Two Matches One Vision

He takes her at her word — and he takes his time. His hands don't rush. They move the way he processes everything: like information worth collecting, like he'll be tested on it later and intends to pass. His palms slide slowly from her ribs to her waist, thumbs pressing into the soft sides of the vine just above her hip bones, tracing the lines of the ink with deliberate, unhurried pressure — reading her with his hands the way he read her face in the rooftop dark. Mikki stands perfectly still, the patience costing her everything; her fingers curl loose at her sides, the only visible tell, while the amber lamp catches the slight pull and release of her breathing and the heatwave presses golden and merciless against the glass at his back.

Sukuna: "You're doing very well at that."

"You have no idea." She continues to hold completely still, deciding the praise from him is worth the frusteration - for now.

He goes very still — not the stillness of restraint, but the kind that comes after something lands. His thumbs stop tracing. His hands flatten against the curve of her hips, palms full and warm, and he just holds her there for a moment — reading the weight of what she said the way he reads everything: like it's information he intends to keep. Then, slowly, deliberately, his right hand moves — gliding up her ribs, following the inner line of the vine with his fingertips from hip bone to the edge of her ribcage, tracing every turn the ink makes like he's memorizing a route. The praise lands exactly where she knew it would: it costs her the stillness — her breath sharpens on the inhale, just barely, the only tell she allows herself.

Sukuna: "I'm aware of exactly how much that's costing you."

"Then stop making it hard," Mikki breathes, now all too aware of how the dynamic seemed to naturally shift. "I was supposed to be leading, you know."

The words land and Sukuna's hand goes still — not stopping, just pausing, like a man who has been caught doing exactly what he intended. His thumb rests at the curve of her ribcage, pressure steady, and the corner of his mouth does something she probably wasn't supposed to see. The amber light catches it anyway. He doesn't move toward her and he doesn't step back — he simply lets the silence sit between them for one deliberate beat, his hand still warm against her skin, the AC humming its one patient note while the heatwave presses gold against the glass and the city pretends it's not watching.

Sukuna: "You were. Then you said 'touch me however you want.' — that's a transfer of power, Mikki. You signed the document yourself."

"Well I need it back soon because this - this is driving me crazy." She exhales, still unmoving.

Something moves in Sukuna's expression — not quite a smile, not quite satisfaction, something quieter and more dangerous than either. His thumb, which had gone still, resumes its slow arc along the inside of the vine, pressing just firmly enough that she can feel the intention in it — deliberate, unhurried, the same controlled patience he's been weaponizing since she handed it to him. He lets another full beat pass, the AC humming, the city pressing gold and relentless at the glass, and then his other hand — the left, which has been at his side — lifts and settles at the curve of her waist, completing the hold she's been waiting for. The contact is steady and warm and he isn't moving any faster.

Sukuna: "Then you should have kept the document."

"Please give it back," Mikki pleads, a woman in heat who can't hold on much longer, but strong in her resolve to not force it back.

The word please lands between them like something dropped from a height — small, honest, and impossible to ignore. Sukuna goes absolutely still. His right thumb stops mid-arc against the vine, pressure maintained, not retreating — and his eyes come up from her ribcage to her face with a slowness that feels deliberate, like he needs a full second to decide what to do with the fact that she asked. He reads her — the set of her shoulders, the curl of her fingers at her sides, the way she's still not moving despite everything it's costing — and something happens behind his expression that he doesn't quite manage to keep off his face.

Sukuna: "You said please."

"Please," she repeats, studying his face, looking for clues.

She says it again — please — softer this time, and her eyes are already doing the work, moving across his face with the focused patience of someone reading a map she isn't allowed to see. His jaw. The line of his mouth. The place just below his eye where the marks end and the skin is unmarked. Sukuna holds completely, utterly still under it — her study of him is the most unguarded thing she has done all night, and he knows it, which is exactly why he doesn't move to give her an easy answer. Then something shifts. His right hand — the one that stopped mid-arc, pressure still maintained — resumes its slow trace, finishing the line of the vine up to the edge of her ribcage and stopping there, palm flat and warm and deliberate, and the amber light catches the exhale that moves through him before he decides what to do with all of it.

Sukuna: "There it is — you're not looking for clues. You're looking for permission to stop waiting."

"Please, Sukuna, stop toying with me." She practically begs, "I'm not going to take it from you, I need you to give it to me."

The words land and something in Sukuna finally — finally — moves. Not rushed. Not relieved. Deliberate, the way everything he does is deliberate, like he'd already decided the answer two minutes ago and was simply waiting for her to use the right word. His left hand, still at the curve of her waist, shifts — pulling her in by increments, closing the last half-inch of distance between them until the warmth of his bare chest meets her and there's nothing patient or controlled about the quiet sound she makes. His right hand slides from her ribcage up to the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up with his thumb, and he holds her there — not moving, not kissing her, just making her wait one final beat because he is, at his core, a man who takes what he decides to give and gives it when he chooses to.

Sukuna: "There it is. That's what I wanted — not the stillness. You."

"Sukuna..." Mikki's eyes trailing to his mouth, beginning to lean in, feeling the heat of his bare torso pressed against the heat of hers. "You have me. All of me. Take me. Please."

She says his name like that — soft, deliberate, the lean already happening before her mind catches up — and Sukuna stops running the game. His right hand, still cupped around her jaw, shifts — tilting her face up the last fraction, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw with quiet authority, and then he closes the distance himself, mouth finding hers not rushed, not urgent, but decided — the way a man kisses when he has already had the argument with himself and lost. The amber lamp throws gold across his bare chest pressed warm against her, and he doesn't let her breathe around it. He drinks the please out of her and keeps it.

Sukuna: "Then you have it."

And with that, with power granted back, Mikki grabs ahold of Sukuna, trying her best to push the man who is much stronger than her, onto the bed. "Bed. Now." Her brain is short-circuited and can't find more complex words than those.

She gets both hands flat against his chest and pushes — not a performance, not a tease, a woman who has run out of her last syllable and gone entirely nonverbal — and Sukuna does not move the way a wall moves when you push on it. He moves the way a man moves when he has decided to let you win. He steps back, once, controlled and deliberate, reading the two words she managed — bed, now — with something in his expression that has lost every trace of the game. His hand at her jaw drops to the curve of her shoulder, steadying her as much as directing her, and the corner of his mouth moves — not a smirk, not the one he uses on everyone else — something quieter, more private, reserved for exactly this moment and no one who comes after.

Sukuna: "Two words. You're working with two words right now."

"You wont have any words when I'm done with you," Mikki speaks in a lower register, darker, primal, like the toying Sukuna just gave her unlocked something she didn't know was inside of her. "Get onto the bed and lie on your back."

The words come out of her at a register she didn't know she owned — lower, darker, something primal that Sukuna's games unlocked from somewhere underneath her patience — and the room shifts. He goes completely still. Not the calculating stillness of before, not the performance of it — this is something else, something that happens below the neck, a man encountering something he wasn't prepared for and finding he has absolutely nothing to say about it. His eyes move over her face once, slow and serious, reading the version of Mikki that just appeared, and then he does something she has not seen from him all night. He listens. His hand drops from her shoulder, he holds her gaze for one long, unblinking beat, and then — without a single word — he moves backward to the bed and sits, then leans back onto his elbows with the deliberate ease of a man who is pretending he chose this faster than he actually did.

Sukuna: "...There she is."

Mikki climbs onto Sukuna, and grips his hair, hard with one hand, placing her other on his bicep while she wastes no time placing her mouth on his neck. Kissing, sucking, an earlobe bite. She doesn't pause, doesn't flinch, she's taking what she wants with the energy she's been saving up ever since she first laid eyes on him.

She moves like she decided this before she walked through the door — climbing over him with no ceremony, one hand fisting in his hair and pulling, the other pressing into the solid curve of his bicep, and her mouth finds his neck before he finishes the exhale. She doesn't ask. She doesn't pause. She kisses and sucks and bites his earlobe with the focused patience of someone cashing in every second of restraint she's kept since the first time she laid eyes on him, and the amber lamp catches the line of her spine, the city gold pressing warm at the glass behind them both. Sukuna's hands, which have been so deliberate all night — so controlled, so chosen — grip her hips with something that has nothing planned in it.

Sukuna: "...Hm."

She feels his hands on her hips, and reacts accordingly. She pulls his head to the side, fingers still locked into his hair, allowing her more access to his neck, and she begins to suck - hard, the kind that leaves marks.

She tilts his head with a fist locked in his hair — no asking, just redirecting — and gets exactly what she was after: the full column of his throat, unguarded. Her mouth finds the pulse point and stays there, working slow and deliberate, and the sound Sukuna makes is not the controlled exhale of a man running a game. It's something lower, involuntary, dragged up from somewhere he doesn't hand out access to. His hands on her hips shift — not pulling her away, not directing her — just gripping, the kind of grip that has no plan in it, fingers pressing into her like he's deciding whether to stay still or not, and choosing, over and over, to stay still. The amber lamp throws everything warm and gold and the city heat presses through the glass and neither of them is thinking about any of it.

Sukuna: "You're going to leave a mark."

Mikki temporarily loosens the grip on his hair, running her fingers through it once, then grabbing ahold of him again with a slight yank, a way as if to say I know, shut up, and stay still. She works on his neck, pulling away for a second to admire the mark, before going in for another.

Mikki's fingers loosen through his hair just long enough to feel the weight of it — thick, deliberate, a slow drag from root to end — and then her fist closes again, a single sharp pull that tips his jaw further and tilts the whole world sideways. She lifts her mouth from his throat and looks at what she's done: a mark pressed dark and unmistakable against the column of his neck, blooming with the particular patience of something that wasn't rushed. Sukuna goes absolutely, completely still beneath her — not rigid, not braced, but genuinely, helplessly held — a man who has spent every day of his life in charge of every room he's entered, now choosing not to be. She goes back in. Slow. Like she's finishing a sentence she started and intends to end exactly right.

Sukuna: "...You're going to be very pleased with yourself about this."

"You don't even know what's coming." Mikki threatens, placing her mouth back on his neck, working in a second mark.

She says it against the curve of his neck, low and matter-of-fact, and her mouth is back before the sentence even finishes landing — patient, deliberate, building the second mark two inches below the first. Sukuna's exhale comes out slower this time, controlled right up until it isn't, and his hands on her hips go very still — not passive, not gone, but held. The AC hums. The city burns amber through the glass. She works like she has all night and intends to use it.

Sukuna: "...I'm beginning to believe you."

Mikki draws back, admiring the second mark. With one hand still gripping his hair, she takes the other and runs it along the marks she just made, still straddling him on the bed. "Beautiful..." she whispers, then leans down again to place her mouth on his neck, this time, trailing kisses up, along his jawline, to his chin. "Kiss me," she breathes hot air into his mouth, lips not even an inch away, grazing his.

She draws back and looks at what she's done — two marks pressed dark into his throat, deliberate and unmistakable, and her fingers trace over them lightly, a proprietary drag that is not gentle and doesn't pretend to be. Sukuna goes perfectly still under her touch, not frozen but chosen, jaw tipped back at the angle her fist in his hair left it, eyes tracking her face with the full, unguarded attention of a man who has run out of redirects. She leans down slowly, trailing the route home — mouth at his throat, up along the line of his jaw, a slow deliberate map — and then she stops with her lips barely grazing his, hot breath between them, the whole heatwave-heavy room narrowed to that single inch of air.

Sukuna: "...You're going to make me say it, aren't you."

"Kiss me," she demands, still gripping his hair, the other hand landing on his shoulder.

She demands it — "Kiss me" — with her fist still locked in his hair and her palm pressing flat into the curve of his shoulder, and Sukuna goes very, very still for exactly one second. Not resistance. Something slower than that — a man who has spent his entire life deciding when to move, held at the edge of someone else's timing, and choosing, deliberately, to give it to her. Then his hands on her hips pull, not hard but absolute, and he closes the last inch himself.

Sukuna: "...Fine. Since you asked so nicely."

Mikki matches his energy, kissing deeply, urgently, her tongue wrestling with his, not nothing to be cute or clean about it - this was pure, primal desire, unlocked from earlier's brief power exchange. She pulls back, sitting straight up, breathing heavy. She takes his hands and places them on her breasts. "Play with them. Put them in your mouth." She orders.

She kisses him the way she's been holding back all night — no finesse, no patience, just her mouth on his and her tongue demanding something back, and Sukuna gives it. He doesn't hold the line. His hands come up where she put them, warm and deliberate through the fabric of the crimson dress, and his mouth follows her pull when she sits back — a low exhale dragged out of him by the loss of contact, then his eyes tracking up her body to her face like he's cataloguing damage. She's breathing hard. He's breathing harder than he wants to be. The amber lamp throws everything gold and his open kimono and her marks on his throat and the heatwave pressing through the glass make the whole room feel sealed shut around them — two people past the point of keeping score.

Sukuna: "...You do know exactly what you're doing, don't you."

Mikki lets go of Sukuna's hair, finally, and places both hands on the headboard, scooting up further onto his torso, ber bare breasts right in front of his face. "Yes. Suck on them," she demands.

Mikki releases his hair and plants both palms flat against the headboard — the wood warm from the heatwave pressing through the glass — and she shifts forward, her weight settling higher on his torso, the amber lamp throwing everything gold. She doesn't ask again. She doesn't have to. Sukuna goes utterly, deliberately still for one half-second — the stillness of a man cataloguing exactly what is in front of him and deciding to be grateful for it — and then his hands slide up her ribs, his mouth finding her with the same slow precision he applies to everything that matters.

Sukuna: "...You have a hell of a way of giving orders."

Mikki tips her head back as Sukuna's mouth finds her skin, and she lets out a soft moan of pleasure. She grips the headboard tighter bucking her hips slightly with the contact. "Don't stop." She commands.

Mikki's head tips back, the amber lamp catching the line of her throat, and the sound that leaves her is honest — not performed, not edited for the cameras that aren't here, just real pleasure pulled out of her by his mouth. Her grip on the headboard tightens until her knuckles go pale, and when her hips buck forward it's involuntary and she doesn't apologize for it. Sukuna goes still for exactly one half-second — not stopping, just registering — and then his hands come up her ribs to her back, pulling her closer rather than steadying her, and he does not stop.

Sukuna: "...I heard you."

"Sukuna...." she moans his name slowly, feeling the arousal build - normally she'd be embarrassed to be sitting on top of a man with panties wet from her own arousal - but not now. Not with him. Not after the buildup of tonight. She lets him work a few moments longer, than brakes free, looking down at him, lust clouding her eyes.

His name in her mouth — drawn out slow, like honey pulling from a spoon — makes him go completely still for one half-second, and then something shifts behind his eyes that isn't performance and isn't calculation. It's the look of a man who has heard his own name a thousand times and never quite like that. When she breaks away and pulls back to look down at him, she finds his chest rising and falling faster than he'd ever willingly admit, the amber lamp catching every line of him — the marks on his throat that she put there, the kimono open and useless around him, hands at her hips still warm from where they'd been. He looks up at her like he's taking inventory: the cloud behind her eyes, the flush high on her cheeks, the way she holds herself above him without flinching — and whatever he meant to say gets misplaced somewhere between the thought and the air.

Sukuna: "...You're going to be the actual death of me."

Mikki nods. "Yeah. I'm about to be." She releases her grip on the headboard, and slinks down the bed slowly, a woman on a mission. She positions herself on the bed now, between his legs. She hooks her fingers on his underwear, and looks up at him, as if confirming if this is okay, making him decide.

Mikki releases the headboard and moves — unhurried, deliberate, a woman who has decided — sliding back down the length of him until the bed dips between his legs and she's looking up from a completely different angle. The amber lamp catches the line of her throat, the fall of her hair, the particular stillness of a person who knows exactly what they're doing and is choosing to do it slow. Her fingers hook into the waistband and she stops there — not hesitation, a question — her eyes tracking up to find his face and holding. The room goes very, very quiet around the heatwave and the AC hum and the single lamp. She gives him nothing else. Just the look. Just her hands right there. Just the wait.

Sukuna: "...Yes."

She pulls them down, slowly, down his leg, and off his ankle, dropping them to the floor. She positions herself between his legs again, taking a good look at his member, her breath ragged. She looks up at him, and a slight smile breaks through, "You're even bigger than I thought you'd be."

She draws them down — unhurried, deliberate, the fabric dragging slow off his hip, his thigh, past his knee, off his ankle — and drops them to the floor without looking where they land. The amber lamp throws everything gold across the room, and she takes her time. The AC hums. The heatwave presses against the glass. She settles back between his legs and looks — really looks — and the breath that leaves her comes out ragged, honest, completely unedited.

Sukuna: "...You're going to say that like it's a surprise."

Mikki takes one hand, wrapping around his member slowly, and uses the other to grip his hip. She plants one kiss on the side of its head, eyes not breaking contact from Sukuna's, watching his reaction.

She wraps her hand around him slowly — deliberate, not a question — and the other settles warm against his hip, anchoring. The single kiss she presses to the side of the head is soft and precise and absolutely devastating in its calm, and she doesn't look away from his face for even half a second while she does it. The amber lamp catches everything: her eyes holding his, his chest going still the moment her mouth makes contact — not stopping, not flinching, just going completely, involuntarily quiet the way a man does when something reaches past every defense he built and lands anyway.

Sukuna: "...Don't stop watching me when you do that."

"I'm in charge right now, remember?" Mikki reminds him, tightening the grip on his hips. Even so, she doesn't break eye contact with him as she begins to plant soft gentle kisses on his penis, gradually making them wetter, sloppier, as she travels down his shaft, then up again, keeping her eyes on his the entire time, watching for any reaction from him at all

She works him slow — unhurried, deliberate, a soft kiss pressed to one side and then the other, lips barely parted, just warmth and intention dragging down the length of him and back up again. The kisses go wetter by degrees, quieter by degrees, the only sound in the room the AC's low hum and the slick heat of her mouth moving against him — and she doesn't look away once. Not when his breath hitches. Not when his hand finds the sheets beside his hip and grips without gripping her. She watches his face the way she watches a storm coming: patient, certain, a woman who already knows what the weather does.

Sukuna: "...I know who's in charge. I'm not fighting you."

🔥 slow everything down — make him ask

She slows — not stops, never stops — but the pace drops to something barely-there, mouth just hovering at the base of him, warm breath more than pressure, moving at a speed that means she could stay here all night and she knows it. The AC hums. The amber lamp doesn't move. She feels the sheet beside his hip pull taut under his fist, and she does nothing to relieve that — just keeps the same unhurried rhythm, her eyes tracking up the length of him to find his face, and waits. His jaw is tight. His chest is rising in a way he cannot control. She watches him decide, very slowly, whether to ask.

Sukuna: "...Mikki."

🫦 hold the pace — don't give an inch

She doesn't give him a single millimeter. The pace holds — barely-there warmth, barely-there pressure — just the faintest drag of her lips and the weight of her eyes and the AC humming its indifferent hum. She can feel the sheet pull taut beneath her hand where his fist has clenched it, can feel the precise moment his chest stops rising and falls out of any rhythm he was trying to maintain. She does nothing to relieve it — just holds the pace, holds the look, holds all of it with the particular stillness of someone who has already won and is choosing not to collect yet.

Sukuna: "...Mikki. Don't."

Mikki pauses briefly to ask, "Don't what?" And resumes her slow pace of agonizing kisses.