Can't touch me, like Gojo—Look good in all my photos
There is no sweeter sound than the no she provides in this moment. In the wrong context, that sounds extremely sketchy, but it perfectly suits the now of this. It means they're done scraping raw the things that have hurt them the most, skinning as much of the hurt away as they can and packing in discussion and compromise so that now something close enough to healing can start. Some days will be better than others still, he's sure. Some it may scar, or linger in ways they don't even realize yet, but it's no longer an infection of worry and avoidance brewing. It's all the responsibility wadded up at long last, leaving nothing left but to be utterly irresponsible now, and his hands mean to act up as soon as possible. Or they were.
Now he gives them up to the shackles of his wife's fingers, already caught for just his thought crime. The curve of them presses his hairtie in tighter around his wrist, the feeling more comfort than bind. A wolf's smile claims him as he bends to her will, arms raised overhead in surrender to the pour of her body against him. A breathy exhale of approval breaks free, the sound low and long as it eases from the seat of his desire deep inside him. "You—" he begins in admiration, but as she fits herself to him, hip to hip, all pretense for language dissolves into a growl. His body responds instantly to the contact, tightening beneath her like a drawn bowstring. Heat floods through him, chasing the line of her hips against his, and he tips upward to meet the pressure without even thinking about it.
Her remark tugs up one side of his expression in a crooked grin, head tilting faintly into the scrawl of amusement. Sipping on her breath like it's are a hit all on its own, he murmurs a "that so?" His voice is soft, pushed out with exhale more than spoken. His attention drifts to the closeness of her mouth, to the warmth of her breath against his lips. The space between them suddenly feels unbearable. He leans forward, intent on closing it, but her next comment sparks the beginning of a protest. He only manages to pull back a touch, eyes widening, but the rest of his defense never forms before it’s swallowed whole by the force of her kiss.
He doesn’t melt into it. Instead, he pushes back with equal hunger, mouth meeting hers with a low, feral sound as if he intends to win the argument with his tongue one way or another. There’s nothing gentle or tentative about it, just the heady mix of relief and want, the ache of missing her after being apart and the spark that's caught after all the friction of the fight between them. His shoulders roll, wrists twisting in her grasp until the restraint feels less like capture and more like a challenge. With a low, breathless rumble, he slips one hand free, then the other, the motion quick and impatient, like the last threads of his restraint snapping. His grip finds her waist at once, fingers firm and certain, claiming the curve of her as though he has every right to it.
He rises in a single, fluid motion, hauling himself up from the couch with her still pressed to his chest, her body gathered in the cage of his arms. The movement is instinctive, all heat and momentum, like something wild and hungry finally given permission to move. For a heartbeat he just stands there with her, breath warm against her mouth, arms tight around her as though he can’t quite decide if it's worth untangling from her for even a moment or moving her where he ultimately wants her.
Now he gives them up to the shackles of his wife's fingers, already caught for just his thought crime. The curve of them presses his hairtie in tighter around his wrist, the feeling more comfort than bind. A wolf's smile claims him as he bends to her will, arms raised overhead in surrender to the pour of her body against him. A breathy exhale of approval breaks free, the sound low and long as it eases from the seat of his desire deep inside him. "You—" he begins in admiration, but as she fits herself to him, hip to hip, all pretense for language dissolves into a growl. His body responds instantly to the contact, tightening beneath her like a drawn bowstring. Heat floods through him, chasing the line of her hips against his, and he tips upward to meet the pressure without even thinking about it.
Her remark tugs up one side of his expression in a crooked grin, head tilting faintly into the scrawl of amusement. Sipping on her breath like it's are a hit all on its own, he murmurs a "that so?" His voice is soft, pushed out with exhale more than spoken. His attention drifts to the closeness of her mouth, to the warmth of her breath against his lips. The space between them suddenly feels unbearable. He leans forward, intent on closing it, but her next comment sparks the beginning of a protest. He only manages to pull back a touch, eyes widening, but the rest of his defense never forms before it’s swallowed whole by the force of her kiss.
He doesn’t melt into it. Instead, he pushes back with equal hunger, mouth meeting hers with a low, feral sound as if he intends to win the argument with his tongue one way or another. There’s nothing gentle or tentative about it, just the heady mix of relief and want, the ache of missing her after being apart and the spark that's caught after all the friction of the fight between them. His shoulders roll, wrists twisting in her grasp until the restraint feels less like capture and more like a challenge. With a low, breathless rumble, he slips one hand free, then the other, the motion quick and impatient, like the last threads of his restraint snapping. His grip finds her waist at once, fingers firm and certain, claiming the curve of her as though he has every right to it.
He rises in a single, fluid motion, hauling himself up from the couch with her still pressed to his chest, her body gathered in the cage of his arms. The movement is instinctive, all heat and momentum, like something wild and hungry finally given permission to move. For a heartbeat he just stands there with her, breath warm against her mouth, arms tight around her as though he can’t quite decide if it's worth untangling from her for even a moment or moving her where he ultimately wants her.
Kaisel
Sexy jutsu, I feel like Naruto—Fightin' demons in my head like I'm Itadori
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
