skelly-words

[skelly-words]

黒 | MDI

Bsf!Choso who suggests dry humping for fun.

You should’ve said no. You should’ve kicked him in the shin and told him to take his dumb stoner fantasies elsewhere. Instead, two minutes later, you were straddling his lap, both of you fully clothed, trying not to laugh— and failing.

“This is already the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” you muttered, even though your palms were already pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat through his t-shirt.

“That’s not true. Remember the tequila night when we almost joined that cult?”

“Fair point.”

You both started moving at the same time— jerky, hesitant, like you were testing the waters— until his hands slid down and locked on your hips, big and warm, guiding you into a slow, deliberate grind. The denim of his jeans was rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, and every shift of your hips made the friction sharper, hotter.

“This is so stupid,” you said, fighting the twitch of your mouth.

“Yup,” he replied, voice steady but pitched lower now, like he couldn’t help it. “Totally not hot at all.”

It wasn’t supposed to be. Except then… yeah. Something very obvious was pressing up against you, thick and hard under the denim, right where you were settling your weight. You froze for half a second, heat crawling up your neck, pulse skipping— and that was all it took for him to smirk.

“Yo, stop,” you blurted, instantly defensive even though you hadn’t actually moved away.

“You’re getting horny,” he said casually, thumbs digging into your hips.

“Bitch, you are.”

“Yeah, and?”

You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. He leaned back into the headboard, looking infuriatingly relaxed while still holding you in place. Then he rolled his hips up once— slow, controlled— and the pressure hit you dead-on.

“Relax. We’re not about to start making out,” he said, but his eyes dropped to your mouth anyway. “I just… didn’t expect my dick to get bullied into action.”

“Cho, that is the most disgusting sentence you’ve ever said to me.”

“You love it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Working on it,” he said, grinding up into you again, harder this time. The heat between you spiked, the drag of denim against you suddenly almost unbearable.

Your hands slid to his shoulders like you were going to shove him away, but instead your fingers curled, nails digging lightly into him as you moved with him. His grip shifted lower, big hands sliding over the curve of your ass, squeezing once before dragging you forward to meet another sharp push of his hips.

“We’re never talking about this again,” you said, voice breaking a little on the end.

“Bet,” he murmured, but didn’t stop. His hands roamed, one slipping under the hem of your shirt, hot against your bare skin, the other holding you down exactly where he wanted you.

“There is no next time,” you managed, but your hips were still moving, chasing that pressure like you couldn’t help it.

He tilted his head, smirk widening. “Right,” he said softly— and then pulled you tighter against him, making sure you felt every inch.

[skelly-words]

Sorry we really went from free the nipple, take back the night, slut walks, and ending gender/sex segregation in sports being fucking milquetoast feminism 101 concepts to fucking girl dinner and "I just worry about fairness if we let trans girls play against cis ones" and "it was right of that woman to call the cops on a black man for existing near here in public during the day time because men are all violent monsters" and "radical feminism isn't transphobic we just need to kill all men including trans ones those oppressive traitors" and I will legit never be able to be normal about it. What the FUCK happened. I'd say I wonder what the feminists of my youth would say about this but I'm one and lemme tell ya I want to throw up. Go fucking read bell hooks or do something else useful please because all of this learned helplessness, gender essentialism, and transphobia dressed up as feminism is actively holding us back.

[skelly-words]

影 | fluff + slight smut if you squint.

Baby daddy!Sukuna who is toxic. That's simply why you broke up because he couldn’t let go of the part of him that had to be in control of everything— the money, the schedule, the way you breathed. It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, it was that he loved you too much, in a way that felt like he was gripping too tight, leaving marks.

You fought too often, and not the cute kind of fighting that ended with a kiss. The kind where voices were raised, doors were slammed, and your kid learned real early what it sounded like when two people couldn’t walk away from each other but also couldn’t stay.

Now it’s a mess that somehow works— this co-parenting thing.

Baby daddy!Sukuna who shows up late to school drop-offs, leaning out of his beat-up luxury car with one arm slung over the window, tattoos on display like he’s doing you a favor just existing.

You’re standing there with your coffee, glaring, and he smirks like yeah, still got it. He’s got your kid on his hip, backpack hanging off his shoulder, muttering “traffic” like that erases the fact that his hair’s still wet from the shower.

Baby daddy!Sukuna who argues with you over the dumbest things, like... the way he styles your kid’s hair.

“Sukuna, did you just use spit?”

“It’s organic gel, ma.”

Or the snacks he packs for school, “Fruit roll-ups are not lunch.”

“That’s why I gave ‘em two.”

But the fights never really stop at the fights— they spiral, they scratch at the old wounds. You accuse him of not respecting boundaries, he accuses you of moving on too fast.

Baby daddy!Sukuna and family gatherings are a special breed of hell.

Your mom’s smile is tight when she greets him, but somehow he ends up holding court with your uncles, laughing loud enough for you to hear from the kitchen. Then, of course, he follows you in, leaning against the counter, voice low,

“Your cousin’s boyfriend is staring at your ass. Want me to fix it?” You roll your eyes, but your pulse still jumps.

Baby daddy!Sukuna who is petty as hell. Buys your kid the exact toy you said no to, just to watch you bite your tongue. Sends them back to you after weekends hyped up on sugar and accidentally armed with new swear words. When you call him out, “He said the f-word in school, Sukuna!” He just grins, “Was it in context?”

Baby daddy!Sukuna who calls more than he needs to. Sometimes it’s about the kid being sick, or needing clothes. Sometimes it’s,

“Hey, what’s that show you like? The one with the guy with the—yeah, him.” You tell him, and two days later he’s drunk, leaving you fifteen voicemails about how the ending was, “fuckin’ stupid” and “the guy should’ve just killed her.”

Baby daddy!Sukuna who is not good with jealousy. You start casually seeing someone, and next drop-off, he’s leaning on his car like the cover of a bad romance novel, arms crossed. “So… how’s Tim?” he says, voice low. You sigh, “His name’s Tom.” He doesn’t blink. “Yeah, whatever. He got two hands? Two feet? Any teeth missing? ‘Cause if not, I can fix that.”

And for all the chaos, there’s the stuff you don’t talk about.

The nights when your kid’s asleep at his place, and you’re sitting in his kitchen eating takeout in silence. His knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves. He tilts his head, smirks, and says, “You remember the night we made him?” like it’s nothing. But suddenly the air is heavy, his hand sliding onto your thigh, your breath hitching. You tell yourself you should push him away, that you broke up for a reason.

Instead, you end up on his lap, his mouth hot on your neck, voice low and filthy in your ear.

“Miss this, huh?” His hands are everywhere, gripping like they used to, reminding you he still knows your body like it’s his. “Miss me?”

Baby daddy!Sukuna who you hate that you miss. You hate that he knows it. And he hates that he still loves you, even more than the night you walked away.

影 notes | cute request from a anon!

[skelly-words]

my bf actually

5-10 min scribbles

[skelly-words]

💋💋

Redraw of an old piece.

What if Kakashi-sensei, as Hokage, had a hidden side where he showed his anger in private? I'd love to see him drop that calm demeanor and let his frustration out.

火影になったカカシ先生の、人知れず怒りを露わにする裏の顔があったらとても癖に刺さるなあと思って描きました

[skelly-words]

Important hokage business can’t be done alone

[skelly-words]

i luv him sm :(

it starts with a door slam because of course it does.

sukuna storms in like a storm is chasing him, all scowl and shoulders and eyes that cut sharp across the room. and you, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under a blanket, don’t even flinch. you barely look up from your phone.

“you left your fucking shoes in the doorway again,” he grits out, and tosses one of them at your feet. not hard, just enough to make a point.

you hum. “oops.”

“‘oops,’ she says,” he mutters, dragging his heavy boots off. “trip on one of these and break my fucking neck and then what, huh?”

you squint. “funeral?”

“i’ll kill you first.”

but he doesn’t mean it, and you both know it. that’s kind of how it always goes. sukuna threatens to maim you five different ways before dinner, and then silently pushes the bowl closer to your side of the table when he thinks you’re not eating enough.

he doesn’t say i missed you, but he grumbles like the world personally offended him the second he walks through the door after a long day, and then sits with his thigh pressed against yours on the couch until his shoulders stop tensing.

he doesn’t say you look beautiful, but he stares a little too long when you’re getting ready, arms crossed over his chest and expression unreadable, before finally muttering something like “you’re gonna make some poor bastard crash his car if you walk around looking like that.”

and he definitely doesn’t say i love you, but…

“you’re pouting,” you say now, glancing up from your phone.

“i’m not,” he lies, glaring.

you smile. “you are. your face does this little thing—”

“my face doesn’t do anything.”

“sulking.”

“i will put you through this coffee table.”

“aw, sulllllkinnngggg,” you tease, sing-songing it now, as you throw your phone aside and crawl toward him. “c’mere. give me a sulky kiss.”

he makes a face like you’ve just asked him to recite poetry at a wedding. “no.”

“kiss me.”

“you didn’t even greet me properly when i came home.”

“because you started yelling about shoes, ryo.”

“maybe if you had some basic survival instincts—”

you cut him off by grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down toward you. he resists at first, but only a little — there’s a grunt, a roll of his eyes, an unconvincing “fuckin’ needy,” but then he lets you kiss him and god, does he kiss you back.

it’s not sweet, not at first. sukuna kisses like a man who’s constantly annoyed he needs air. like he’s irritated by the existence of space between your bodies. one of his hands grabs your face — a little too rough, a little too big, holding you like he can’t stand the idea of you looking anywhere else — and the other wraps around your waist, dragging you in so your ribs press into his.

you’re breathless by the time he pulls away.

“see?” you pant, lips pink and swollen. “you were sulking.”

he groans. “shut up.”

you grin, tugging at his shirt so he’ll sit with you. “did you have a bad day?”

“they’re all bad.”

“did you beat anyone up?”

“no.”

“did anyone beat you up?”

he scowls at you. “do i look like someone who got beat up?”

“just checking, baby.”

he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath — probably an insult — but he lets you pull him down onto the couch. settles with an arm around your waist and your head tucked into his shoulder, grumbling as he shifts you into place like a fussy dog nesting into a blanket.

“y’know,” you murmur, nuzzling his jaw, “you’re really cuddly for someone who threatens me daily.”

“shut up.” he snorts. “you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“and smart.”

“debatable.”

“and funny.”

“questionable.”

“and…”

“delusional.”

you pinch his side. he growls.

“woman,” he warns. “you try my patience.”

“you love me,” you say again, smug now, smiling against his skin. “even if you suck at saying it. but it’s okay. i say it enough for both of us.”

he exhales heavily, like this is the last thing on earth he wants to admit. his fingers curl at your waist.

“maybe,” he mutters.

and you smile.

because that’s as good as it gets with sukuna. he’s not the flowers and love letters type. he doesn’t leave sticky notes on mirrors or call you sweetheart or whisper sweet things when he thinks you’re asleep. he’s all sharp edges and sharp words. but still—

he drags you onto his lap when you’re watching tv, just to keep you closer.

he tugs your hood over your head when it rains and complains that you’re “fucking hopeless in bad weather.”

he memorizes how you take your coffee and never lets anyone else make it for you.

he bruises his knuckles beating the hell out of someone who made you cry once.

and when you fall asleep on him — warm, safe, curled into his chest like you belong there — he doesn’t say a word. he just wraps his arms around you tighter and tucks your hair behind your ear like you’re something fragile. like you’re his.

you drive me insane, woman, he tells you, even when you’re doing nothing but breathing.

but he holds you like you’re the only peace he’s ever known.

[skelly-words]

i NEED that

during the heian period a man visiting a woman for three consecutive nights (arriving at sunset and leaving at dawn) was considered a form of marriage. even now, in modern times, i imagine sukuna would do exactly that with you… on the morning after the third night he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed and whispers “you’re my woman now”

[skelly-words]

that’s what my summer break is all about babyyy

And don't forget to stay up til 3 am every night doing nothing productive for no reason every day for a month

[skelly-words]

Five Rules for Dating My Uncle (According to a Five-Year-Old)

Pairing — Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis — You meet Sukuna through your Sunday book club for preschoolers at the library and Yuji, his energetic, matchmaking nephew, immediately decides you should be together. So he gives you a list of “rules” if you want to date his uncle.

Content — modern!au, fluff, implied smut, Sukuna is down bad, uncle!Sukuna.

Word count — 5.8k

Sequel — Five Rules for Being the World's Greatest Dad

Sunday mornings smell like old books, glue sticks and whatever flavour juice box one of the children has crushed into the story rug this week. The children’s wing of the library glows in the soft wash of early summer sunlight, the kind that filters through dusty skylights and kisses the tops of tiny heads with gold.

You’re sitting on the big round rug in your favourite pair of jeans and a brightly patterned cardigan that a five-year-old once called “a unicorn sweater”, legs tugged beneath you. The picture book in your lap is open wide, illustrations of cartoon animals parading across the pages as you read with practised flair. You gesture with your hands, shift your voice up or down depending on who’s talking in the story: pirate giraffe today, because why not?

The kids are enraptured. Or at least, half of them are. One’s sucking their thumb. Another is attempting to braid your hair from behind with sticky fingers. But most are giggling, especially Yuji, who’s practically vibrating with excitement every time you lean into a dramatic voice.

You’re a teacher by trade, second grade, but on Sundays, you volunteer here, holding a weekly story-time club for preschoolers at the community library. No lesson plans, no assessments. Just pure, chaotic joy. You do it for them but also, quietly, for yourself.

Yuji Itadori is one of your regulars. Five years old. Big heart, bigger energy. All questions and elbows and wide-eyed commentary. He always arrives early, stays late, and insists on giving you a sticker after every session “for your teacher badge,” which he’s convinced is invisible and magic. Today’s sticker is a glittery dolphin with a bent tail, and you wear it proudly on the front pocket of your cardigan like it’s a medal of honour.

You're still helping a toddler locate Where Is the Green Sheep? (again) when Yuji bolts out of the room for his pickup. Usually it’s his dad or a tired-looking babysitter, but today—today, it’s someone new.

Yuji returns a few minutes later, charging back into the reading room like a storm, one small hand latched firmly around the wrist of a man he’s clearly strong-arming towards you. The stranger is tall, striking, even. His presence eats up the air in the doorway.

“All right, all right, I'm coming,” the man mutters, low and rough like his voice hasn’t woken up yet.

You glance up from where you’re crouched beside the book bins and pause. The man beside Yuji looks like someone who does not spend a lot of time in children's libraries. Dressed in black despite the heat outside, all sharp lines and coiled tension, he has a jaw like a comic book villain and eyes that flick around the room like they’re measuring exits. His hair is swept back, carelessly elegant. Tattoos curl out from under the sleeves of his shirt, inked patterns that almost draw your gaze too long.

Yuji, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, points directly at you. “You two need to meet.”

The man freezes. You straighten. He looks like someone who hasn’t been 'introduced' to anyone in years.

“Uh,” you say, offering a friendly smile despite the sudden thud of your pulse. “Hi?”

Yuji beams between you like he’s conducting a wedding ceremony.

“This is Uncle Sukuna. He’s daddy’s brother. He never smiles at people. But I think he’ll smile at you.”

The man, Sukuna, apparently, raises a brow. There’s a beat of silence and then the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to sigh.

“Sorry,” he says, deep voice laced with restrained amusement. “He’s been watching a lot of rom-coms with the babysitter lately. The animated ones, mostly. With matchmaking animals.”

“You’ll like each other,” Yuji adds. “I can tell. You read good and your hair smells like strawberries.”

You blink. “Thank you?”

Before you can fully recover, Yuji pulls a folded piece of paper from his backpack, creased, slightly damp, and covered in crayon. He shoves it into your hands like a sacred scroll.

“Here. These are the Rules for Dating My Uncle. You gotta read them.”

You cough into your hand to hide the laugh. Sukuna groans audibly.

“You’re not serious,” he mutters.

Yuji points at him sternly. “I am. You’re sad sometimes and she would make you not-sad.”

You glance down at the paper.

It reads:

Must like dogs.

Must be good at reading stories.

Can’t be scared of his mean face (he’s not mean).

Has to make him eat dinner that’s not just ramen.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You look back up. Sukuna's watching you carefully now, his posture still, guarded, but not cold. There’s something wary in his eyes. Protective. Like a man who’s used to doors slamming before he even reaches them.

“I didn’t know I was applying,” you say lightly, folding the list with a small, amused shake of your head.

Sukuna’s lips twitch into an almost-smile, there and gone again like a ripple in still water. His gaze flicks down to the crayon-covered page in your hands, then away, his shoulders shifting like he’s preparing for impact.

“You can toss it,” he says, voice rougher now, quieter. “If the kid’s little matchmaking stunt is making you uncomfortable.”

Yuji immediately gasps like he’s just witnessed a federal crime. He puffs his cheeks and clutches onto Sukuna’s leg like a determined barnacle.

“Uncle Kuna! You can’t say that!” His small fists tighten around black denim, face scrunched in betrayal. “It’s my real plan. And you said I could believe in my plans now!”

Sukuna looks down at him with a sigh that isn’t nearly as annoyed as it tries to be. One big hand drops absently onto Yuji’s wild hair, smoothing it back with a kind of unconscious affection that tugs at something in your chest. He doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t scold. Just lets the boy press his cheek against his thigh and pout like it’s his full-time job.

You try not to smile too wide, but you know it shows. You can feel it warming your cheeks as you gently push a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on the two of them.

There’s something oddly quiet about Sukuna’s expression now. No scowl, no sarcasm. Just a steady kind of watching, like he’s memorising something without meaning to. You meet his gaze for only a second, but it feels fuller than it should. Weighted. Like he sees something in you that he's not sure what to do with.

You look away first.

Gently, you tuck the note into your handbag, fingers lingering just long enough for Yuji to notice.

“I’ll think about it,” you say softly, offering the boy a small wink.

Yuji lights up. He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, spinning in a circle like he can’t contain the joy in his limbs. “That means yes! That means maybe-yes! That means probably-yes in movie rules!”

“I said think,” you remind him with a teasing lilt.

“But you smiled,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing. “You only smile like that when the giraffe gets the bananas back or when someone brings you those strawberry candies. So it’s a yes.”

You glance at Sukuna again. This time, there’s a real flicker of amusement in his expression, just a small tilt to his mouth, the barest crinkle near one eye.

He shrugs. “He’s... weirdly observant.”

“He gets that from you?” you ask.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Nah.”

The moment stretches, gentle and tentative, but heavier than a simple meeting.

The Sundays begin to blur together.

Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that sneaks up on you, slow, subtle and familiar. Like the scent of cedar from the library's story rug, or the whisper of little sneakers scuffing along the floor as preschoolers circle the reading nook like orbiting planets. The world spins the same, but something small has shifted in its centre.

Yuji is still a whirlwind, still hands you stickers that somehow always end up glittering on your sleeve, your sweater, your water bottle. But now, he’s being picked up more often by him, Sukuna.

Every week, it’s the same line, almost like a practised excuse. “Jin’s working late again.” Or, “Jin asked me to keep him a little longer this weekend.” Sometimes it’s just, “He’s been better with me lately.”

You nod each time, smile politely. You don’t press. After all, it’s not your business what Yuji’s family dynamics are, except the way he tugs Sukuna’s hand like he’s tethered to something unshakeably steady. And the way Sukuna always shows up on time, every time, even when his eyes look tired.

At first, it’s small things; his gaze lingers longer when he walks in. He never interrupts, just watches quietly as you finish up the last pages of whatever tale you’re spinning that week. Sometimes you catch him smirking under his breath at your more dramatic sound effects. Sometimes he pretends not to.

Yuji’s always thrilled to see him, crashing into Sukuna’s legs with full-force hugs that make the older man stumble just a little. He never minds. And then, every time, he stays. Just a few minutes at first. Then longer.

You’re usually cleaning up, stacking books, collecting sticker sheets, refolding the same felt blanket three times because the toddlers insist on wrapping themselves in it like burritos. Sukuna doesn’t help, exactly. But he leans on the edge of the low bookcase, arms folded across his chest and… talks.

At first it’s just about Yuji. Something he said. Something he broke. Whether he should be allowed to eat cereal shaped like ghosts for dinner. But then the conversations stretch. They slip into the spaces of your lives like spilled tea, spreading without warning, warm and a little messy.

He asks about your teaching job. About your students. About how you “put up with this many kids voluntarily on your day off.” You roll your eyes but you answer with a smile.

In return, you learn he works in security, sort of. Freelance. You’re not sure exactly what that means and he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. You just ask what kind of music he listens to when he drives Yuji home. (Heavy. Screaming guitars. Though Yuji apparently insists on bubblegum pop instead.)

Somewhere between the third and fourth week, you find yourself staying longer too. The last parents pick up their kids. The other volunteers leave. The lights dim overhead, one row at a time. But you’re still there, crouched on the rug gathering story cards, while Yuji is curled up in a beanbag flipping through a comic Sukuna brought him.

“He used to read them with his mom,” Sukuna says one Sunday, almost offhand. You pause, just for a second.

“I didn’t know.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “She passed a while back. Yuji doesn’t really talk about it much. But sometimes he’ll reread the same issue ten times in a row.”

There’s a softness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not exactly sadness, more like reverence. Like holding something fragile and old that still matters. You nod. You don’t say I’m sorry. You just sit with it.

That night, you find yourself pulling the folded list from your handbag. It’s still there, still sticky. The crayon’s a little smudged now. But you haven’t thrown it away. You never even thought about it.

You trace your fingers over rule five:

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You wonder what Yuji saw in you that made him trust you with it.

The next Sunday, you notice Sukuna watching as you slide the list back into your bag after checking for your keys. His gaze lingers; not on the list, but on the way your fingers handle it gently, like a promise not yet spoken.

He says nothing. But when he says goodbye that day, his voice is softer than it’s ever been.

Then autumn arrives not with a shout, but with a slow hush, leaves curling at the edges like old book pages, skies bleeding grey, wind pushing around the corners of the library in sudden, impatient gusts.

That Sunday, the rain is relentless. It taps against the skylights in soft bursts, like a shy child knocking. You arrive damp at the edges despite your umbrella, cheeks pink from the chill, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands. The kids are rowdy from being cooped up indoors all weekend, sticky-fingered and stir-crazy, but you meet their chaos with your usual calm, rounding their attention back to the book in your lap with silly voices and warm patience.

Yuji’s extra cuddly today, curling beside you with his head against your arm during the final story. You don’t mind. You’ve come to expect that his love is physical, loud, and immediate.

Sukuna arrives just as you’re tying a tiny sneaker. His presence fills the doorway as usual, tall, imposing, tattooed and dark in contrast to the pastel chaos of the children’s section. But something’s different today.

He’s holding something in his hand and his expression is bordering on guarded.

Yuji spots him first. “Uncle Kuna!” he cheers, scrambling upright and flinging himself at the man with familiar, fearless joy. Sukuna catches him easily with one arm, as if the boy weighs nothing, setting him down just as fast.

“Hey,” he grunts, voice softer than usual, eyes already on you. His other hand is still in his pocket.

You offer him your usual smile, warm but unsure, like something in the air has shifted and you’re not sure which way the wind is blowing.

You’re picking up books, sorting them into their proper bins, when he steps closer. Not much. Just enough.

“Here,” he says, and it’s so abrupt you almost drop the stack in your arms.

He holds out a folded scrap of paper.

The rain outside drums louder.

You take it without thinking. Your fingers brush his just briefly, warm and calloused and unsure, and something tightens low in your stomach. You unfold the paper slowly. A phone number, scribbled in hasty, sharp numbers. No name. Just the number, like he couldn’t bring himself to write anything else.

You glance up, blinking.

Sukuna’s eyes flick away almost immediately, his jaw tense.

“Thought—” he clears his throat. “Thought if you ever wanted to talk. Or if Yuji forgets something. Or if you get sick of reading about talking vegetables.”

Your lips part, then curve into a soft, disbelieving smile. It’s almost endearing, watching a man like him—towering, broad-shouldered, covered in ink—look just a little uncertain. Like this paper weighs more than it should.

“Thanks,” you say gently, voice barely above the hum of rain. “I’ll text you.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Yuji watching. Backpack slung over one shoulder, dinosaur keychain bouncing, his big eyes round and uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t say anything, not this time. Just hugs Sukuna’s leg and looks away, chewing his lower lip like he’s holding a secret.

You tuck the paper carefully into your pocket.

Sukuna meets your gaze once more before they leave. You nod. He nods back. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But your heart beats faster anyway.

You text him that night. Nothing clever, nothing rehearsed.

Hi. It’s me. From the sticker battlefield.

The typing bubbles appear quickly.

Good to hear from you. And then another message: Dinner Saturday? No Yuji. No talking vegetables.

You don’t hesitate: Yes. I’d like that.

You stare at the screen for a long time after, your thumb hovering over the home button. Then you reach into your bag, pull out the now-fraying piece of crayon-marked paper.

Yuji’s Rules for Dating My Uncle. You’ve read them so many times they’re etched into your memory. But tonight, your eyes linger on the last one once again.

Can’t break his heart. He already had a bad one before.

You press the paper flat on your desk and smooth a finger across the wrinkled corner, your smile quiet, but real.

Saturday comes too quickly and somehow not quickly enough.

Your heart beats like it’s trying to warn you of something, too fast, too loud, but not unpleasant. There’s excitement under the nerves, the kind that curls in your stomach and rises to your cheeks as you check your reflection for the fifth time. Your make-up is subtle but intentional, and your hair falls just right tonight, smooth, soft, styled carefully like a secret you want him to notice.

You chose your favourite Italian place, the one tucked into a quiet corner downtown with soft lighting and ivy crawling up the brick walls like something from a storybook. It smells like rosemary and fire-roasted tomatoes and fresh bread when you step inside, and the cozy warmth of it wraps around you instantly, brushing away the chill of the night air.

You spot him before he sees you.

Sukuna is waiting just past the host stand, dressed in a dark, well-fitted jacket and a simple charcoal button-up beneath. His tattoos peek out slightly from the open collar, sharp and striking against the curve of his throat, but it’s his expression that makes your breath catch.

He looks good. Really good. But more than that, he looks almost hesitant. Like he’s not sure he belongs here, but he showed up anyway.

When his eyes finally find yours, they soften.

“Wow,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. “You clean up nice.”

You laugh, quiet, flustered. “Thanks. So do you.”

He steps forward and pulls the chair out for you without a word, like it’s instinct. Like this version of him, attentive and steady, is just as real as the one who stands like a shadow in the corner of the library.

He orders you red wine without asking, but not presumptuously, like he remembered when you mentioned it once in passing, and it stuck. That alone surprises you more than it should.

And then, somehow, the tension melts away. The conversation flows, easy and natural. You talk about your students, about the ridiculous puppet show you had to do last week because the story-time kids demanded “more drama.” Sukuna chuckles, really chuckles, and admits Yuji made him re-enact the same three-page comic five times last weekend.

“You had voices and everything?” you tease, tilting your head.

He huffs. “Did one voice. It was supposed to be the villain. Ended up sounding like a gremlin with bronchitis. He loved it, though.”

You laugh, full and delighted, and he watches you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Not the candlelight flickering between you, not the clink of wine glasses at nearby tables: you.

The food is amazing, but you barely taste it. Because every time his voice dips low in thought, every time his hand brushes the table too close to yours, your heart stumbles in your chest. He listens when you speak, really listens. And sometimes when you pause, you catch him just looking, like he’s filing away every detail of this moment in case it never happens again.

By the time dessert arrives, a slice of panna cotta drizzled in berry sauce, you’re glowing. Not just from the wine. From him.

You take a slow bite, licking a dot of cream from the corner of your lip before leaning forward, eyes teasing.

“Well,” you say, setting down your spoon. “At least I can check off Rule Four.”

His brows rise, intrigued. “Which one’s that?”

You grin. “Make sure Uncle Kuna eats something besides ramen.”

There’s a pause. His mouth opens, then closes. He looks away, and for the first time since you met him, Sukuna almost blushes. His ears tinge the faintest pink beneath the low restaurant light.

You cover your mouth with your hand, giggling. “Wait—seriously? You would’ve ordered ramen if you could have?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Ramen’s perfect. Efficient. No one’s ever disappointed by noodles.”

“I might be,” you tease, leaning in again.

He matches your gaze then, and for a second, the air between you tightens, warmer, weightier. His voice is low when he answers.

“Noted.”

After your first date, Sukuna finds his way into your life the same way dusk seeps into the sky: slowly, silently, but without ever asking permission. And once he’s there, you can’t remember how your days looked without him filling the edges.

He still picks up Yuji almost every Sunday, like clockwork. He still leans against the bookshelf near the reading rug, arms folded, face unreadable but eyes always on you. The other volunteers joke that you’ve got a "scary admirer,” but you only smile, a secret tucked behind your lips.

Because they don’t see what you do.

They don’t see how, once Yuji’s buckled in the backseat, Sukuna lingers outside his car and brushes your hair behind your ear without saying a word. They don’t feel the warmth of his palm as it settles at the small of your back, grounding. Or the way he lets out the smallest breath of relief when you kiss his cheek goodbye.

And now, now you see him more than just on Sundays.

Sometimes it’s Wednesday night dinners after your longest work days. He shows up in his dark jacket, hair still damp from a shower, carrying takeout containers and an unreadable comic for Yuji “in case he drops by.” Sometimes it’s Saturday mornings when he brings you coffee and leans against your kitchen counter while you toast bread barefoot in your sleep shirt, trading soft smiles and shared silence.

Sometimes, it’s just being near each other. The closeness of his fingers brushing yours while you fold laundry. His voice low and warm against the shell of your ear when he reads over your shoulder. His breath catching when you run your hands across the ink of his ribs, tracing stories he still hasn’t told you yet.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not fast.

But it’s real.

You still can’t quite name what pulls you to him. There’s no single reason, no one defining moment. It’s the accumulation of small things, steady things.

It’s the way he listens when you talk, even when you ramble about nonsense. It’s the way he notices everything, the way your brow furrows when you’re thinking, the way you turn pages with your thumb tucked just so. It’s the way he calls you "sweetheart" under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening.

His steadiness is not quiet. It’s present. And you didn’t know how much you needed that, someone who sees you in the chaos and doesn’t flinch.

The first time he kissed you properly, not a chaste brush in passing, but a real kiss, deep and slow and intentional, it left you dizzy for hours. His hands were firm on your waist, his mouth reverent, and when you whispered his name like a prayer, he held you tighter like he needed the reminder that this was real. That you were real.

And now, lying curled beside him in the warm hush of your bedroom, you feel something in yourself loosen that had been tense for far too long.

His bare chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. One arm is wrapped around your waist, hand splayed at your hip, grounding you to him like a vow. His fingers occasionally trace lazy, absent-minded shapes into your skin as you lie there in the afterglow of everything unspoken but fully felt.

The soft, golden light of your bedside lamp spills over the sheets, turning his tattoos into rivers of shadow and ink. You run your fingers across the one over his heart, and he catches your hand, presses his lips to your knuckles like it’s instinct.

“I didn’t think I’d ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You don’t press. You just shift closer, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me neither.”

And somehow, that’s enough. No fireworks. No declarations.

Just his steady heartbeat under your ear, his arms around you, the faint scent of cedar and rain still clinging to his skin. Your body against his, fitting like you were made to lie beside him.

You’ve let him into your life. And more and more, he’s letting you into his.

Winter comes and goes in quiet intervals, mornings wrapped in knit scarves and coffee steam, nights curled against Sukuna beneath your favourite blanket, his hand resting easily on your thigh like it’s always belonged there. Snow falls, melts, falls again. The holidays pass in a blur of cocoa-stained kisses, Yuji’s snow angels, and Choso’s grumbling when Sukuna nearly burns dinner. You spend New Year’s Eve on the couch with him, tangled together, warm, safe. It’s the first time in years he says he didn’t feel like the clock struck midnight alone.

And then it’s early spring when the air still carries a bite, but hope tugs at the breeze, and the library windows are cracked open just enough to let in the soft scent of damp earth and blossoms. Another Sunday morning slips by in bright colours and sing-song voices. The preschoolers are wired after too many jelly beans and fruit snacks, and your throat is hoarse from all the reading and laughing and directing of tiny hands and wandering feet.

Yuji’s one of the last to leave today, tucked into a hoodie with a smiling dinosaur on the front and smudges of marker down his sleeve. His father, Jin, arrives for pickup for once, tired, polite and smiling faintly as he waves you a quiet hello from the doorway. You nod back, wiping down the last of the table.

Yuji takes one look at his dad, then hurries over to you. You expect the usual wave, the quick, cheery “Bye!” with a lollipop in hand.

Instead he hugs you. Tightly.

His little arms wrap around your legs, and he presses his head gently to your stomach. It stuns you for a second. The room quiets. You rest a hand gently on the back of his head, fingers carding through his messy pink hair as he exhales slowly, like he’s holding in something far too big for his body.

“I’m glad you kept my list,” he whispers into your sweater. “You made Uncle Kuna not-sad anymore.”

Your chest tightens. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, soft and sudden. You bend down, crouch to his level, and cup his cheeks lightly as you meet his gaze.

“Oh, darling…” you say, smiling through the lump in your throat.

Yuji nods fiercely, as if there’s no doubt in his mind. “He laughs more now. And he doesn’t yell when my brother breaks something.”

You laugh at that, blinking fast to keep from crying. “Yeah? That’s good.”

“He lets me watch cartoons without saying they rot my brain,” Yuji adds, very seriously. “That means he’s not grumpy anymore.”

You smooth down his hoodie, then ruffle his hair, voice gentle. “I think a lot of that is because of you, you know.”

Yuji tilts his head. “But you love him.”

You suck in a small breath, because it’s not a question. It’s not a guess. It’s a child’s certainty.

And you realise, somewhere in your bones, that it’s true. You do. In the quiet, patient, warming way that love blooms after being watered slowly, not rushed. Not forced but real.

Yuji grins and scampers back to Jin, who lifts him easily into his arms and gives you a respectful nod. They leave, and the library is quiet again.

You sit down on the edge of the rug, palms resting on your knees, staring at the scuffed corner of the bookshelf. And then, without even needing to think about it, your mind goes to him. To Sukuna.

To how he looks when he first walks in your door after work, tie loose, brow furrowed from the day, but relaxing the second he sees you. To how he always moves closer to you in his sleep now, pulling you in before he’s even awake. To how he chuckles more easily, with his whole chest. How he’s started remembering people’s names. How he ruffles Yuji’s hair instead of sighing at him. How Choso only rolls his eyes now when Sukuna mutters, “What did I say about the microwave?”

And through it all you're there. A constant. A presence that doesn't push, doesn't demand, but simply is.

You don’t say anything about the list anymore. But it still lies on your desk, slightly curled, covered in smudges and taped once in the corner where it tore.

You keep it there like a compass. A silly, sticky artefact of what brought you here. Of what grew from it.

Sometimes, in the quiet lull between dinner and bedtime, when the house is heavy with warmth and the softness of shared comfort, you catch him looking at it.

Yuji’s list sits exactly where you left it on the corner of your desk in the small nook of your apartment you’ve fashioned into a workspace. It’s wedged gently between a half-burnt vanilla candle and a ceramic mug filled with mismatched pens and broken pencils. The paper has curled at the edges with time, stained faintly by what you suspect was juice from the Sunday Yuji brought it to you, and the marker writing is smudged in places, tiny fingerprints pressed into the ink like a child’s seal of sincerity.

You’ve never told Sukuna that you kept it. Not aloud. But he sees it. And you see him.

He never stops long, just a few moments as he passes by on the way to refill his glass or grab something from the coat rack. He’ll pause, hands in his pockets or fiddling with his phone, his eyes resting on the list like it holds a secret he hasn’t fully let himself unpack.

You’re never sure what’s in his mind when he stares at it. Amusement? Gratitude? But the expression on his face is neither cold nor mocking. It’s quiet, the way a heavy breath is quiet. Like there’s weight behind it he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

And you, well, you pretend not to notice. Until tonight.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the warm pools of amber from the floor lamps and the flicker of a documentary playing quietly on the TV. You’re curled up in your favourite spot on the couch, a knitted throw wrapped around your legs and the last half of a glass of wine cradled between your hands. The rain taps against the windowpane, steady and soothing, like the universe is giving the night a rhythm to fall asleep to.

Sukuna crosses the room from the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood flooring, still dressed in the black t-shirt and soft grey sweatpants he changed into after work. His hair is damp from a shower, pushed back haphazardly, and there’s something disarmingly domestic about the sight of him like this, relaxed and unguarded, like he belongs here in your living room. Like he always has.

But he stops. Right in front of your desk.

Your breath stills the moment you see his gaze fall on the list.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, heart thudding softly in your chest. He doesn’t touch it this time, just stands there, the muscles in his back tense under the cotton of his shirt, his head tilted slightly like he’s reading each line over again. Slowly. Carefully. Like the words still mean something.

Like they always did.

Your stomach flutters, not with nerves, but with something deeper. Something like ache. Like understanding.

Because it’s not just a list. Not anymore. It’s the thread that pulled you here. The little absurdity that bridged the space between a quiet, stubborn man and the woman who would come to love him.

He reaches out, fingers just brushing the corner. You hear the faintest sound, the paper crinkling beneath the weight of his hand, and then he draws back.

His eyes lift and they find yours.

He looks startled at first, caught. His shoulders stiffen, jaw tensing as if he’s expecting you to tease him, or worse, ask him what he’s doing.

But you don’t say a word.

Instead, you smile. Small. Warm. The kind that says, I see you. I see all of you and I’m not going anywhere.

Sukuna breathes out through his nose, barely a sound, but you feel it. The way something in him softens. Like muscle uncoiling. Like something brittle finally being let go.

He moves toward you, slow and steady, and when he sits beside you on the couch, the cushions dip with his weight. He says nothing, but his arm comes around you like instinct, drawing you into the side of his body. His touch is solid and sure, palm firm over your waist, like he needs the grounding as much as you do.

“Still can’t believe you kept that thing,” he murmurs finally, voice low and slightly rough from disuse. His breath tickles your temple.

You shift closer, nestling into him, letting the heat of his body seep into yours. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He huffs. A real laugh, faint and sharp-edged. “Tch. Kid got lucky.”

You glance up at him, smiling into the curve of his jaw. “Maybe we all did.”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. But his hand moves, up your side, along your ribs, fingers tracing soft, thoughtful lines into your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

And you feel it. All of it. The gratitude he doesn’t know how to say. The tenderness he’s still learning how to hold. The quiet, relentless love that’s taken root inside both of you without fanfare or permission.

He shows you in how he listens. How he waits. How he touches you at night, not with hunger alone, but with reverence. How he learns your patterns and preferences, the books you reread, the sound you make when something moves you, the way your eyes crinkle when you’re smiling for real.

He shows you in the way he says your name, and in the way he says nothing at all, just presses his forehead to yours in the dark, arms around your body, like he’s finally found home.

And you—you love him.

With your hands. With your laughter. With the way you kiss his shoulder when you pass behind him in the kitchen. With the way you hold space for him even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You keep the list on your desk like a compass.

Because even if it began as a joke, sticky, messy and childlike, it carried something true. Something sacred. And now, all these months later, Sukuna is still here. And you are still his. And the list is no longer a beginning.

It’s a promise.

[skelly-words]

| thinking ab the look on sukunas face when she says “dada!” 1st !

the competition starts off as a joke. mostly.

you’re lying on the floor one afternoon, baby between you and sukuna, all squirmy limbs and drooly grins. she’s nearly one now — chubby cheeks, curls in every direction, her favorite hobby is throwing expensive things off tables and laughing like she’s done something groundbreaking. she’s also been babbling nonstop for weeks: ba ba ba, ga ga, ahh!

“any day now,” you say, wiggling your fingers in front of her face. “come on, sweetheart. say mama. you know you love me more.”

sukuna snorts from the other side of her, one hand propped under his chin. “in your dreams. she’s a daddy’s girl. always has been.”

“she literally bit your finger this morning and laughed.”

“because she’s my daughter. feral and mighty.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s too full to argue. especially when your daughter blinks up at you both, fists curled tight, mouth opening and closing like she’s almost got it.

from that day on, the war begins.

it’s ridiculous. every spare second, one of you is whispering sweet nothings into her ears like she’s a tiny, impressionable oracle.

“mama,” you say sweetly as you rock her to sleep. “say ma-ma, baby. you can do it. ignore the big scary man.”

“dada,” sukuna whispers like it’s sacred, holding her in one arm while pouring juice with the other. “you wanna say dada, don’t you? you love your old man.”

he even cheats — you catch him once holding her favorite stuffed animal hostage until she says something even vaguely “da”-adjacent. she just smacks him in the face with it and shrieks.

score: baby 1, sukuna 0.

but then—one lazy sunday morning—everything changes.

you’re in the kitchen, humming to yourself, trying to pour cereal with one hand and not burn toast with the other. your daughter is sitting in her high chair, hair wild, cheeks puffed out like a tiny chipmunk, watching sukuna pace around the room shirtless and still half-asleep.

he stops to lean against the counter, eyes still heavy-lidded, and yawns out, “hey, gremlin, what do you want? you hungry?”

and then—

“dada!”

the spoon in your hand clatters into the sink.

sukuna blinks. straightens. turns to her like she’s just summoned a divine prophecy.

“…what did you say?”

“dada!” she squeals again, tiny hands smacking the tray. “dada dada dada—!”

and sukuna — sukuna, the king of curses, the war god with enough arrogance to swallow cities — makes the most inhuman noise in the back of his throat. and you see him smile like never before.

he grabs her from the high chair, lifts her high into the air like she’s made of gold and sunlight. “say it again,” he begs, spinning her in a circle as she giggles, squeals, clutches at his face. “again, princess. say it again for dada!”

“dada!” she shrieks, absolutely thrilled with herself.

“that’s my girl,” he breathes, cradling her close and pressing his forehead to hers. “that’s my girl!!”

you’re watching from the doorway, arms crossed, heart squeezing painfully.

you should be annoyed. you should tease him, remind him how smug he’s going to be for the next forty years. but you can’t. not when he looks like that — glowing, flustered, borderline emotional. his hands are so gentle. his voice is just a whisper.

he turns and sees you watching. freezes.

“…don’t,” he says quickly, brows furrowed. “don’t make that face.”

“what face?”

“that face.”

you smile. “not my fault you’re a big softie.”

“shut up.”

“you’re blushing.”

“it’s warm in here.”

he’s still holding her like she’s the world’s most precious artifact. she’s started chewing on his shoulder now, drooling through his shirt.

“dada,” she says again, this time softer. like a secret.

and you swear you see his throat bob.

“…you win,” you admit quietly, walking over to kiss the top of her head. “but only because that was the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.”

“damn right i win,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her tiny knuckles. “she knows what’s up.”

“guess we both do.”

you press a kiss to his cheek this time, and his ears go pink.

—

perm taglist : @whorishminds @throatgoatgeto

[skelly-words]

i volunteer as punching bag 🫡🫡

MMA Fighter Sukuna!! Link for twitter post

(Also a shading study of @kcokaine!!)

[skelly-words]

nerd!armin trying to study while you rock your hips back ‘n forth on his lap is like trying to play pool with a rope… <3

17- dni. long stry short ur dry humping & making out with armin ‘n he just nuts in his pants lolll

he was supposed to be studying.

you told him he could focus. told him you’d be good. just sit on his lap and scroll through your phone, mind your business. no distractions.

but your shorts were too small.

and your thighs were too warm.

and your body was too fucking soft.

he’s not even pretending to study anymore. textbook open, highlighter dry, brain absolutely fried. armin’s arms are wrapped tight around your waist, hugging you like a lifeline, forehead tucked under your chin like he needs your warmth just to survive.

his brain has left the chat since you’ve placed yourself right on his lap. right over his pulsing dick.

and when you shift your hips—just a little, just enough to tease—he lets out the softest, most pathetic moan you’ve ever heard in your life.

“baby…”

you giggle, low and syrupy. “what?”

“please don’t do that. i can’t—fuck, i can’t take it.”

he sounds like he’s about to cry. all breathy and high and whiny. and you’re not even doing anything yet. you’re just sitting pretty, thighs spread over his lap, titties spilling out your tank top while his glasses fog up against your skin.

you look down at him. “you’re so cute when you’re desperate.”

his hands slide down to your plush hips and squeezes it, making you gasp. “m’not desperate,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. “just… distracted. you’re distracting.”

“i’m not even moving.”

“you’re breathing.” he practically whimpers. “your thighs are so warm. your face is so—so beautiful. and—and you’re sitting right on my—”

you grind as a response to him.

slow. deep. and he gasps.

his hips jerk up so fast it almost knocks the air out of you. his breath hitches in his throat, arms trembling around your waist.

“fuck, i—don’t do that. p-please.”

“why not?” you whisper, nosing at his cheek, trailing your lips to his ear. “are you gonna cum in your pants, ‘minnie?”

he whines. literally whines.

“not if you keep teasing me—i-i mean it, i’m close already, i can’t—”

you cut him off as your lips finds his.

hard. sloppy. tongue-first.

the kind of kiss that’s all lips and spit and teeth, hot and messy and loud. your hand slips into his hair, pulling just enough to make him moan into your mouth. and he kisses you back like he’s dying, like he needs you, like he’s addicted to every inch of you. like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen.

his hands clutch your thighs—like full-on grabbing fistfuls, trembling and tight. he spreads them a little wider, just enough to rut up into you again.

and armin’s so loud. moaning into your mouth. gasping.

mumbling things like “you feel so good” and “so fuckin’ warm” and “i love you i love you i love you” in between wet, open-mouthed kisses.

you try to tease—pull back and look at him—but he chases your mouth like a dog. like he needs it. he grabs your hips, rolls you down against him with the dirtiest little cry in his throat.

his eyes are all glassy. cheeks red. glasses crooked. there’s spit on his lips and his neck and your chin, and your tank top’s practically useless now. tits spilling over, thighs sticking to his jeans, panties soaked through.

and he’s still going.

rocking into you like he can’t stop. like he won’t.

“shit—shitshitshit—baby—oh my god, please, i’m—”

and you can feel it. the twitch.

the way his body tenses. the way his jaw clenches. his brows furrow and his head lulls back, mouth still on yours. the way his whole chest jerks once, twice—

and then he just breaks.

he cums in his jeans. loudly. messily. pathetically.

he’s moaning your name, clinging to your waist and ass, pressing kisses to your collarbone like it’ll ground him.

his hips keep moving, slow now, desperate for every last drop of friction. and when you stroke the back of his neck, soft and slow, he actually whimpers.

“you okay, baby?” you whisper, smiling against his temple.

he nods. but he’s shaking.

“i—i love you,” he mumbles again, completely dazed, “i love you so bad it’s—it’s fucking stupid.”

why r my pants down ??? 😂😭🤣 pt.2 soon because i think armin deserves to beat down some doonies. yup yup yup

[skelly-words]

Silco wouldn’t call himself inexperienced. 

When it comes to sex, he’s had his fair share of experiences. Gorgeous eyed women batting their lashes at him, men with egos larger than what they actually had to offer making sultry advances at the bar when a few drinks have been had— distant memories of the past, of himself when he was younger. Even though it feels like it was a different person doing all of those things, the actions are committed to his memory in a manner that allows him to reuse that same knowledge with present lovers. 

But in the middle of all the lying and deceit he’s come to shape his life around, he couldn’t bear the idea of taking anyone to bed again. He had too many things to deal with, and even if it weren’t for the fragile nation he had to run day and night, he wasn’t sure when innocent touches would stop feeling like they’re just excuses to reach for his neck. 

The mistrust and cynicism didn’t immediately diffuse when you stepped into the picture. 

He still kept a safe distance, double checked the locks to his bedroom, kept a dagger on him at all times, you could even say he slept with it under his pillow (which he did, something sevika told you over your weekly drink.) And even though you’d shown unshakeable loyalty while working for him, he always kept his expectations low, knowing that that's the only way to avoid being disappointed. 

It took one passionate, and slightly tipsy, declaration of your feelings for his defenses to start falling apart at their rusty abused hinges. Persistence and starry eyes in the middle of the dark— present at every turn, he cannot outrun this one— send the rest of his walls crumbling before he’s aware of what’s happening. 

And even though he’s had sex before, he’s never had it like this. 

He’s never had it the way he does with you. 

When you make love, it’s something he’s become familiar with. The curves of your body perfectly fitting into his palms, your wet tongue in his mouth, the sounds that escape when he digs his sharp teeth into your neck, all things he’s come to memorize during the months you’ve been together. And even though he had been reluctant at first, he found a lost, broken part of himself in the bed you marked as yours. 

For the first time in years, the bedroom felt like an actual part of his home again. 

But what he still hasn’t gotten used to is the look in your eyes after the act is done. 

You’re usually quiet, deep breaths and glistening skin, head turnt as you recover from your devastating high. There’s a silent understanding between the two of you about things lovers usually realize after the experience— like the fact that you could easily ruin him any day you wished to, your fingers warm bullets over his skin, or that he’s slowly but surely ruining everyone else for you. The knowledge that you’ll live the rest of your life comparing other lovers to him if this ever ended. 

It’s silent chaos under the soft moonlight peeking through the blinds of your now shared bedroom. And part of him, the one that’s not powered by hormones anymore, is almost fearful that you’ll turn to him and declare that he’s as unloveable as he sometimes fears he is. 

But you never do. 

Instead, you turn to him with a coy smile and watch him tentatively clean up the mess he made. On the nights where you’re thoroughly exhausted, you postpone your bath to the next morning and he retires to your side like he needs to hold you close to breathe again. If you notice his desperation, you don’t say anything. 

You lay in his arms and stare at him some more, you stare at him until he asks you to close your eyes and go to sleep because you both have important things to tend to in the morning. You laugh and he can’t hold back his smile. You whisper compliments and plant short sweet kisses across his jaw and down his neck. You call him gorgeous, stunning, sexy, irresistible, and his chest that has grown accustomed to the tarry smoke of the mines is overwhelmed by the gush of fresh air. 

You always fall asleep first, and he stays up far too late admiring the look on your face when you’re knocked out in his arms, wondering if he’s ever going to get used to being adored like this.  

[skelly-words]

kakaashi my beloved

[skelly-words]

me watching the shibuya arc

you found it disgusting and immoral i found it sexy and arousing that’s why i’m happier than you

[skelly-words]

vampirism poses the question "what if there was a fundamental, horrible, unending well of want in your soul that, if truly satisfied, would lead to great pain for all those you hold closest and, in turn, their absolute and total revilement of you?" and naturally as a person with no problems I don't relate to this in any way at all.