I believe Tamsy doesn’t want to die in vain.
From personal and not personal experience myself, I’ve noticed that the loneliest people tend to strive for the biggest goals, no matter who impossible or crazy they might be, because after they die they want to leave a trace behind themselves, so they don’t die in vain, as in if during your lifetime you weren’t remarkable enough to be remembered or surrounded by people, at least after you die someone remembers and carry your name for a long time. And you tell me if this isn’t a very sad and lonely life?
Of course as I said, no one must agree even the slightest with me as it is currently 6AM, and instead of going to sleep my mind is overloaded with Tamsy and the concept of his loneliness filled up my mind so I had to share and see if someone else has caught on it or at least sees what I see in his character.
CW: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, and breath play.
Synopsis: A captive soul, torn between the instinct to flee and an undeniable hunger for their captor, finally crumbles under the weight of a masterful seduction.
The moon, a sliver of silver through the heavy silk, cast long, shifting shadows across the Egyptian cotton sheets. The air, thick with amber and the faint metallic tang of expensive wine, pressed in, a luxurious shroud. Outside, the city hummed, a distant, indifferent beast, but here, in this opulent cage, only the uneven rhythm of your breath and the rustle of fabric dared to break the profound silence. Each breath hitched, a desperate plea for air, as Tamsy’s presence consumed the last vestiges of your composure.
He moved, a predator in his natural habitat, closing the distance between you and the ornate headboard. Your back met the cool wood with a soft thud, a jolt that vibrated through your bones. One of his hands, strong and possessive, encircled both your wrists, pinning them above your head. The other, long, elegant fingers, traced the outline of your lips, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through your core, stealing the air from your lungs. His eyes, dark pools in the dim light, held a glint of pure, unadulterated triumph.
“You whisper that I am the poison” his voice, a low, resonant murmur, brushed against your neck, a wave of heat that spread like wildfire. “Yet, look at you. Your body, a symphony of silent pleas, begs for another dose. You don’t want rescue, do you? You want to be mine.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, a deliberate, teasing motion. Your lips parted, a silent gasp escaping, the taste of wine and something undeniably dangerous coating your tongue. The air crackled, heavy with unspoken desires, with the desperate, intoxicating dance of power. He leaned closer, his scent sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely Tamsy, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage.
“Tell me,” he urged, his gaze unwavering, boring into yours. “Tell me what you crave. Say it. The words, out loud. I want to hear them.”
The silence stretched, taut and agonizing, each second an eternity. A battle raged within you, reason clawing at the precipice of surrender, but the physical pull, the raw, undeniable hunger, drowned out its weakening cries. Your body, already humming with a desperate need, betrayed you, arching subtly into his touch.
“I… I need you,” the words, a ragged whisper, tore from your throat, raw and vulnerable. They tasted of defeat, yes, but also of a strange, perverse liberation.
A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his lips, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He released your wrists, but the freedom felt illusory, for his hands immediately found purchase on your hips, pulling you flush against him. The unexpected contact, the hard press of his body against yours, stole your breath entirely. He watched your reaction, every subtle shift in your eyes, every tremor that ran through you, absorbing it all.
“Good,” he breathed, his voice a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through your entire being.
“Very good.”
His mouth descended, not with gentleness, but with a fierce, possessive hunger that mirrored your own. It was a kiss of ravishment, of claiming, of utter, complete absorption. His tongue, hot and insistent, plunged into your mouth, tangling with yours, a primal dance of dominance and submission. He tasted of the expensive wine, of amber, and of the potent, intoxicating essence of danger. You met his fervor with an equal intensity, your hands rising to tangle in his silver hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more, for all of him.
He bit gently at your lower lip, a soft tug that sent a jolt of pleasure through you, then sucked it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, teasing, tormenting. A low moan escaped your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, urging him deeper. The world outside, the city, the demands, all faded into an indistinct hum, leaving only the exquisite, all-consuming reality of Tamsy.
His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your jaw, along the delicate curve of your neck. His teeth scraped lightly, playfully, at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, sending shivers cascading down your spine. You arched your neck, offering him more, a silent invitation he eagerly accepted. His hands, still on your hips, kneaded the flesh, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs through the thin fabric of your silk robe.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot, his words a potent elixir. “So ready. So eager.”
Shifted, his body moving with a fluid grace that was both deliberate and devastating. The soft silk of your robe, already clinging to your heated skin, offered little resistance as his fingers found the tie at your waist. With a gentle tug, it loosened, the fabric parting, revealing the soft curve of your stomach, the swell of your breasts. The cool air of the room, a stark contrast to the burning heat his touch ignited, brushed against your exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
His gaze, dark and intense, devoured you, lingering on your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the rising and falling of your chest. He reached out, his fingertips feathering across your skin, tracing the delicate lines of your ribs, moving lower, until they brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A sharp intake of breath escaped you, a sound that seemed to please him immensely.
He pushed the silk robe aside, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question in their depths. You responded with a desperate, almost imperceptible nod, your body already screaming its assent. The robe pooled around your waist, a silken prison, as he leaned down, his lips finding the tender skin just above your navel. His tongue flicked out, a warm, wet caress that sent a jolt of pure pleasure through your core.
His hand slid lower, his fingers finding the delicate lace of your panties, brushing against the soft downy hair that peeked from beneath. He applied a gentle pressure, his thumb circling, teasing, just barely touching the swollen, aching nub beneath the fabric. Your hips instinctively bucked, a desperate, unconscious plea.
“Not yet" he whispered, a hint of steel in his voice, a playful denial that only intensified the craving. He wanted to draw it out, to savor every agonizing moment of your surrender.
He moved back up, his lips trailing a path of fire, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. His mouth found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, teasing it into a hard, aching peak. A gasp tore from your throat as he drew the sensitive bud into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more fervor, his teeth scraping lightly, sending electric currents through your entire body. You arched your back, pressing yourself into his mouth, a desperate moan escaping your lips.
His other hand, freed from your hips, slid beneath your back, supporting you, pulling you closer still, until your breasts were crushed against his chest, the friction of your nipples against his shirt a delicious agony. He pulled away from your breast, leaving it wet and throbbing, and moved to the other, repeating the exquisite torture.
Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your chest. He helped you, his hands deftly unbuttoning the silk, then shrugging it off, letting it fall to the floor. His chest, broad and muscular, was smooth and warm beneath your trembling fingers. You traced the hard lines of his abs, your touch hesitant, then bolder, as the desire consumed you.
He returned to your mouth, his kiss deeper, more primal than before, his tongue plunging and retreating, mimicking the rhythm your body craved. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, drawing him even closer, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your covered sex, a tantalizing promise.
He broke the kiss, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, burning into yours. “Do you still want to be saved?”
“No” you choked out, the word barely audible, a desperate plea for more, for everything.
His smile, slow and dangerous, deepened. He reached down, his fingers finding the elastic of your panties. With a single, deliberate tug, he pulled them down, over your hips, down your thighs, until they lay discarded on the floor. The cool air caressed your exposed skin, but the heat between your legs was a raging inferno.
You were completely naked beneath him, vulnerable, exposed, and utterly, irrevocably his. He feasted on the sight, his gaze lingering on the wet sheen between your legs, the swollen lips, the glistening clit. He lowered himself, his head between your legs, his breath hot against your inner thighs. Your eyes widened, a mixture of anticipation and fear, as he parted your folds with his fingers.
His tongue, warm and wet, brushed against your clit, a lightning strike of pleasure that made you gasp, your hips arching involuntarily. He sucked gently, then with more force, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, flicking, teasing, driving you to the brink. A low moan escaped your throat, a desperate, guttural sound.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him closer, pressing him deeper into your aching core. Each lick, each suck, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, building, building, an unbearable exquisite tension. Your legs trembled, your body convulsing with the sheer intensity of the sensations. He worked you expertly, his tongue and lips a masterclass in pleasure, until a scream tore from your throat as you convulsed, your body wracked with a powerful, shattering orgasm.
He didn't stop, not immediately. He continued to tease and lick, drawing out the aftershocks, milking every last drop of pleasure from your quivering body. When he finally pulled away, your legs were shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body a symphony of spent pleasure.
He rose, his eyes still heavy-lidded, a triumphant glint in their depths. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped square. He tore it open with his teeth, the crinkle of the foil a stark contrast to the soft sounds of your spent body. He rolled it down his hard, throbbing shaft, his gaze never leaving yours.
He positioned himself between your legs, his cock, thick and hot, pressing against your wet entrance. He looked into your eyes, a silent question, a final chance to resist. But resistance was a foreign concept now, a forgotten language. You met his gaze, your eyes wide, glazed with desire, a silent invitation.
He pushed, slowly, deliberately. The tip of his cock breached your opening, a delicious stretch, a sensation that made you gasp. You whimpered, a low, needy sound. He pushed further, inch by agonizing inch, filling you, stretching you, until you were completely impaled on him. Your muscles clenched around him, holding him tight, welcoming him.
He began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hips rocking against yours. Each thrust was deep, filling you completely, stretching you in ways that were both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. Your body responded instinctively, arching against him, meeting his thrusts with an eager desperation. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet, shlicking sounds of your bodies entwined, filled the luxurious room.
He quickened his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, begging for more. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with his. Your hips rose to meet his, a frantic, desperate dance of bodies.
The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure building once more, higher and faster than before. He leaned down, his mouth finding yours, devouring your gasps and moans. His tongue plunged into your mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips, a double assault on your senses.
The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensation, sound, and touch. The rhythmic slap of flesh, the wet sounds of your bodies, the desperate moans that tore from your throat, all coalesced into a singular, all-consuming experience. He pulled his cock out almost completely, then plunged back in, a deep, guttural thrust that sent you soaring. Your body convulsed around him, a raw, primal scream tearing from your throat as you shattered, again, into a million pieces.
He followed quickly, his body stiffening, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he pulsed deep inside you, emptying himself, filling you with his hot, sticky cum. He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the soft sheets, his breath ragged against your neck.
The aftershocks rippled through your body, leaving you weak, spent, and utterly consumed. You lay there, entwined, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. His body was a warm, heavy weight on yours, a comforting, suffocating presence. You felt utterly drained, yet strangely complete.
A soft click, then a sliver of light, sliced through the dimness. The door, a dark panel in the wall, opened slightly. Delmon’ silhouette, sharp against the brighter light of the corridor, appeared in the gap. He paused, his eyes adjusting to the intimate gloom, his gaze sweeping over the scene, an unspoken understanding in their depths.
“Tamsy,” his voice, firm and clear, cut through the heavy air, a stark reminder of the world outside, of obligations. “The time has run out. They are waiting for you.”
Tamsy didn’t move, not immediately. His weight remained, a possessive anchor, keeping you pinned beneath him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of victory and possession. He savored the moment, the last vestiges of your surrender, before he finally, reluctantly, pushed himself up.
He moved with the elegant grace of a predator, satisfied and unhurried. He glanced at the door, then back at you, a triumphant glint in his eyes that made your stomach clench.
“Duty calls” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for your ears, a secret shared between captor and captive. “But the poison, my darling, is already in your blood.”
He turned, gathering his discarded shirt from the floor, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. He cast one last look at you, lying tangled in the sheets, before he recomposed himself, a mask of cool indifference settling on his face.
He stepped towards the door, leaving you in the luxurious wreckage of his making, the lingering scent of amber and sex a potent reminder of the pact you had just sealed.
Synopsis : You've finally found a new lover after a bad fallout with your ex, you feel as though you're finally allowed yourself to love freely now. Not bound by bad memories of your past—or so you thought. Why does your chest hurt whenever you smile at your new boyfriend?
Tags : established relationship, vaginal sex, backshots, missionary, smut, porn with feelings (ig), reader is very conflicted, reader is bad at feelings, implied toxic relationships, avoidance, sex with feelings, not proof read, no use of y/n, smut and angst at the same time.
wc : 2982
Enjin lays you down, your back softly hitting the covers of your bed. The scent of smoke fill your lungs, it's pungent and nothing like what you're used to. You breathe it in anyway, forcing yourself to forget the smell of jasmine you were so used to.
He doesn't break the kiss, even when he's undressing you, your button down falls on the bed in quick succession of his pants. The sound of the metal buckle of his belt clicks way too loud—it screeches against the quiet of the night.
He breaks the kiss to look into your eyes, he stares at you like you've hung the stars. But you can't help but think about how they're not for him. He'll never get to see your eyes reciprocate the way he looks at you.
"Are you okay with this?" Enjin says, still careful with you regardless of the months of you already being together.
"Yeah." You say wrapping your arms around his neck and you kiss his lips. Trying to shut him up and ignore the grate in his voice.
He deepens the kiss immediately. Moving his lips against yours with ease. You pushes your legs apart with his hands, large and tattooed. His painted nails a sharp contrast on your skin.
He lined his already hard cock in your entrance, spitting in his open palm to stroke himself gingerly, before putting in half of his length inside you.
Your face scrunches up slightly, the stretch is a little painful because of the lack of prep, but you're fine with it hurting. It's better if the pains sears itself into your very skin.
"Fuck—I should've—" he notices your discomfort and he moves to pull out quickly. But you hold him by gripping on his arms on your waist.
"No, keep going." You cut him off, catching your breath. You try to give him that puppy eyed look you always do, certain that it'd work its magic.
"To hell with that." He moves to pull out completely and you whine at the loss of contact. He pushes a finger inside you, letting your walls get used to the stretch before adding a second, then a third.
You hiss when he pushes his fingers to a particular spot inside you. Your slick pools on his hands and drips down onto his wrist. Your back bows against the sheets.
He keeps at the pace he's set, his thumb resting on your clit and teasing circles. Your hips lift up to his hands, grinding against his open palm.
He pulls his hands out completely, cleaning himself by licking each finger meticulously. He hums against his soaked digits, your juices sticking to his skin. You would've found that image erotic if it weren't for your circumstances.
He lines himself up one more time and he pushes in slowly. You moan, face relaxed as the stretch numbs your insides. Moving in inch by inch before bottoming out inside you.
"There." He sighs, "Better right?" He kisses your cheek, checking for any signs of discomfort.
You mumble in agreement, your mind trying to block out his face. No doubt looking at you with that expression. Smug and way too much affection for your liking.
He thrusts experimentally, pistoning his hips against yours.
“Harder.” You whisper, teeth clenching.
“Can't babe.” He holds the backs of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around his waist. “Gotta let ya get used to it first.”
“Please.” you whimper.
“You can't just—” he grunts “—say shit like that.”
Your fingers travel upwards on his body, lightly tracing the shapes of his tattoos with your nails, before closing in on his nape. Your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair.
Your mind wanders to a time when you'd feel long, soft strands instead of a coarse and buzzed texture.
He cants his hips, moving to increase his speed. His dick slamming against the spongy part inside you over and over again. His pace forces you to arch your back on the sheets, and just take what he's giving you.
Your lips open in silent moans. His hand comes to wrap around your waist, painted nails digging into your overheated skin.
You close your eyes, letting the pleasure overwhelm you, ash and sex swirl around the air. Spots of white cloud your vision and you miss the way long hair would tickle your cheeks and neck.
The way that scarred flesh would meet your palm whenever you reach out to touch his cheek. You try to chase the feeling, only to be met with smooth, warm and flushed skin. Sweat forms at his temples and you brush it away.
It's odd, looking for marred skin, white eyelashes and pupiless eyes. Only to be met with the opposite. Pupils blown so wide they swallow the color of his irises. Dark eyelashes frame his lidded eyes while he thrusts into you with abandon.
He loses his original pace, just letting your body mold around his while he holds you closer to him, his heartbeat on yours in tandem.
His chest is heaving, sweat dripping down his brows and chest. He pries you open, his dick kissing your cervix and making you see stars.
It's filthy. The way you wish scars littered down his tatted chest, he lifts your body—manhandling you with ease before pushing you on the bed with your face against the pillows, your stomach flush against you sheets and your ass is lifted on the air.
He drives his cock to your entrance, his hips snapping to yours, skin hitting yours from the back, it knots in your stomach, the pillows smell faintly of jasmine and chamomile and it fills your nose.
The smell of him being etched into your bed. Your vision blurs as pleasure builds inside you slow and steady. You inhale the scent of your clean sheets greedily.
“Faster.”
He speeds up.
“Deeper.”
He places his hands on your shoulders, making your back to arch. Using you to ground himself in his thrusts.
“More..!” You choke out, needing him to force an orgasm out of you to scream away your thoughts. It's difficult, even more so now that you can't see his face and you start filling in the blanks
The blanks aren't what his expression could be—because you know exactly what he looks like when he falls apart—nor is it how his eyes dart around your body—it’s not Enjin you're imagining at all.
It's not Enjin you see when you close your eyes and feel his dick bruising your insides.
He kisses your nape, and you can't help but miss the feeling of cold metal that usually follows.
“Shit.” He curses—his voice hoarse and rough around the edges—yet another thing you're unfamiliar with. His hands sneak to where your bodies are connected. Fingers stroking your clit and your back bows. Mouth parting to a silent scream.
You surrender you body to him. Letting his hands trace new maps on your curves, thinking that maybe that'll make you forget the path of his hands on yours.
“Cum for me sweetheart.” His voice drops to an octave lower, trying to elicit a reaction. Whiskey present on his tongue as he says it into the shell of your ear. He says it like the command is specifically for you.
The nickname makes you shudder, toes curling. It feels wrong, any other pet name would've been fine. Why can't he just call you ‘Babe’ like he always does? Or even the playfully cringe ‘hot stuff’ bullshit. That nickname doesn't feel right on his lips. That nickname doesn't feel like it's addressing you if it's from him.
You always thought you hated that nickname. No, no you don't—it’s just you trying to convince yourself that you'll never hear that ever again, you'll never hear that voice of his coax you to release and you can't help but sink lower into the pillow. Trying to muffle the cries that spill from your lips when you finally peak.
You bite the pillow, trying to stop his name from leaving your lips when you come. The fabric pulling against your teeth. You were so used to only being touched by his hands that even release feels foreign if it isn't from him.
His hips stutter and his dick pulses before he finally stills. Hot liquid fills your gut and he pulls out, letting it trickle in between your shaky thighs.
He flips your tired body around, letting his eyes rake over your spent form. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving in exertion. He looks beautiful like this. Eyes glazed over with so much love and affection that it makes your chest hurt.
“Enjin…” Don't look at me like that.
“Yes?” He says your name and you think it sounds wrong.
It feels awful, being loved without expecting anything in return. You half expect him to use you for your body and leave, but you're sure he'll wake you up, put on his clothes and cook you break fast in the morning—albeit the eggs are a little burnt.
It'll be him you'll share every meal of the day with. Dinner would be quiet, but you're sure he doesn't mind if he can spend it with you. You'll end up using his shoulder to lean on on days you feel down and you'll feel like you have to offer yours.
“Babe..?” He asks again upon your silence.
“Kiss me.” You need him to fuck you dumb. Love you so hard that you'll forget how to breathe.
His love feels suffocating and you need to choke on his breath. You need to have your lungs filled with him, you need to feel loved by him—by anyone—one way or another.
You know deep down you'll let him settle in your lungs since he'll never be able to make his way into your heart.
He does as you say. Pulling your body closer, skin to skin, lip to lip. He holds your hand against his.
“I'm here.” But he's not, he never truly will be.
“Yeah.”
Hi exhales out of the kiss and pulls the covers over the both of your spent bodies. Sweaty and flushed skin stick together. He nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck—it looks domestic and mundane. Like he's content in your arms even if he shouldn't.
You want to relish in the heat of the moment, feel his warmth and heartbeat pressed against yours, but his warmth doesn't feel right in your arms.
This pace would probably keep up, and he'd end up marrying to silence.
You act like you're trying to smell his hair, but you're just burying your face closer to your pillows—where the scent of jasmine still lingers.
“Honestly,” his voice calls out, mellow and soft. “Oversleeping? On a weekday?” He laughs and you can already see the image of him covering his mouth with his fist.
“Give me another minute, need some more sleep.” Your words slurred a bit with your cheek pressed into your sheets.
“Sweetheart, it's almost eight.” He tuts, he pushes his long hair behind him.
“Almost.” You grumble, but your eyelids start to flutter open.
“You're impossible.” You feel the blankets get moved above you and wince when your curtains get pulled back. The harsh light of the sun going straight through your eyelids.
“Tamsy…” You drag on the syllables of his name. Voice thick with sleep, face scrunched up slightly in grogginess. You fight to keep your eyes open, to see his serene face catch the light of the sun.
He looks ethereal, like he belongs in your space—you catch yourself thinking that if he were to leave your room, it'd probably get smaller. His presence ingrained into the very wood of your floor and walls.
“Don't look at me like that.” He moves to brush strands of your hair away from your face. “You're gonna get even more wrinkled." He says but his expression is betraying him, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Rude.” You shoot an annoyed look at him, but you can't quite focus on his face. One moment it's his familiar long blonde and navy hair then it's short golden strands.
Your vision blurs and the space around you warps before settling into place once again.
“Wake up already.” Your eyes snap open.
You really don't want to. You don't want to leave the comfort of your bed because it feels like leaving behind the world where it was still you that he loved. Truthfully, you don't want to ever stop being his.
“One more minute.” You sigh and mumble.
The smell of freshly cooked eggs fill your nose, you crane your head to the direction of it and you half expect that maybe you weren't dreaming.
“Enjin.” You state. Disappointment hidden behind exhaustion clips your tone.
“Eat up.” He says, grinning. Pushing a plate towards the small table by your bed. “Didn't burn the eggs this time, finally locking in on my cooking.”
He sets down a mug with warm coffee, the one you like prepared the way you want. Rich and hot to start your day with.
He helps you up, giving you a clean shirt and shorts to comfortably slip on. He kisses your forehead, hand smoothing down your hair on the sides. “G’morning.”
"Morning." You laugh lightly and the sound reaches his ears, the warmth travels from your voice to him. “If you didn't season this correctly I'm coloring in your tats.”
His hand flies up to hold his chest is mock hurt. “How dare you…?”
“Quit acting like you don't want me to do that.” You push him lightly.
He pulls a stool and hands you a spoon and fork. “Dig in and give me your analytics then, chef.”
The food is nothing extraordinary. It's not awful but not amazing either, just…edible. “It’s great babe.” You say halfway after chewing, placing the utensils on the plate with a soft click.
“Damn right it is.”
You force another laugh.
“Gotta go to the bathroom real quick.” You stand, a little too quickly but not too fast where he'd notice. Your tears burn the edges of your face and threaten to run down your eyelashes.
You bite the inside of your cheek to prevent anything from spilling.
Your chest tightens as you reach the mirror, the hole in your heart being shaped a little too much like Tamsy, and there's no way a man like Enjin can ever hope to fill it.
He could, and he does certainly try, maybe one day he might even will. But you'll have to punch more holes, rip and cut open your already poor wretched heart to make space for a man like him.
Guilt eats away at you. It's not Tamsy that's inside of you, it's him. He'd even talk to you about how maybe you'll be the mother of his kids, have his name on a metal ring on your finger. Enjin is the one by your side, and it's been like that for months.
So why doesn't it feel right? Why don't you feel like the more ‘correct’ option makes you feel like something? You kept telling yourself that you'd deserved better and now that you have it, you want to go back to the man that hurt you.
You turn on the sink, the cold water doing nothing to calm your thoughts. You turn the faucet harder, letting the ripples of water hit the porcelain sink and drown out the doubts festering in your mind.
You laugh bitterly. “The room does feel smaller, doesn't it?” Tears finally fall down from your face and you make no effort to stop them this time. For months, finally letting the closed lid you had on the jar of your emotions you've tightly kept burst open.
Everything in your room is a mosaic of him and everything you loved—which was even more pieces of the man you're crying for.
You can't help but feel trapped in the same place you made home—since it was a home you made with him and now you can barely even call it that.
The shampoo that was perfect for his hair type and he always swore by.
Your old worn down notebooks that he gave to you with descriptions of your trips.
The slight dent he made on your desk to put his radio in, so he could listen to his favorite songs while in his favorite place.
Your perfume—the one he said made you smell like pastry—that you insist is one that you'll only ever use on special occasions, because they stopped manufacturing it entirely.
Your head is heavy between your shoulders, every day passes and some of those things catch dust. You're too afraid to move them out of the place they were last left in.
The perfume sits untouched in your vanity. And ever so often your eyes would drift to it, silently mourning someone who's still alive. Too scared to use it and too scared not to.
You changed your fabric softener to a different scent that's similar to his. So even if he's not there anymore, you'll still be able to artificially create a feeling of him.
Something that's even the slightest bit similar to how he made you feel—is better than feeling nothing at all. You can't help but need to want something more, but you'll settle for half if that's what it takes.
You laugh again through tears. Isn't that why you're with Enjin?
Jst wanted to write this bc i had a really bad fallout with someone I loved, and I'm realizing that I just left the year in which they loved me in lmao🥹
REALLLYY sorry for any typos please jst ignore it for the feels. I'm on my floop erauh pls ignore how corny ts is lowk IGNORE THE TYPOSS✌️🥹
