take the path less traveled

The setting of your introduction is stupid, perhaps even a smidge surreal. Whoever has said that the lord works in mysterious ways was right, because in no way did you ever think that you’d cross paths with your future husband while stopping to look at some random dude poisoning his liver on top of a beer keg.

But here you are.

Temporarily halting your search for your friends who have probably fucked off to god knows where by now, you watch as two of the guy’s buddies hold both of his legs, supporting his weight. Meanwhile, the others circle him; laughing, causing noise, and chanting in unison to make him keep on chugging by any means possible.

Seeing as to how they’re getting increasingly more persistent and wilder at egging him on, you suppose it’s safe to say that the poor sucker has probably been dared to do a stupid thing like getting absolutely shit-faced while upside down. He’s clearly trying to prove himself, maybe even attempting to impress his mates for whatever reason.

And speaking of his mates; they’re all dressed the same, the boys. Whenever you point your gaze in their general direction, there’s nothing but jeans, t-shirts and an outright sea of your university’s signature red and white colours that make up the varsity jackets they’re always seen wearing on campus. When they’re grouped all together like this, it’s like someone ate too many peppermint candies all at once and had projectile vomited all over them as a result.

To say that they’re predictable would be an understatement. They wear those clothes like a uniform.

And they remind you of clowns because of it, and also because of how atrociously dumb, loud and just plain obnoxious they are to watch and listen to. It’s always ‘bro this’ and ‘bro that’ when it comes to a group of rowdy jocks, and as far as you’re concerned, the ‘bros before hoes’ personality type does not come even close to being in your field of interest. Furthermore, there’s even a lesser chance that it’d ever appear on your radar in the first place.

However — because yes, there’s always a however when it comes to things like these — this particular time, one of the so-called ‘bros’ does indeed manage to catch your eye.

It’s the unfortunate star of the show; the one who’s still fighting for his life on top of the keg, and whose last name you can’t see sewn into the back of his jacket from how he’s got his front turned towards you instead.

Of course it’s him.

You swear that you don’t mean to get intrigued, but it just happens. And you also don’t mean to look at him when you’re on the move again, trying to squeeze yourself past the entire chaos they’re indulging in, but the way his shirt slips down his front right as you come closer, makes you unable to resist throwing a second glance.

You can’t be blamed, not truly anyway. His skin is tan from summer and it’s smooth, and his biceps bulge even when they’re mostly hidden by the signature jacket. They must be big as hell if they can make the sleeves pull taut around his arms like that. It causes your throat to feel embarrassingly dry all of a sudden.

You submit to taking a large gulp of your makeshift cocktail, hissing at the bad taste to accompany it. But even if you’re suddenly thirsty, the fact that he’s big, fit and built like one of those greek sculptures that you saw just last week during your trip to the museum does not really surprise you all that much.

Considering that he’s an athlete and is probably allowed to walk on campus grounds only because he got granted a sports scholarship, you’ve sort of expected him to look the way he does. At least from a physique-like perspective, that is.

But what you don’t expect is a tiny little tattoo etched into that smooth, sun-kissed skin. It’s situated just above the right side of his v-line, and it succeeds in catching your eye.

The ink itself is nothing special, you’ve seen different versions of it plenty of times before. It’s a basic zodiac sign symbol — the cancer one, specifically. Two lines that circle each other, thin enough to go completely unnoticed by most. That is if you’re someone who doesn’t spend their precious free time ogling at men’s pecs like some freak.

Nevertheless, even if the tattoo is nothing out of the ordinary, the question that slowly begins to take form inside your brain is.

Why on earth does he of all people have a tattoo like that?

Before you can satisfy your newly-sparked curiosity any further, his caramel skin gets covered by his white t-shirt as it slides down his torso once more, right over his belt buckle. And much to your dismay, that also means that the little piece of ink that you’d been weirdly zeroing in on disappears from your line of sight just as well.

It’s a bummer that the only thing that makes him somewhat unique becomes obscured now. You can’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment as you watch him, with what you hope is a discreet enough look, when he gets set back on his feet again with the help of his friends who’d been dutifully holding onto him this entire time.

Now that he’s got his back turned towards you, his last name becomes visible at long last. Seeing it in big, bold letters, you make sure to write down a quick mental note of looking him up on social media by the time you get back home.

Inuzuka. It doesn’t exactly ring a bell, though it’s not completely unfamiliar either. You think you can remember hearing that name being called out in class before, but at the same time there are so many students that you’ve never made the connection. Maybe it wasn’t even him. Who knows, maybe his cousin goes here too, or something?

Your fingers start to itch with desire to pull your phone out of your pocket while you keep pondering your options. Typing his last name and the school he goes to in the search bar sounds like a great idea now and would surely provide you with fruitful results, but perhaps it’d be best if you succumbed to your little stalking session tomorrow, when you’re sober and your movements are less prone to disaster.

After all, you wouldn’t want any accidental, surely embarrassing clicks to happen, now would you?

Sighing in defeat, you look up again just in time to see him stumble a bit. The soles of his Jordans are back to touching the sticky porch of this godawful frat house that your friends had persuaded you into visiting, and it’s funny how desperate he is to keep them that way.

They’re creased, the shoes, but he doesn’t seem to care about that. Judging from how he catches his balance by stepping onto the tips of his toes for a quick second then, you don’t really anticipate any kind of fuss to be heard from him. Instead, he extends his arms and starts to flail them to lessen the risk of toppling over.

This drunken version of him moves like a baby penguin would.

Like it or not, you catch yourself feeling the tiniest bit impressed by the fact that he’s still able to stand, and even more so that he’s holding his footing rather efficiently. If you consider how much he’s just drank, he should have been dropping to the floor five minutes ago.

You wish that you could say the same about your own tolerance. You’re just like that song that had been playing earlier; gimme one margarita, imma—

He turns around then, and fuck, you don’t mean to, you seriously don’t mean to, but you let a small chuckle slip past your glossy lips as you watch how he blinks and then proceeds to shake his head from side to side.

Forget a baby penguin. This one’s like a dog.

And he’s cute, too. His eyes are big and brown like a puppy’s, and his hair is wild; it sticks out in whichever direction it chooses before he tames it into submission with a faded baseball cap that his friend playfully slams onto his head, now.

The bridge of his nose crinkles and his lips break into a cheesy grin as he readjusts the brim of the cap. He looks like he’s just finished trying to sort out his blurred thoughts that are becoming laced with cheap beer — just like his blood surely is by now — and is feeling appeased with the result.

Considering his appearance, you wonder if he even has any other thoughts, aside from beer, football and pussy.

It’s not like it matters, really. Plenty of other thoughts or none at all, the fact that you think of his mannerisms as somewhat attractive remains set in stone.

You like him.

Well, kind of.

The infatuation struggles a bit when he chooses to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and proceeds to roar with utmost delight right after the liking had taken fruition in your brain.

“FUCK YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ‘BOUT, THAT’S HOW IT’S FUCKIN’ DONE!”

You feel yourself tensing in mellow repulsion at how powerful his voice is to boom amongst the cheers of his equally as loud friends. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak — or should you rather say scream? — but something tells you that you’ll be hearing a lot more from him tonight.

He’s just so… male-like.

And now he tips his head back, exposing his muscular neck, and laughs as his buddies start to pat his shoulders. They nearly start jumping from how giddy they’ve just become because of a thing as silly as a successful keg stand. The scene to unfold before you is so immature and boyish that it makes you want to roll your eyes.

But it also makes you… want to fuck him.

Well, kind of.

It’s no wonder to be honest; you’ve always had a thing for assholes. And this particular one laughs from the heart and grins like a wolf.

His smile is as sharp as it is divine. You must admit that you wouldn’t mind watching it in the bathroom mirror that’s just down the hall, to the left. Wouldn’t mind ogling at those fangs of his as he bends you over the sink, sinks balls deep into your warm cunt and fucks your soul out, not just your brains.

If you think about it long and hard, you can nearly feel the strokes. Fantasizing about him screwing you to the brink of death in some dingy bathroom while there are people knocking on the other side of the door, undoubtedly aware of what kind of sin is surely being practiced inside, makes you shiver with phantom cold even if there’s a faint pulse of heat throbbing between your legs, now.

Shame on you. He’s right there, completely oblivious to your filthy daydreaming whilst he stands just a small distance away, and your panties are getting wet just from the thought of him; just from the sight of him.

You’re already creating scenarios in your head.

You can picture your thighs squeezing together, your skirt being hiked up to your waist. His chest pressing against your spine; body so burly that it makes you nervous. Big hands roaming your sides greedily. His Jordans on each side of your cute little white sneakers as your toes curl inside them. Cum and arousal dripping down your bare legs, down to your ankles, where it gathers and soils your frilly socks.

Fuck the condom in your pocket, you want him to spill his load inside you, so that you can go back to your dorm with something to remember him by.

He looks so mean even if he maybe isn’t. Like the type that would bully you, grab you by the chin and make you watch yourself in the mirror. All while his hand would be squeezing both of your cheeks, making your lips purse to an almost painful degree before he’d wedge two of his fingers into your mouth, prying it open by force — until it’d awaken an ache in your jaw.

He’d press both fingers onto the flat of your tongue, then. Just so that he could hear you choke and gag at the sensation; warm saliva gathering in greater, sloppier amounts, a fat glob of it dribbling past your bottom lip and messing up your tight top. Just so that he could see your eyes water with hot, salty tears, and could feel your cunt squeezing around his cock even more needily than before, in response to your stomach muscles clenching.

All while he’d be kissing your neck, leaving painful hickies on the sensitive skin, his breath hot to brush over your ear.

Look at yourself; look at what a nasty lil’ slut you are. You’re loving this dick so damn much that it’s got you droolin’ all over the fuckin’ place.

Can’t take your eyes off me even for a second, mm? What, are ya so afraid of missing out on me pounding your cunt, that you won’t even blink?

Want me to take a pic…? I promise I won’t show it to anyone; it’ll be just between us. Cross my heart, cutie.

You sigh as you fumble with your hand that isn’t wrapped around the cup so that you can tug on your short skirt. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten laid.

Not that it’s a necessity or whatever, but tonight you’ve come prepared. There’s a condom tucked in your jacket’s pocket and you’ve put in the effort to wear panties that actually match your bra. Even tonight’s shower had been an extra long one.

Now all you need is dick. Preferably one that you’d be able to sit on, and not a dude who just acts like one.

Still relentlessly dragging your eyes all over this Inuzuka person that is now looking at you in return, you silently hope that he’ll offer the former instead of the latter as you take a deep breath and timidly wave at him with the most innocent smile you can muster.

That is if he’ll even offer anything at all.

———

Kiba approaches you first, every footstep of his determined. Of course he does.

The closer he gets, the more agitated your nerves are. Mentally readying yourself for the interaction to come, you don’t have a shred of doubt that it’s because he’d finally spotted you staring at him just a small distance away, assessing him like he’s a big piece of meat that’s meant to be hunted down, instead of a whole-ass person.

And that is exactly what you did. You’ve thrown your net and he’s been caught thrashing under it; all snarls and sharp teeth like that of a beast. It makes your heart beat fast. So fast, in fact, that you’re starting to feel kind of nauseous and sweaty.

If anything, it had been obvious — painfully so. You want to mentally scold yourself for consistently flicking your eyes from the top of his head, down to the tips of his toes, taking in every single one of his beefy features so blatantly, but it’s too late now anyway.

He’s here.

And he’s even bigger while standing next to you; it makes you leer. Much to your surprise, the way you objectify him doesn’t seem to bother him — at least not from the way how he leans into your personal space now, looking at you with eyes that might quite possibly be even hungrier than yours.

Kiba feels good as he approaches you, almost overly confident in his capabilities of crawling underneath a girl’s skin even while being shit-faced to the gods. By the time you finish taking a moment to shyly eye him up from underneath your mascara-coated lashes, he looks like he’s just about ready to pounce on you any second, now.

But not just yet. First, he’s gotta circle you for a bit. Corner you like you’re prey. Figure out what makes you tick, because he obviously doesn’t know how down you are to fuck already.

So a simple “hey” is all he gives you for now.

And an equally as short “hi” is all you reply with.

He looks at you like there’s something in you worth looking at. You stare at each other in brief silence after the greeting, and the quiet is almost sort of comforting instead of awkward. That has to be a good sign, right?

You take your time with observing him. He’s got a pretty face and a presence that somehow makes the air around him feel heavier than it normally is. It prolongs the pauses in the rhythm of your breathing. Makes you inhale just a tad bit deeper than you usually would.

His scent fills your lungs as a result. He smells nice; musky and rich, if you ignore the faint whiff of cigarettes that’s clinging to his jacket.

It doesn’t throw you off, though. One of his friends had been smoking one after the other while standing next to him earlier. The one who always wears his hair in a ponytail and who you’re pretty sure isn’t an actual jock, from the way he barely seems to have any energy left to remain amongst the living.

Shika-something.

“So,” Kiba starts whilst stretching one arm behind his head, but the ‘cut the crap’ expression that falls upon your face immediately makes him quirk a brow in puzzlement instead.

He never manages to finish what he was going to say, because you’re cutting him off with a firm, “Don’t.”

“Huh?” Both of his eyebrows raise at your odd demand this time. “Don’t, what?”

You repeat yourself, “Whatever you were just about to say; don’t.”

“Why?” The little wrinkle of confusion that appears on his forehead as he waits for your answer now is just so cute. Darn it!

“Because,” you say, rolling your eyes even if it’s hard to hide a smile, “just from the look on your face, I could already tell that it was going to be something cringey.”

The tone you use is lighthearted, and you seriously hope he doesn’t think of you as a bitch. You’re taunting him because flirting like a normal person doesn’t seem to be an option for you, not because you want him to leave you alone.

Your heart performs a cartwheel, perhaps even two, inside your ribcage as he pauses to take you in a bit better this time around. You catch the way one corner of his mouth kicks upward with it.

“Something ‘cringey’?” he repeats, clearly amused. “What’s that supposed t’mean? I thought cringe was dead.”

Oh, god. The drawl he uses to speak with is so hot. You’re unsure if the slight mumble is there because of the oversized canine teeth that reside within his mouth, or if it’s just the way he normally talks. Either way, you’re hooked.

“It means like a… uh, like a corny pick-up line,” you explain, trying and failing to gather your thoughts. You’ve seriously got to quit ogling at him if you want to stop appearing dumb. “Or like a really bad joke that’s somehow supposed to make me super wet for you, or whatever.”

Did you just…?

He blinks, obviously taken aback by your choice of words, and it’s like time itself has slammed the brakes and has screeched to a full stop on its tracks. And in that exact moment, you swear that those couple of seconds are the longest seconds of your life.

You shouldn’t drink, it makes you say things without thinking them over first. But it gets even worse.

Because now, he starts to laugh.

“Sorry, I-I, umm—” Your exhale turns shaky as your gaze falls down to your feet. Your shoelaces become the most interesting thing on planet Earth all of a sudden. “I didn’t mean it like… that.”

“Nah, don’t be,” he manages to say before bursting into laughter once more. Rubbing his cheek, he adds, “I thought it was funny.”

They’re quiet little snickers; awfully childish but nice on the ears, despite the embarrassment to flash throughout your slightly tipsy mind. There’s no ill intent behind them, and yet you can still feel a heat of wariness crawling up your neck as you take another sip of your sad excuse for a cocktail and attempt to busy your hands by drowning yourself in this damned drink that you’re holding onto like it’s a shield of sorts.

The alcohol is warm as it travels down to your stomach. Not strong enough to outright burn your throat per se, but still packing just enough punch to make you kiss your teeth in slight disgust. Your own eyebrows draw together at the bitter taste as you finally dare to look up at him again.

He’s biting the inside of his cheek, watching how your lips linger on the rim of the cup.

“What?” you inquire.

“Nothin’,” he utters, stifling yet another chuckle. And then he says, “You’re kind of cute.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your eyes instantly avert at the confession, landing on just about anything else once more. The rush of adrenaline that unexpectedly swoops upon you makes the inside of your chest feel all sorts of weird. Even your palms have turned tacky with sweat.

Still, you somehow manage to control the odd sensation just for long enough to clear your throat and ask, “Am I really, now?”

“Mhmm, yeah,” he answers simply. Like it’s no big deal at all to admit that he’s attracted to you. “I think you’re like a… a proper lil’ cutie, even with all the,” you stiffen and stand straighter as he gestures all over you with one broad hand, “bossing me around stuff that you’ve got goin’ on, hah.”

It’s true. You are cute, and you’ve caught his eye because of it; he wants you, too. The way how hesitant you are to smile in front of him just so that you can keep playing hard to get, how soft your eyes actually get when you forget to harden your gaze, how you talk to him like you’ve know him for an entire lifetime, perhaps two, instead of ten minutes at best — he’s enticed by everything.

And you’re also pretty. He likes the shape of your face and how your lips move when you talk. That the scent of your perfume is present, but not fully overpowering to the point where it would make his head want to hurt. And yeah, the little outfit that you’ve put together is appealing and hugs you in all the right places, that’s for sure, but it’s the way how you have to tilt your head upwards just so that you can make proper eye contact with him, that excites him the most.

You’re just so small compared to him. Shorter. Weaker. Softer. He could hug you and you’d disappear in his embrace. There’s a profound size difference between you, and yet you don’t seem to be intimidated by it — or him in general — at all.

Do you not get that he could crush you with his bare hands if he wanted to?

“Anyways,” pointing to his middle, the tension in your voice gradually loosens by the time you change the subject, “I couldn’t help but notice your tattoo while you were up there, on the keg.”

“Huh…? Oh! What, this ol’ thing?” he says as he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it just enough for you to see the ink again. Someone nearby wolf whistles at the sight, and you try your best not to bury yourself underground. “I’m surprised you even caught it. Must have been lookin’ real hard at me to spot such a tiny tat, mm?”

The teasing wink he gives you then causes you to burn from within. You reach out to punch his shoulder. He lets you and rubs it afterwards, pretending as if he’s in pain.

It’s so simple with him. So easy.

“Ha ha. I mean, how couldn’t I?” you quip with sarcasm, trying to get rid of the tingly feeling in your fingers. “You were right there, with your titties out and everything.”

He starts snickering again at that, and you allow yourself to follow suit this time. Hearing it so up-close, his laughter warms your very bones. You can feel it flowing through your veins, passing through your heart. It’s like your blood has thickened into honey.

He’s absolutely wasted, that much you can tell. There’s a glaze of alcohol that blurs his irises and his grin is appealingly crooked because of it. And yet, even whilst wearing an expression that looks dopey as hell on his face, he still manages to surprise you with how charming he can be.

“I would’ve never pegged you for a guy who’s into astrology, you know,” you say when you’ve both settled down enough to start talking again.

“Yeah? How so?” he asks.

“You just don’t really look like the type to know your birth chart, is all.”

“Oh, that’s ‘cause I don’t,” he tells you, flashing you his teeth once more. The way the dimple in his rosy cheek turns apparent with the smile is to die for. “I got the tat done just ‘cause it looks like a 69.”

Dumbfounded, you halt mid-sip. “Bullshit.”

“No,” he wheezes, vehemently shaking his head. “I’m being f’real, I swear.”

“Lemme just get this straight,” you say, pointing your cup up at him. “You got a tattoo of a zodiac sign on your hip, just because it reminds you of two people fucking each other with their mouths?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’. He almost looks proud.

“Dude.” There’s a short pause as you take the time to sigh. “Whatever, just… Are you even a cancer?”

“Um… I think so?” He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “We can Google it or somethin’, my birthday is in July. Do you have your phone on ya?”

“Dude.”

“Whaaat?”

“Nothing, i-it’s just— A tattoo is permanent, you know? You’ll have to look at it for literally forever, and you just… Ugh! You’re hopeless, okay?! I’ve known you for like fifteen minutes and you’re already making me mad!”

His grin becomes borderline blinding when you start to laugh at how stupid and silly the entire thing is. At how an outrageous of a conversation starter this has become.

However, your laughter ceases abruptly when he leans further towards you again and says, “What’s so funny, huh? Doesn’t a pretty girl like you enjoy a little 69 now and then?”

His voice is so low, it sounds like a purr. It makes your stomach flip.

“Tsch.” You click your tongue against your teeth in faux disapproval. “As if I’m gonna tell you that.”

“That’s fine.” He smirks. Looks you in the eye, his gaze awfully hooded. “How ‘bout you show me instead?”

You’ve told him to shut up earlier, but now you’re kind of glad that he doesn’t want to listen. All of his words are slurred as they roll off his tongue.

By the time Sukuna makes it up to his apartment, he's exhausted. He slumps through the door and haphazardly shucks his soaked coat and shoes in the genkan, and it takes what little remaining energy he has to make it to the embrace of his couch—where he collapses into a boneless heap. He tugs his t-shirt off over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room, and then tips his head back and lets his eyes flutter closed.

His apartment—the one he's always thought was dingy and kind of shit—is warm and comfortable, and offers a welcome contrast to the bleak, rainy day outside. But he recognizes that's thanks, in no small part, to you.

A soft towel lands atop his face.

"So, how was puddle jumping?"

Sukuna lets out a little breath, a laugh maybe, before pulling the towel from his face to peek up at you.

"If he'd been in swim trunks, the brat would've been diving into 'em headfirst."

You laugh, bright and full of fondness, as you shake your head. Knowing Yuuji the way you do, you don't find it hard to believe in the slightest.

"He took his boots off when he got home and at least a litre of water came pouring outta them," Sukuna goes on to add, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jin slipped in it when he ran to get the mop. Fell flat on his ass."

"Poor Jin," you say sympathetically, covering your mouth to hide your laughter.

"Poor Jin?" Sukuna gripes. "I'm the one who was out there in the piss pouring rain for an hour watching his kid jump in mud and who knows what else. I'm pretty sure I've got water in my ears."

You roll your eyes slightly, approaching where Sukuna is seated on the sofa and perching on his lap. Thankfully his shorts had remained fairly dry in the rain, so you don't hesitate to make yourself comfortable there, and his hands find your waist instinctively. "Oh, poor you," you coo as you settle into place, and it's only half-teasing. You take the towel from his hands and gently begin patting at his hair to help dry the rainwater from the strands.

Sukuna doesn't complain while you work to wick the dampness away with careful passes of the towel along his skin. There was a time where he would have been far more hostile to this kind of tenderness. A time when he would have pushed you away if you'd tried to get this close. But now he's docile. More than that, he revels quietly in the attention. Basks in it like a cat stretching out in a patch of afternoon sun. He's not quite sure when exactly that changed, but he's not upset about the development, either.

Sukuna's contemplating this when you shift in his lap, reaching up to towel-off his hair again, and all of the sudden the man below you hisses sharply.

You freeze, eyes wide.

"Hey," you say, your tone soft but concerned. "Is your knee bothering you again?"

Sukuna's previous contentment sours slightly. His cheer dampens, like all of the sudden he becomes too aware of the rainwater clinging to his skin.

"It's fine."

It's probably not fine, actually. He noticed it when he was chasing after Yuuji at the park. A twinge. The familiar, building ache. His old injury always acts up when the weather's bad like this—which, frankly, pisses him off. First of all, because that means his old man was right when he always used to complain about corny shit like that, and second of all because it's a reminder of the injury that altered the course of his life so drastically.

He'd rather not have a reason to think about it.

"Sukuna."

He doesn't acknowledge you, just reaches down and presses his thumb hard into the divot of his knee. It throbs a little, pain blooming in the nerves behind his kneecap, but not necessarily in a bad way. At least this pain is his own doing.

"Hey." Your hand circles his wrist to stop him, and even though he far outranks your strength, he lets your dainty little hand tug his own up and away from his bad knee. You look cross when he meets your gaze. Your expression is uncharacteristically severe. "Don't do that."

"It's not a big deal," he mutters, more than a little petulantly. "I'm just working out the knot."

"Your knee is a joint, not a muscle," you chide him, pushing his hand away to rest on a throw pillow at his side and then reaching down to replace his touch with your own. Yours is far gentler. "You can't work knots out of cartilage and bone."

Sukuna doesn't need you to explain the makeup of a knee to him. He's had enough doctors and physical therapists and sports coaches explain it to him over the years, all with varying degrees of pity in their tones. Fuck, he stared at the anatomical diagram on the back of his orthopaedic surgeon's door for long enough through all those consultations that he's fairly certain he could map it out himself now, listing every grisly, miserable part from memory.

It's shocking how something so small—a mere moment in the last seventeen minutes of a soccer match in his second year of college—could leave him with a lifelong scar.

Sukuna grits his teeth and wills the thought from his mind, like he has so many times before. It's a waste of fucking time to dwell on it.

By the time he returns to himself, he notices how you've slipped from your seat in his lap to kneel between his spread legs on the floor of his living room. Your gentle ministrations against his long-healed injury have helped to ease the dull pain. You peek up at him when you sense his eyes on your face.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, leaning your cheek gently against his knee. Your smooth skin is a stark contrast to the ugly scar that runs vertically up the front of his kneecap. "Do you want some ice for it?"

Sukuna shakes his head dismissively. "I gotta shower anyway. The warm water will help."

You hum, your fingers still tracing gently up and down the length of his scar. You press a kiss to it gently, your lashes fluttering. "You sure?"

Sukuna grunts out some kind of affirmative, but in spite of that he finds himself slumping back a bit further into the sofa. He feels the weight in his chest easing slightly as you touch him. The grip of his sour mood—all of his frustration and resentment and anger that's had so many years to build—seems to slacken a little under your careful attention.

Though your focus is still on his knee, one of your hands has sneakily found its way to the inside of Sukuna's thigh, creeping higher with each passing moment. By the time your touch reaches his rapidly-stiffening cock, he's too preoccupied by the way you drag your tongue all the way up the length of his scar to prepare himself for it.

"Oh, fuck," Sukuna tosses his head back and groans, the sound ripping through his chest as his fingers grip the throw pillow at his side for dear life. It's embarrassing how worked up he is; chest heaving, heat flooding his face. With just a few touches you've totally disarmed him.

"You're a menace," he hisses out, resisting the urge to buck up against your hand as you paw at his lap. Your expression is infuriatingly guileless.

"I'm just trying to help," is all you offer as a reply, hiding your face against the inside of his thigh and nipping at the skin there with your teeth. "You should let me take care of you sometimes."

That's not such a bad idea, Sukuna thinks, especially when you tighten your grip a bit more between his legs and press another searing kiss against his skin. You peek up at him again, your gaze soft and warm, and Sukuna can't help but like being the focus of your attention. Can't deny how good it feels to be cared for by you.

Suddenly, that soggy magazine with its garish fluorescent font and gimmicky headline pops into his brain unbidden. It's a little nauseating to realize that maybe they might be onto something. Maybe being spoiled isn't so bad, at least not if you're the one who's doing the spoiling.