defusing the tsundere

He sat down behind her and pulled her into the V of his legs so the hug and the work were the same thing.

No rush. His chest to her back. One arm around her, a breast in that hand, thumb moving like he had all night and no audience. The other hand went down the front of her, found her clit, and stayed there — not flicking to prove a point, just a slow, wet circle that matched the way he breathed against her hair.

(https://im.ge/i/QQOthT8)
(artist: Kirinvex)

Citlali clicked her tongue.

“You are not a nurse. Stop treating me like one of your—”

He kissed the side of her neck and kept going. She did not finish the sentence.

For a while the headache still sat in her face. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowed at Hiisi as if the island had personally scheduled the voices. She held herself stiff in his arms and pretended the sounds she made were complaints. Five minutes of that, maybe a little more. Then her knees fell open without her giving them permission, a wider seat so his hand could have her properly, and the first climax took the arrangement apart.

She came on his fingers with her head tipped back against his shoulder, mouth open, no insult ready. Her hands went up and back and found his neck, holding him there while her hips pushed into his palm. Lost. Wet. The pain still present at the edges and no longer running the rest of her.

(https://im.ge/i/QQOtLWX)
(artist: Kirinvex)

He did not stop.

The hug stayed. The hand on her breast stayed. He worked her through the shaking and into the next climb, patient, unhurried, until the last of the performance ran out of air. No more do not get the wrong idea. No more rules announced at the dark water. She was just a woman in his lap, coming again with a broken noise she would have denied in daylight, thighs trembling around his wrist.

By the ten-minute mark she had taken over the lower work herself.

Two of her own fingers in, clumsy and greedy, while he left that to her and turned her face with his other hand and kissed her like he meant to keep her in the small field she had asked for. Vigorously. Deep. She made a sound into his mouth every time her fingers curled, and she kissed him back without a single sharp remark attached to it.

(https://im.ge/i/QQOtIj9)
(artist: Kirinvex)

When he broke the kiss she chased it.

“Please,”
Citlali said, quiet, stripped.
“Soft. I want it soft. Hold me and— just— put it in and stay. I do not want to be clever. I want you on me. Slow. Like you are not going anywhere.”

He lifted her and turned her so she sat in his lap facing him, still seated to the root, chests together, nowhere to put a performance.

That was the point. Mouths could stay busy. He could stay deep without turning it back into a chase. Citlali hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him like she had already spent her budget of denial for the night. Slow rolls of her hips. His hands on her waist, then her back, keeping her close enough that the channel and the fire and the voices had to wait outside the huddle.

When he dropped his face between her breasts she made a small, offended sound that almost counted as herself again.

(https://im.ge/i/QQOtiUh)
(artist: depressu)

“Infant,”
she muttered into his hair.
“They are not a pillow. You are not a child. Stop— ah— stop treating them like one.”

He smiled against her skin and did not come up for air immediately.

“They are worth the attention,”
he said, and kissed the inner slope of one, then the other, talking into her instead of at her.
“Soft. Heavy. They fit. You complain like you want me to pretend I have not noticed.”

“That is not—”

He rose and took her mouth before she could rebuild the sentence, tongue deep, unhurried, the same pace as the way he was holding her on his cock. She made a muffled noise that started as protest and ended as her fingers tightening at his nape. Each time she surfaced with another scrap of complaint he kissed it back down. No debate. No score. Just heat and the wet slide of her staying full of him while he calmed the rest of her with his mouth.

Her shoulders dropped by degrees. The line of her jaw eased. When he finally let her breathe she stayed forehead-to-forehead with him, eyes half-shut, no lecture left in them.

“Sleep,” she whispered, as if it had been her idea.

He eased them down onto the sand without pulling out until she was ready to lose him, then tucked her against his chest. Across the fire the others were already claiming their patches of ground. No one asked what the two of them had settled. Hiisi waited on the water, black on black.

Citlali’s breathing evened. The headache let go enough for rest.

She did not know how near the horde in her vision already stood. The night did not tell her. It only let the camp go quiet, and the seer sleep on the man who had kissed the last of the fight out of her.