Rosie

He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.

"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.

His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."

"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."

"No."

He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."

You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.

"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."

"Couldn't—"

"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."

Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.

He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.

"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.

You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."

His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."

"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.

"I heard you the first time."

You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.

"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."

His eyes darken. "That so?"

"That's so."

You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.

"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.

"I know."

And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.

Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.

"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.

He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.

"Still no touching," you remind him.

"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."

"That's the idea."

You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.

"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."

"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."

"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."

"No."

"Cruel woman."

"Learned from the best."

He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.

"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.

"No."

"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.

"Hands on the sofa, Si."

He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.

"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"

"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"

"Fuckin’—Christ—"

You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.

"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.

"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."

"Promise?"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.

— K. GARRICK:

It's your first night together.

Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.

"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.

"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."

"I'll be five minutes—"

"Kyle. Stay."

Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."

"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."

"Yeah?"

You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.

"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Oh fuck," he whispers.

"Good?"

"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."

You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.

"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.

"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."

"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"

You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.

"Don't bloody laugh at me—"

"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."

"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."

"That's what you do to me."

"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"

"That's the point."

His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.

"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"

"Yeah. Whatever you want."

He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."

"Then don't."

"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.

"Kyle—God—!"

"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."

You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.

Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.

"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"

"Yeah."

"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."

One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"

He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."

— J. PRICE:

He tells you to lie down.

Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.

"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."

You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.

His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.

"John," you mewl.

"Quiet."

His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.

"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."

"Because you're staring—" you whine.

"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."

He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"Touch me, John."

"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."

He does it again.

And again.

Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.

"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."

"John, I need—"

"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.

"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.

"Yes—"

"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."

The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.

"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.

He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.

"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"

"On me. Right there—on my—"

"Say it properly."

"On my pussy. Please, John."

"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."

He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.

He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.

"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."

"You're a bastard, John Price."

"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."

— J. MACTAVISH:

"Don't move."

Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.

He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.

"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.

"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."

He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"

"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.

He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.

You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.

Tonight you got tired of waiting.

"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.

"Just the tip."

He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.

"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."

He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."

"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."

He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.

"Can I—"

"No."

"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"

"I said no, Johnny."

He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.

"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"

"Shut up—"

"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."

He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"

"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."

"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"

"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."

He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.

"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"

"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."

"Please—"

"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."

"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"

"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."

He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.

Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.

He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.

"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."

You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."

"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."

— C. REED [ OC ]:

Morning light through thin curtains.

The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.

Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.

"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.

"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."

"So you just… watched me sleep?"

"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."

He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.

The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.

"Cal," you whisper.

"Mm."

"Again?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.

"Yeah," he answers. "Again."

He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.

"We used the last condom," you remember.

"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."

You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.

His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.

"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."

You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.

His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.

"Sensitive," he notes.

"You figured that out last night."

"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.

"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.

"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.

"Being here."

He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.

"There?" he asks against your mouth.

You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"

"I've got you, love."

It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.

He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.

You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.

"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"

"You cook?"

"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."

You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.

The rain didn't stop. It didn't even slow. The clock tower was an island of rust and rot, surrounded by muddy fields and skeletal trees. For the last eight hours, the only sounds had been the rain, the occasional creak of metal, and steady rasp of Ghost's breathing.

You were cold, hungry, bored, and buzzing with a restless energy that had nowhere to go. Your spot was a crate in the corner, a good ten feet from Ghost's position by the south-facing window. It felt like a mile.

You pulled the dossier closer, the laminated pages crinkling loudly in the quiet. You turned to the photo of the target, a man named Volkov. He was a bland-looking man in a suit, but the intel said he was a mid-level arms dealer with a nasty habit of double-crossing his clients.

"Volkov," you said, your voice echoing slightly in the space. "Looks like a middle-manager who got lost on his way to a tax seminar. You think he ever contemplates his life choices, Simon?"

"Focus on the guard rotation," Ghost's voice cut through the damp air, flat and devoid of inflection. He didn't turn his head from the scope.

You sighed, letting your head loll back against the crumbling wall. "I'm just saying. He's got a wife, two kids. A golden retriever, according to this file. You think the dog knows what daddy does for a living? Maybe the retriever's the real brains of the operation."

Ghost's hand, which had been resting on the stock of his rifle, stilled. You saw it in the subtle tension of his shoulder. He was a statue of lethal intent, and you'd just thrown a pebble.

"His personal life is irrelevant," he said. "He's a target. That's all you need to know."

You smirked, a small, victorious curve of your lips he couldn't see. "Just trying to add a little humanity to the situation, LT. It's so cold up here. Might be nice to remember we're dealing with people, not just blips on a map."

He finally turned his head, just enough to pin you with a look from the dark eye hole of his mask. It was a look that could have frozen the rain outside.

"You want humanity? Go join the fucking Red Cross. You're here to be my spotter, not his biographer. Now, report."

You sighed, picking up your binoculars and peering out the north window. "North perimeter is clear. Two guards at the main gate, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. One's smoking. Sloppy."

Ghost grunted, a sound of vague acknowledgment. He turned back to his scope. The silence returned, suffocating. It lasted for about ten minutes.

You shifted again, the rusty nail you were sitting on digging into your thigh. With a groan of protest from the old wood, you stood up, stretching your arms over your head. The movement pulled your jacket tight across your chest.

"Simon," you said, your tone casual as you walked toward him. You didn't call him 'LT' this time. "You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Two highly trained soldiers, sitting in a pile of junk, waiting for one guy to do something stupid?"

"Every day," he replied, his voice flat. "It's called the job."

You stopped right beside him, close enough to smell the faint scent of gun oil. You leaned your hip against the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. 

"Doesn't mean I have to like it. It's boring."

He tensed at the contact. You could feel it radiating off him, a wave of irritation. "Boredom is a luxury, Sergeant. Pay attention."

"I am paying attention," you countered, your voice dropping to a challenging murmur. "I'm paying attention to you. You've been knotted up like a pretzel for hours. You need to relax."

His head snapped towards you, the skull mask a terrifying void in the dim light. He loomed over you, even with you both standing. The size of him was a wall of heat and muscle.

"My relaxation is not your concern. Your concern is the target."

You held his gaze, unflinching. You could see the storm brewing in that single dark eye. "Maybe I'm just trying to be friendly."

"I don't need a friend." He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a finality that was meant to be cutting. "I need a spotter who does her fucking job."

The sting of his words was a familiar thing. But you weren't done. You reached out and picked up the canteen sitting on the ledge beside him, a blatant invasion of his space.

"Thirsty," you announced, unscrewing the cap. "You don't mind, do you?"

You knew he did. It was his canteen. Everything in this nest was meticulously placed, part of a system you were currently gleefully dismantling. You took a long, slow drink, the sound of you swallowing loud in the quiet. You saw his jaw clench beneath the mask.

"Put it down," he ordered, his voice low and tight.

You took another sip, watching him. "It's just water, Simon. Don't be so territorial."

In a blur of motion, he moved. One hand shot out, faster than you could track, and clamped around your wrist. His grip was like iron, firm enough to stop you cold, but not enough to bruise. He twisted his hand, forcing you to release the canteen. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, water splashing onto the dirty concrete.

He didn't let go. He pulled you closer, until you were nearly chest-to-chest, your boots scuffing against the floor. He loomed over you, his masked face inches from yours.

"You want to play games, Sergeant?" he rasped. "Is that what this is? You're bored, so you're trying to get a rise out of me?"

His breath was warm against your skin. You could feel the heat of his body through his layers of gear, a stark contrast to the chill of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. You tilted your chin up, a defiant spark in your eyes.

"Maybe I am," you whispered. "What are you going to do about it?"

For a long, agonizing moment, he just stared at you. His gaze was an assault, stripping you bare. Then, he let go of your wrist as abruptly as he'd grabbed it. He took a step back, putting distance between you, his posture rigid with control.

"You're going to sit down," he said, his voice clipped and professional again, as if the moment of raw tension had never happened. "You're going to shut your mouth. And you're going to do your job. Because if you compromise this mission with your juvenile antics, I will make sure the only thing you're ever bored with is counting the tiles in your cell. Am I clear?"

You stared at him, a thrill running down your spine that had nothing to do with fear. You'd poked the bear, and he'd shown his claws. Slowly, you bent down, picked up the canteen, and placed it back on the ledge. You didn't return to your corner. Instead, you sat down right where you were, cross-legged on the cold floor, in his space.

"Crystal clear, Lieutenant," you said, your voice soft but steady.

He let out a slow, heavy breath, the sound of a man holding onto his sanity by a thread. He didn't tell you to move. He just turned back to his scope, his broad shoulders a wall between you and the rest of the world. The rain kept falling, and the clock on the tower just kept ticking. 

The stakeout stretched into its fifteenth hour. The rain had finally eased to a miserable drizzle, but the damp had seeped into everything, chilling you to the bone. You'd been "good" for a while, as promised. You'd called out guard changes, noted vehicle movements, and kept your commentary to yourself.

But boredom was a relentless enemy.

You watched Ghost, his focus absolute. He was a machine, and it was time to throw some sand in the gears. 

You pushed yourself up from the floor, your joints aching, and sauntered over to the stack of supply crates against the far wall. You perched yourself on the very edge of one, the one with the stenciled red 'A' for ammunition.

The crate groaned under your weight. You knew he heard it.

From your pocket, you produced the combat knife. Not yours. His. You'd lifted it from his belt when he'd grabbed your wrist earlier. It was a beautiful, lethal piece of steel, and you began idly cleaning the dirt from under your fingernails with the tip.

The silence in the room changed. It went from professional quiet to charged, electric stillness.

You didn't look at him. You kept your eyes on your task, humming a low, tuneless melody that you knew would scrape against his nerves. It was a slow, obnoxious dirge that echoed in the chamber.

You felt his gaze on you before you saw him move. It was like a pressure on the side of your face. You kept humming, scraping a little harder at your nail. The knife was his, the crate was his, the silence was his, and you were violating all of it.

He moved. Not the explosive blur from before, but a deliberate unfolding of his frame. He pushed away from the window, his rifle now dangling from its strap, and stood to his full, intimidating height. He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots heavy on the concrete.

He stopped in front of you, a wall of black tactical gear and simmering anger. You finally looked up, meeting that darkeyed stare. You didn't stop humming. You just tilted your head, a picture of feigned innocence.

"Something wrong, LT?" you asked, your voice muffled as you put the tip of his knife between your teeth.

His gloved hand shot out, faster than you could react. He didn't grab the knife. He grabbed your wrist, the same one as before, his grip absolute. He pinned your hand against the rough wood of the crate. He leaned down, his masked face level with yours, the skull grinning inches from your lips.

"That's my knife," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "That's my ammo crate. And that is my fucking patience you are scraping away with your goddamn fingernails."

He wasn't shouting. That was the most terrifying part. His voice was controlled, a current of menace that made the air crackle. His body caged yours, one hand on your wrist, the other braced on the crate beside your thigh. You were trapped, and the thrill of it was dizzying.

You pulled the knife from between your teeth, your voice barely a whisper. 

"You could have just asked for it back."

His eyes narrowed. "You're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."

"Maybe," you breathed, your heart pounding against your ribs. "Or maybe you're just too wound up. You need an outlet, Simon."

He leaned in closer. 

"You think you're an outlet? You're a distraction. A liability. And I am one second away from gagging you and tying you to a fucking chair until this op is over."

The threat should have scared you. It didn't. It sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on his. "Is that a promise, Lieutenant?"

For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in those dark eyes. A crack in the armor. A hint of the storm you were trying to unleash. Then, it was gone, replaced by cold, hard resolve.

He let go of your wrist and snatched the knife from you. He straightened up, sheathing the blade with a sharp, final click. 

"Get off the crate," he ordered, his voice back to that flat, professional tone. "Go back to your corner. And don't touch my gear again."

You held his gaze for a long second, your own pulse still racing. Then, with a slow movement, you slid off the crate. You didn't go back to your corner. You walked to the window, taking up a position a few feet away from his original post, and picked up your binoculars.

"Target's vehicle just pulled into the compound," you said, your voice steady. "Volkov is out. Heading for the east building."

Ghost was back at his scope in an instant, the shift in his focus immediate. The game was over, for now. The mission had taken over. But as you watched him work, you knew you'd left a mark. The quiet in the room was different now. It wasn't just empty space anymore. It was filled with everything that had just been said, and everything that still hadn't.

You waited, the ghost of his touch still burning on your wrist, for the next opportunity to push.

The next hour passed in a tense, professional silence. You called out Volkov's movements, his meeting with two other men, and his eventual return to his vehicle. Ghost grunted acknowledgements, his focus unwavering. The brat had been locked away, replaced by the soldier. 

But as Volkov's car disappeared down the muddy track, the job was done for the time being. The immediate threat had been observed and recorded.

The silence that settled back over the clock tower was heavier than before.

Ghost finally stepped back from the scope, rolling his shoulders in a rare display of fatigue. You took the opportunity, leaning against the wall, your arms crossed over your chest.

"So, that's it?" you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet. "We just sit here for another thirty hours until we get the green light?"

"That's the op," he said, not looking at you. He was checking his rifle.

You pushed off the wall. 

"You know, I have a hard time taking orders from a man who's too scared to show his face."

His hands stilled on the rifle. He didn't turn, but his entire body went rigid. It was a subtle shift, but you'd become an expert at reading the micro-expressions of his body.

"What did you just say?" His voice was quiet, deceptively calm.

"You heard me," you pressed, taking a step closer. "You bark all these orders, expect all this respect... but you're hiding behind a mask. It's hard to take seriously. It makes me wonder if you're even a real person under there, or if you're just as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside."

That was it. The line. You watched as his control, the thing he held onto with an iron grip, finally splintered. He turned. The skull mask was a twisted, grinning horror in the dim light.

"You think this is about respect?" he growled, taking a step toward you. "You think I give a single fuck if you, a cocky little sergeant who thinks the rules don't apply to her, respects me?"

You held your ground, even as he closed the distance, looming over you. 

"I think it's about leadership. And I can't follow a ghost."

He let out a dark, humorless laugh. 

"You want to see my face, is that it? You think that'll make you obey orders?"

"I think it'd be a start," you shot back, your chin jutting out defiantly. "What's the matter, Simon? Scared I'll laugh? Or is it worse than that?"

His hand twitched, and for a second, you thought he might actually touch you. His anger was a palpable force, rolling off him in waves. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths.

"You have no fucking idea—" he began, but he was cut off by a sharp crackle in his earpiece. 

"Riley, this is Price. Do you copy?"

Ghost froze. He turned his head slightly, his jaw clenched. You saw the war on his face—the desire to finish this conversation with you warring with his ingrained discipline. Discipline won.

"Copy, Captain," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion.

"We've got new intel. The target's meeting a bigger fish in two hours. Location's a warehouse thirty klicks east of your position. We need eyes on it. You're mobile?"

Ghost's gaze flicked to you, a look of frustrated fury in his eye. He was being pulled away from you, forced back into the role of Lieutenant. 

"Affirmative. We're mobile."

"Good. Rendezvous at the old textile mill. We'll send coordinates. Watch your six, the area's hot. Price out."

The comms went dead. The silence in the tower was deafening. Ghost stared at you. The moment was broken, the tension shattered by the call of duty.

He moved without another word, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and starting to pack up the gear with brutal efficiency. He shoved the scope into its case with angry movements.

You watched him for a moment, your own heart still hammering. You'd pushed him, and you'd seen the rage simmering just beneath the surface. It was exhilarating and terrifying. You started to pack your own gear, the silence between you now a chasm filled with unspoken threats and promises.

As you zipped up your pack, he spoke. His voice was low, directed at the floor.

"When we get to that mill," he said, "you will be a professional soldier. You will follow my orders without question. You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not," he finally looked up, his gaze pinning you to the spot, "mention my fucking face again. Are we clear, Sergeant?"

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. For the first time, you heard the command in his voice, not just the anger. You gave a short, sharp nod. "Clear, Lieutenant."

"Good," he grunted, turning back to his gear. "Because next time, I won't be responsible for what happens." The threat hung in the air between you, a promise of a reckoning that was just out of reach.

He was lying. You could see it in the way he moved. The way he kept his back to you for a beat longer than necessary after his gear was packed. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased; it had coiled tighter.

You slung your own pack over your shoulder. You had one foot on the first step down when he spoke again.

"Stop."

A command, sharp and absolute. You froze, your hand on the rusted railing. You turned your head, looking back at him. He was still facing the window, his silhouette a dark shape against the grey light.

"Simon?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He moved then. It wasn't the slow, predatory advance from before. It was a blur of motion. He crossed the space between you. His hand shot out for the front of your tactical vest. He fisted the heavy material and yanked.

The air left your lungs in a gasp as you were hauled off your feet. Your boots scraped against the floor before you were lifted, your entire body suspended in the air, your face level with his. The strength in the single movement was staggering.

He slammed you backward. The impact with the large window was jarring, the glass rattling in its frame. A whimper of surprise escaped your lips as your pack was crushed between your back and the cold, damp pane.

His face was inches from yours, the skull mask a terrifying void. 

"You wanted to see my fucking face?" he snarled, his voice stripped of all its military polish. "You wanted to see what's under here?"

His free hand came up to his mask, his fingers hooking under the hem. You were still reeling, your hands flying up to claw at his arm, at his chest, trying to find purchase. His grip on your vest was unyielding, an iron shackle holding you captive.

He yanked the mask up, just enough. It wasn't a full reveal, just a teasing glimpse. The bottom half of his face was exposed. His jaw was clenched, a thick, dark stubble shadowing his skin, stark against the fabric pulled up over his nose. And his mouth... it was full, a beautiful, cruel slash in his face, twisted in a snarl.

You stopped struggling. Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't ugly. He was the furthest thing from it. He was all harsh angles and raw masculinity, a stark contrast to the cold, inhuman mask.

And then his mouth was on yours.

It was an assault. It was punishment. His lips crushed against yours, hard and demanding, fueled by the hours of frustration you'd heaped on him. It was sloppy, all anger and barely contained rage. His stubble scraped against your upper lip, a burning, delicious friction.

You fought it for a second, your hands pushing against his chest. But his taste, the raw, masculine scent of him flooded your senses. Your resistance crumbled. A soft, involuntary moan escaped you, and your hands slid up, no longer pushing but clinging. They wrapped around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, under the edge of the mask.

The shift in your response was all the permission he needed. The kiss deepened, the anger giving way to a hungry heat. He angled his head, slanting his mouth over yours, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. It was a filthy kiss, one that promised all the things his threats had only hinted at. He tasted of sin, and you were lost.

He finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. He held you there, pinned against the window, his dark eyes—those beautiful, stormy eyes—boring into yours. He was still holding his mask up, the glimpse of his face a shocking, intimate secret.

"That's what's under the mask," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. "That's what you get when you push me too far. Now, are you going to be a good little soldier and follow my orders? Or do I need to fuck the brat out of you right here, right now?"

Your mind was a haze of lust and adrenaline. Your body was thrumming, pressed against his, aching for more. You licked your swollen lips, tasting him there. You knew, with absolute certainty, that this was a point of no return. You could nod, agree to be his soldier, and see what happened next. Or you could keep pushing, and see if he'd make good on his threat.

A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. You let one of your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard muscle of his chest until you reached the front of his pants. You pressed your palm against the hard, thick length straining against the fabric.

"I think," you whispered, your voice husky, "you need to be more convincing, Lieutenant."

His eyes flashed. The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark, feral smile that was more terrifying and more arousing than anything you'd ever seen.

"Your funeral," he growled.

He didn't give you another chance to speak. He crushed his mouth to yours again, and the world outside the rain-streaked window ceased to exist.

The kiss was a brand, searing away every coherent thought. His hand released your vest only to fist in your hair, craning your head back to give him better access. You were no longer pinned against the window; you were plastered against him, the hard lines of his body a contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He broke away with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours. His breathing was as labored as yours. 

"Down," he commanded. He didn't wait for you to obey. He used the grip in your hair to push you down, guiding you to your knees on the cold, dirty floor.

You landed with a soft thud, looking up at him. He was a dark god towering over you, the skull mask a grim reaper's visage above the exposed, sensual line of his mouth. 

"You wanted this," he snarled, his hands moving with frantic, angry precision. He ripped open the Velcro on your vest, yanking it over your head and tossing it aside. "You just couldn't fucking leave it alone, could you?"

His movements were rough, but not careless. He freed your breasts from your shirt and bra with a single, impatient tug. The cool air pebbled your skin, but you barely felt the cold.

"On your fucking knees and stay there," he ordered, his hand going to the rifle slung across his chest. He lifted it, not aiming it, but holding it with casual, terrifying ease, the barrel pointed in your general direction. It was a threat, a reminder of the power he held. "Don't move."

The message was clear: this was still a punishment. You were at his mercy, and he was going to take what he wanted. And God help you, you wanted to take it. You knelt, panting, your hands at your sides, your eyes locked on his.

He kept the rifle trained on you with one hand while the other worked at his own belt. The sound of the buckle and zipper was obscenely loud. He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He was huge, and the sight of him made your mouth water.

"Open your mouth," he commanded. "And if you think about using those teeth, I will make you regret it."

You did as you were told, your lips parting. He stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against your lower lip. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the conflict warring in his eyes. Then, with a guttural groan, he pushed forward, sliding into your mouth.

The taste of him, salty and musky, exploded on your tongue. He was hot and heavy, filling your mouth completely. He kept the gun trained on you for a few heartbeats, a final, chilling reminder of his control. Then, as you swirled your tongue around him, his hand finally dropped the rifle. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.

His other hand flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair again. "Fuck," he growled, the word torn from his throat. "Look what you fucking made me do."

You hummed in response, the vibration making his hips jerk. You set to work, your head bobbing as you took him as deep as you could, your hands coming up to brace against his powerful thighs. This was no longer a punishment; it was a conquest. You were going to undo him, piece by piece.

He started to move, his hips thrusting shallowly, fucking your mouth with a growing urgency. His breathing was coming in harsh pants, the only sound over the rain on the roof. You looked up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and the look on his face—raw, unguarded pleasure—was your undoing.

He seemed to realize he was losing control. With a snarl, he pulled back, his cock slipping from your lips with an obscene pop. He tried to step back, to regain the upper hand. 

"Enough," he bit out, his voice rough.

You weren't having it. You surged forward, catching him off guard. Before he could react, you lunged up for his hand. You grabbed his wrist and yanked his gloved fingers toward your mouth, sinking your teeth into the leather and fabric over his palm.

He hissed in surprise and pain, his body going rigid. "You little—"

You bit down harder, a warning. You released him and glared up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

"Don't you dare pull away from me," you panted, your voice fierce. "You started this. You finish it."

He stared at you, his chest heaving. The skull mask made his expression unreadable, but his eyes... they were burning. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he was finally solving. Then, he did something you never expected. He laughed. It was a dark, utterly feral sound.

He yanked off his gloves, tossing them aside, and reached for you again. This time, there was no anger in his movements, only a desperate, consuming need. He hauled you to your feet and spun you around, pressing you against the window ledge once more. His hands were on your pants, roughly tugging them down over your hips.

"Too many fucking clothes," he muttered against your ear. His hands, finally bare, were hot on your skin as he shoved your pants and underwear down to your knees. The contrast of his warm, calloused palms on the cool skin of your ass made you shiver.

You reached back, your own hands fumbling with his shirt, desperate to feel him. You pulled it from his pants, your fingers sliding underneath to touch the hard, warm plane of his stomach. You felt the taut muscle there, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound was pure victory.

His hand slid around your hip, between your thighs, finding you wet and ready for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his fingers sliding through your folds with a deliberate, teasing slowness that made your knees buckle. He held you up with his other arm, his body a solid wall behind you.

Just as he was about to sink a finger inside you, a sharp, static-filled crackle erupted from his discarded vest on the floor. 

"Ghost, this is Price. Do you copy? What's your status, over?"

Ghost froze, his hand still cupping you. He let out a string of profanities so low and creative they made your head spin. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

He reached over, snatching the comms unit with his free hand. "Copy, Price," he said, his voice impressively steady, if a little strained. "Just... a minor gear malfunction. We're on our way out."

"Good. Don't be late. Price out."

The line went dead. He dropped the comms unit on the pile of clothes. You felt his cock, still hard and heavy, press against your ass. He turned his head, his lips brushing your ear.

"Ten minutes," he growled, his finger finally pushing inside you. "You've got ten fucking minutes to make me forget every goddamn rule I just broke. Starting now."

His finger was thick, calloused, and utterly devastating. He curled it inside you. He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn quickly giving way to a deep, pulsing pleasure.

You couldn't hold back your moans. The sound echoed off the stone walls, shameless and loud. If anyone was within a mile of the tower, they would know exactly what was happening. The thought only spurred you on.

"Simon," you gasped, your head falling back against his chest. "Fuck, your fingers... they're so big."

He groaned against your back. His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that had your legs trembling.

"Talk to me," he commanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me what you want."

You laughed, a breathy sound. "You want me to talk dirty, Lieutenant? You want to hear how good you're making me feel?"

"Yes," he hissed, his fingers pumping faster.

"I'm so fucking wet for you," you panted, your hips rocking back against his hand. "I've been wet for you for hours. Thinking about you pushing me up against this wall, taking what you wanted from me."

He made a choked sound, his control clearly slipping. He yanked his hand from between your legs, leaving you feeling suddenly, achingly empty. Before you could protest, he spun you around, lifting you onto the narrow window ledge. He kicked your pants and boots the rest of the way off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down.

He knelt before you, a dark, worshipful and terrifying sight. He pushed your thighs apart, his hands gripping them tightly. "I need to taste you," he growled, the words a primal declaration.

He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke. The sound that tore from your throat was obscene. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled. He licked and sucked, his mouth working you with a desperate, hungry intensity. Your hands flew to his head, your fingers gripping the edge of his mask, holding him against you as you writhed on the ledge.

"Simon, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Less? Release? "Please."

He pulled back, his chin glistening with you. He looked up, his dark eyes locking with yours. "You're going to come on my tongue," he stated, it wasn't a question. "And then I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, let alone mine. Understand?"

You could only manage a choked nod, words shredded by the pleasure searing through you. He buried his face against you again, his tongue a hot, wet lash against your clit as his thick fingers thrust deep to replace his mouth. The obscene sounds of his fingers pumping your slick cunt, combined with the hungry slurping of his mouth, were a symphony of filth that had you crying out. His tongue was a devil, flicking and circling with a brutal precision that made your thighs shake. He wasn't just eating you out; he was fucking devouring you. This goddamn Ghost was a fucking master at it.

The pressure coiled deep in your gut, a white-hot inferno that threatened to incinerate you from the inside out. His tongue was a masterful tormentor, his fingers a relentless invasion. It was too much, it wasn't enough. You were on the edge of a precipice, and he was the only thing holding you there.

Then, he did something that shattered you completely. He reached up with his free hand, the one not buried inside you, and offered it to you. It was a gesture so startlingly intimate, so out of place in this desperate encounter, that it broke something open inside you. You stared at his hand, large and calloused, the knuckles scarred, and then you looked at his eyes, burning up at you from between your thighs.

You took it.

You laced your fingers through his, a desperate clinging grip. He squeezed back, his hand firm and grounding, a silent promise that he was there, that he had you. He was the anchor in the storm of sensation he was creating, and you hated him for it. You hated how much you needed it, how much you loved this raw, painful intimacy.

The pressure broke.

Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, seismic event that ripped a scream from your lungs. You weren't just coming, you were unraveling, every nerve ending firing at once. Your back arched, your body convulsing, and you squeezed his hand so hard you thought you might break his fingers. 

He didn't stop. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your release as if it were the sweetest nectar. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your oversensitive flesh, pulling another, smaller wave of pleasure from your exhausted body.

When it was over, you were a boneless, panting mess, slumped against the cold glass of the window. He finally pulled back, his chin glistening, his chest heaving. He stood up slowly, his cock jutting out, impossibly hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He didn't let go of your hand. He kept his grip firm as he grabbed your hip with his other hand, pulling you to the very edge of the ledge. He was going to fuck you now, and you were going to let him, your hand still clasped in his, a silent, damning testament to the fact that you were his.

"Time's up," he rasped, lining himself up with your entrance. "Brace yourself, Sergeant."

He pushed inside you in one long, powerful thrust. The stretch was intense, a burning, full sensation that stole your breath. He was big, and he filled you completely, hitting places deep inside you that you didn't know existed. A low, guttural sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against the window.

He didn't give you time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and primal in the quiet room. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples.

"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes fixed on where your bodies were joined. "You're so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock like this..."

You couldn't form words. The pleasure was too overwhelming. All you could do was hold on, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. Your mouth hung open, a string of saliva escaping to trail down your chin. You were gone, lost in the raw, animalistic way he was taking you.

He seemed to notice your state, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. He swallowed your moans, his tongue dueling with yours. Every time a particularly hard thrust made you cry out, he kissed you harder, silencing you and demanding everything you had.

"Can't take it, Sergeant?" he teased, his voice a rough pant against your lips. He pulled back slightly, watching your face with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. "Is my cock too much for you?"

You shook your head, your hands fisting in his shirt. "No," you managed to gasp. "Don't you dare stop."

He chuckled, a dark, sexy sound. "That's my girl," he praised. He slid one hand down to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. The dual sensation of him pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your most sensitive spot was too much.

The pressure built again, faster and more intense than before. 

"Simon, I'm gonna come again," you whimpered, a warning. You'd never... you'd never done this before. Not like this.

He just smirked, that feral light back in his eyes. "Do it," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."

And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, and with it came a gush of fluid that soaked both of you. You cried out in shock and pleasure as you felt yourself gush around him, the wetness coating his thighs and the floor below.

Ghost froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked down, then back up at you, a look of utter, unadulterated awe on his face. "Fuck me," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You're a squirter."

Before you could feel an ounce of embarrassment, he kissed you again, a deep, filthy kiss that seemed to say he loved it. He didn't stop, didn't even slow down. He kept fucking you through your aftershocks, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.

"Such a good fucking girl," he praised, his voice breaking. "So fucking perfect. Made a mess all over me, and I'm going to fill you up."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself and came with a deep, shuddering groan. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, filling you up, just as he'd promised. He stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath.

Finally, he pulled out, a soft whimper escaping you at the loss. He reached down, grabbing your hand with a surprising tenderness, and helped you off the ledge. As soon as your feet touched the floor, he gently pushed you to your knees again.

"Open your mouth," he ordered softly. You obeyed, looking up at him. He took his still-hard cock in his hand and stroked it, aiming it at your face. You watched, mesmerized, as he brought himself to the edge again with a few quick tugs.

"Simon," you breathed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

He came with a low, drawn-out moan that was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard. Hot, thick ropes of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. He held your hand the entire time, his grip firm and grounding.

When he was spent, he looked down at you, a smug, satisfied look in his eyes. "Fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. He reached down, using his thumb to smear his cum across your lower lip. "Now swallow."

You did, your eyes never leaving his. He let go of your hand and stepped back, his chest still heaving. He looked around the room, at the discarded gear, the puddle on the floor, and then back at you, kneeling on the ground, covered in him. A slow, genuine smile spread across his exposed lips.

"Price is going to kill me," he said, but there was no regret in his voice. He reached down, pulling you to your feet. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get cleaned up. We have a meeting to get to."

He finally pulled the mask all the way off, tucking it into his belt. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, all sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a warm, rich brown you could get lost in. He handed you your shirt, his touch lingering.

"And after the mission," he said, his voice dropping to a low, promising rumble, "we're going to finish this. Properly. In a bed. For about a week."

You smiled back, feeling a dizzying mix of satisfaction, exhaustion, and anticipation. The mission wasn't over, but you knew, without a doubt, that something fundamental had just changed between you.

"Looking forward to it, Simon," you replied.

The operation had proceeded with the smooth, practiced efficiency that defined Task Force 141. The target, a defecting scientist with knowledge of biochemical weapons, had been secured without firing a single shot. The intel, a collection of hard drives and vials, was safely stowed in Gaz's pack.

The exfil chopper was a welcome sight on the horizon, its rotors beating a steady rhythm against the oppressive heat of the Kastovian desert.

You were moving through the crumbling ruins of the bombed-out laboratory, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay, when a canister on the floor, half-buried in rubble, hissed. It was a sound like a serpent's warning, and then it released a plume of shimmering, purple mist. It was too late to hold your breath. You felt the fine particles, cool and strangely dry, coat your exposed skin, invade your lungs, a scent like overripe fruit and something metallic. Sharp and unsettling. It clung to the back of your throat, a sweet taste that made your stomach churn.

"Contact!" Ghost had snapped, his voice urgent in your earpiece, so different than his usual low rumble. "MacTavish, get her out!"

But it was too late.

The world tilted on its axis, the dusty walls of the lab wavering like a heat mirage. The concrete under your boots felt too hot, radiating an unnatural warmth through the soles, and the air grew thick with the lingering purple haze.

And then, a fire, low and insistent, ignited in the pit of your stomach. It wasn't pain. It was... need. A raw, clawing, all-consuming hunger that obliterated every other thought in your head, every scrap of training, every shred of self-preservation. Your mission parameters, the scientist, the exfil chopper — it all faded into meaningless background noise. The only thing that mattered was the burning, aching emptiness that demanded to be filled, a thirst that cried out for a quenching you couldn't name but instinctively knew you needed, and needed now.

By the time you stumbled out of the ruins and into the LZ, your hands were already shaking. Soap caught you, his strong arms steadying you as you swayed.

"Easy, bonnie," he said, his brow furrowed with concern. "What was in that shite?"

You couldn't answer. You could only look at him, at the pulse point in his neck, at the curve of his lower lip. An overwhelming urge to bite him, to lick him, to feel his skin against yours, flooded your senses. A whimper escaped your lips.

"LT, it's not a nerve agent," Soap said with a dawning realization. "Her pupils are fuckin' huge, but she's not convulsing. She's..."

"Horny," Gaz finished for him, jogging up behind you, his eyes wide with a mix of alarm and something else. He'd seen this before, a briefing on a rogue chemical weapon designed to destabilize a target by turning their own body against them. "It's an aphrodisiac. A potent one."

You heard them talking, but the words were just noise. The fire inside you was raging now, an inferno that demanded fuel. You turned in Soap's arms, pressing your body against his, your hands fisting in his tac vest.

"Please," you gasped, the single word ripped from your throat. It wasn't clear what you were pleading for. Touch. Release. Anything to stop the unbearable, aching emptiness.

Soap's hands hovered over your back, hesitant, caught between his duty as a soldier and his instinct as a man. He looked over your head at Ghost, who stood a few feet away, his posture unnaturally stiff.

"LT?" Soap's voice was a plea for guidance.

Ghost said nothing. He was a statue carved from shadow, his skull-printed mask an impenetrable wall. But behind the mask, his eyes were fixed on you.

He watched as you rubbed yourself against Soap like a cat in heat, a soft, desperate sound escaping your lips.

He watched as Gaz moved closer, his hand coming to rest on your hip, a grounding touch. Every point of contact, Soap's chest against yours, Gaz's fingers on your skin, sent little shocks of pleasure through you, but it was like trying to put out a forest fire with a glass of water. It wasn't enough. You needed more.

Gaz, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break. "We can't leave her like this," he said. "It's torture. The mission's over. We get her back to the chopper, but we have to... manage this."

"Manage this?" Soap echoed, a hint of his usual humour laced with disbelief. "How the fuck do we 'manage' a biochemical horniness bomb, Gaz?"

The journey back to the base was a fever dream. The world outside the chopper's window was a blur of sand and sky, but inside, you were trapped in an overheated prison of your own body.

They had you sandwiched between them on the bench seat, Soap's solid form on one side, Gaz's on the other. Their presence was both a comfort and a torment. You could feel the heat radiating from them, smell the familiar scents of sweat and leather, and it was driving you insane.

"Please," you mumbled again, your head lolling back onto Soap's shoulder. "It hurts. I need... something."

Soap shifted, his thigh pressing against yours. "What do you need, hen? Tell us what to do."

You couldn't. You didn't have the words. Instead, you turned your face into his neck, your lips brushing against the salty skin there. You inhaled deeply, his scent a potent drug.

"You smell so good," you slurred, your tongue darting out for a taste. You heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the muscle in his neck tense under your lips.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hand coming up to tentatively touch your hair. "I don't think I can be a gentleman right now."

Ghost, who had been silent since you left the ground, was suddenly there, crouched in front of you. His masked face was level with yours, his dark stare intense. He reached out and tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Listen to me," he commanded, his voice a gravelly growl that should have been annoying but instead sent a wave of heat pooling in your core. "You need to drink. Can you do that for me, Sergeant?"

You nodded, or tried to. Gaz was already holding a canteen to your lips. You took a sip, the cool water a shock to your system. But the fire inside just hissed and raged on. You pushed the canteen away.

"Not what I need," you whined, your eyes drifting back to Ghost. He was so close. You could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, see the strain in the lines around them.

You wanted to touch him. You wanted to rip the mask off and see his face, feel his mouth on yours.

"Simon," you breathed, using his first name, a breach of protocol you'd never dare make if you weren't burning up from the inside out. "Touch me. Please."

You saw him flinch, a full-body recoil as if he'd been struck. His hand dropped from your chin as if burned, and he retreated back to his seat, putting a deliberate, painful distance between you.

The rejection stung, a sharp, confusing pang amidst the physical haze. Why wouldn't he touch you? The other two would. You could see it in the way Soap's breathing had gone ragged, in the way Gaz's hand kept stroking your thigh, his thumb tracing circles higher and higher.

"He's just... tryin' to be professional," Gaz murmured in your ear, trying to soothe you. But his words didn't make sense. Nothing made sense except the need.

You turned your attention back to Soap, who looked like he was at war with himself. You solved his dilemma for him by throwing a leg over his lap, straddling him. The surprised "oof" he let out was almost comical.

"Christ, Johnny," you purred, grinding down against the hard length you could feel against his zipper. It was a blessed, glorious pressure. "You're so hard for me."

His hands flew to your hips, stilling your movements. "Fuck, you can't — we're in a bloody chopper," he hissed, but his eyes were glazed, his pupils blown wide.

"Don't care," you moaned, rocking against him again. The friction was bliss, a tiny wave of relief in an ocean of need. "Mmm, feels so good."

This was how you arrived back at base. Disheveled, panting, and clinging to Soap, while Ghost sat in stony silence across from you, his gaze an unreadable weight. You were a mess of conflicting signals, a sobbing, whimpering, needy mess, and the professional soldiers tasked with your care were completely out of their depth.

In the medical bay, the situation didn't improve. With Price and Laswell unreachable, the on-site medic was at a loss. The chemical was experimental, with no known antidote. The only advice was to "keep the subject hydrated and comfortable until the compound metabolizes."

"Comfortable," Soap scoffed, running a hand through his mohawk as he looked at you writhing on the examination table. "She's fuckin' climbin' the walls."

Gaz stood by the door, his arms crossed, his expression grim. "We can't just... do nothing."

"We're not doin' nothin'," Soap argued, his eyes on you. "We're... supervisin'."

You were past listening. You'd torn off your own tac vest and shirt, the cool air of the med-bay a brief relief on your feverish skin. Your bra felt too tight, too restrictive. You fumbled with the clasp.

"That's it," Ghost's voice cut through the air, sharp and final. He moved with purpose, scooping you up from the table, a blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. He carried you out of the med-bay, his gait long and determined, Soap and Gaz following in his wake like chastised puppies.

He didn't take you to the barracks. He took you to his quarters. It was the first time you'd ever been inside. It was spartan, clean, and smelled like him. The door clicked shut behind the three of them.

"Right," Ghost said, his voice strained. He set you down on his bed, his hands lingering on your arms for a second before he let go, as if touching you was painful. He turned to face the others, his back to you. "This is what's happening. We are going to stay here. We are going to help her through this. And whatever the fuck happens in this room tonight, it stays in this room. Are we clear?"

There was a heavy pause. You watched, your head swimming, as Soap and Gaz exchanged a look. It was a look that held a world of unspoken things: loyalty, desire, and a deep, unwavering trust in their Lieutenant.

"Aye, LT," Soap said quietly.

"Crystal," Gaz added.

Ghost nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He turned back to you, and you saw the torment in his eyes. It was the raw agony that cut through the chemical haze in your brain.

"Listen to me," he said, kneeling in front of you, his hands on his knees, not on you. "You're not well. This is the drug talking. We're going to help you, but you have to try to stay with us. Can you do that?"

You nodded, but it was a lie. You couldn't stay with him. The fire was roaring now, a beast demanding to be fed. You reached for him, your hand tangling in the strap of his vest.

"Simon," you whined, tugging him closer. "Don't be nice. Just... please."

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping. He looked over his shoulder at the others.

"Hold her."

Soap and Gaz moved in, one on each side of you, their hands on your shoulders, holding you still against the headboard. It was a restraint, but to you it felt like an embrace. You struggled for a second, then went still, panting.

Ghost's hands, those hands you'd been obsessing over, finally moved to your body. He pushed the blanket aside, his eyes on your face. He hesitated, then his gloved hands moved to your chest. His touch was clinical at first, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin above your bra.

"Gloves off," you gasped.

He looked at you, a storm of conflict in his eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulled the gloves off, finger by finger, and tossed them aside. When his bare hands touched you again, the difference was electric. His skin was rough, warm, real.

A choked sound escaped your lips.

"’s just to... take the edge off," he said, as if trying to convince himself.

His thumbs circled your nipples through the thin lace of your bra, and you arched off the bed, a cry torn from your throat.

"Fuck, that's it," Soap murmured in your ear, his breath hot. "Is that good, bonnie?"

"Yes, yes, fuck," you babbled, your head thrashing against Gaz's shoulder. "More. Harder. Please, Simon, touch me properly."

Your words seemed to wound him. He flinched again, but his hands obeyed your command. He pushed the cups of your bra down, freeing your breasts. His gaze finally dropped, and you heard his sharp, hissed intake of breath. He looked at you like you were a masterpiece and a grenade all at once. His hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples.

You were lost. The filter between your brain and your mouth was completely gone.

"Your hands are so big," you moaned. "I bet they'd feel so good inside me. Filling me up."

Soap groaned, a low, pained sound. "Jesus, she's gonna kill us."

Gaz's hand was stroking your arm, his other arm still holding you steady. "She's just speakin' her mind, Soap. Can't blame a lass for bein' honest."

You turned your head to Gaz, your lips finding the skin of his neck. You bit him, gently, then licked the spot.

"You wanna touch me too, Gaz?" you whispered. "I bet your fingers are just as good. I want all of you. All your hands."

This time, the silence that followed was heavy with decision. Gaz looked at Ghost, a silent question in his eyes. You couldn't see Ghost's face, but you felt the shift in the room.

"Just... help her," Ghost rasped. He didn't move, his hands stilling on your breasts as if frozen.

That was all the permission Gaz needed. He turned your face to his and kissed you. It was deep, demanding, a kiss of lust. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met him with equal fervor, your hands coming up to clutch at his shirt.

Soap wasn't far behind. You felt him shift on the bed, and then his lips were on your neck, his teeth scraping your skin, his hand coming up to cover one of your breasts, taking over where Simon had left off.

And Simon... Simon just watched. You could feel his eyes on you, a hot, heavy weight. You broke the kiss with Gaz, turning your head to look at him.

"Simon," you gasped, Soap's fingers rolling your nipple. "Don't just watch. Come here. Kiss me. Please."

He looked like a man facing a firing squad. He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement.

"I can't."

"Why not?" you whined, the rejection cutting through the pleasure. "Don't you want me?"

His answer was a choked sound. He surged forward, but not to kiss you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. His arms wrapped around you with a bone-crushing force, as if he was trying to anchor himself or shield you from the world.

He said nothing, but the way he held you, the way his body trembled against yours, spoke volumes.

You realized, in a fleeting moment of clarity amidst the chemical haze, that this was perhaps his hell. To see you like this, to have you begging for him, and to believe it wasn't real. Maybe he couldn't distinguish between the drug and your true feelings, and the risk of being wrong was more than he could bear. Or maybe…

You held him back, your arms circling his neck, even as Gaz's lips found your jaw and Soap's hand slid down your stomach, inching towards the waistband of your pants. You clung to the trembling reality of Simon, and let the others chase the chemical phantoms from your body.

It was a strange, heartbreaking, and intensely erotic tableau. Ghost holding you for dear life, while the other men you trusted, your brothers-in-arms, did what was necessary to save you from yourself.

"I can't," Ghost's voice was a raw, agonized whisper against your neck. He repeated it, more to himself than to anyone else. "I can't... fuck, I'm sorry. I jus’... I can't."

He pushed himself away from you, the sudden absence of his body heat a cold shock. You reached for him, a cry of protest on your lips, but he was already on his feet, putting the bed between you. He looked wild, unhinged, his chest heaving, his now gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"LT—" Soap started, his own voice strained, his hand frozen on the waistband of your pants.

"Take care of her," Ghost cut him off, his voice a harsh command. He looked at you one last time, his eyes a maelstrom of pain and desire and something so pure it made your heart ache. "I'll be... outside. Just... make it stop."

And then he was gone, the door of his quarters clicking shut behind him, leaving you with Soap and Gaz and a deafening silence that echoed the emptiness he'd left behind.

The fire in you still raged, but now it was laced with a new, sharp pain.

You whimpered, a small, lost sound.

"Hey, it's alright," Gaz soothed, his hand moving to cup your cheek, turning your face away from the door. His touch was gentle. "He just needs a minute. He's not... it's not you, okay? This is just... a lot."

You nodded, blinking back the tears that had suddenly sprung to your eyes. The drug didn't like sadness; it wanted pleasure, it demanded it. The conflict was nauseating.

Soap leaned in, his forehead resting against your temple. "We've got you, bonnie," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of sympathy and lust. "We're gonna get you through this. Just... trust us."

You did trust them. With your life. Now, you had to trust them with your body, in the most vulnerable way imaginable.

Gaz's thumb stroked your cheekbone. "What do you need, sweet girl? Tell us what to do."

You took a shuddering breath, trying to claw your way through the haze to a coherent thought. The need was still there, a pulsating, insistent beat between your legs.

"Make it stop hurting," you whispered, the words brittle.

Soap's hand, which had been hovering, finally slid beneath the waistband of your pants. His touch was direct, confident. He didn't waste time, his fingers finding the slick, swollen folds of your sex with an unerring accuracy.

"Fuck, she's soaked," he breathed, the wonder in his voice unmistakable. He ran a finger through your wetness, circling your clit with a touch that had your back arching off the bed.

Gaz's lips found yours again, but this kiss was different. It was softer, more comforting, a way to distract you from the raw intensity of what Soap was doing. He kissed you slowly, his tongue coaxing yours, a silent conversation of reassurance.

"You're so beautiful," Gaz murmured against your lips. "So fucking strong, taking this so well."

Soap's fingers slid lower, one thick digit pressing at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, and the feeling of being filled, even slightly, was a profound relief. A moan tore from your throat, muffled by Gaz's mouth.

"That's it," Soap encouraged, his voice husky. "Yer so tight, so hot for it." He began to move his finger, a slow, deep thrust that had you seeing stars. He added a second, the stretch a burning pleasure that pushed you higher. "God, I can’t wait to feel ye cum on my hand."

His words were gasoline on the fire. The combination of his skilled fingers pumping inside you, Gaz's possessive kiss, and the memory of Simon's pained eyes created a vortex of sensation that was overwhelming. You were lost to it, your body moving of its own accord, riding Soap's hand.

Gaz broke the kiss, his mouth moving to your ear. "Let go for us," he whispered, his voice a dark, seductive command. "Be a good girl and cum for Johnny, yeah?"

The permission, the endearment, the sheer filthy intimacy of it all... Your orgasm hit you with the force of a freight train, a silent, violent explosion that started in your core and radiated outwards. Your inner walls clamped down on Soap's fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably between them. You were distantly aware of Soap groaning your name, of Gaz holding you tightly, whispering praise that you couldn't comprehend.

As the waves of pleasure slowly receded, they left behind a profound exhaustion.

The chemical fire wasn't gone, but for the first time in hours, it was banked, reduced to a low, simmering ember instead of an inferno. Your body felt sated, your mind fuzzy and calm.

Soap carefully withdrew his fingers, and the loss made you whimper.

"Shh, I know," he soothed, cleaning his hand with a towel from the bedside table. "Ye did so good, hen. So, so good."

They laid you down, arranging the pillows around you. Gaz pulled a blanket over your trembling form. The room was quiet, save for your ragged breathing and the soft hum of the base's ventilation system.

"It'll come back," you murmured, the dread already creeping in at the edges of your bliss.

"Yeah," Soap sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Gaz, a silent conversation passing between them. "We'll be here. We'll keep doing... this. Until it's over."

Gaz nodded, his expression serious. "We've got you. Just rest now."

You closed your eyes, the darkness welcoming. Relief, shame, lingering pleasure, and a deep, aching hurt for the man who was probably standing guard outside the door. As sleep finally claimed you, your last conscious thought was a prayer that when this was all over, you'd find a way to explain to Simon what this really was.

The reprieve was brief. You woke to the insistent, gnawing ache returning, a low-grade fever under your skin that quickly built back into a raging blaze. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the desk. Gaz was dozing in the armchair, his head tilted back, while Soap sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with a weary but focused expression.

"Hey," he said softly as your eyes opened. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I'm on fire," you rasped, your voice hoarse. You shifted under the blanket, the friction against your sensitive skin enough to make you gasp. "Again. Please, Johnny."

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something stray crossing his face. He nodded, his hand reaching for the blanket. "Okay. We'll... try somethin' different this time."

He pulled the blanket aside, and you saw you were still in your open bra and pants, the fabric of the latter darkened with a large, damp patch. Soap's gaze lingered there for a second before he hooked his fingers into the waistband.

"Can I take these off?"

You nodded frantically, lifting your hips to help him.

Gaz stirred in the chair, stretching as he woke. He was at your side in an instant, his presence a solid comfort. "Alright, beautiful?" he asked, brushing the hair back from your face.

"Need you," you breathed, looking up at him, then at Soap, who was now sliding your pants down your legs. "Both of you."

They exchanged another look over your head, a silent agreement forged in the crucible of the last few hours. This time, they moved with a shared, unspoken purpose.

Soap discarded your pants, leaving you bare from the waist down. He didn't touch you immediately. Instead, he stood, and with a few quick movements, undid his own belt and pants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. It was thick and hard, straining upwards...

"Can't fuck ye," he said, his voice thick with regret. "Wouldn't be right. But... you can use me. Use us to get what you need, yeah?"

The offer was so raw, so generous, it almost broke you. Before you could answer, Gaz was moving, positioning himself on the bed behind you. He sat back against the headboard, his legs spread, and gently pulled you back to rest your back against his chest. His arms came around you, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other cupping your breast. His clothed erection pressed against your lower back.

"Lean on me," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm. "Just relax."

Soap knelt on the bed in front of you, his fist slowly stroking his impressive length. "C'mere, bonnie," he coaxed. "Put yer legs over mine."

You did, your thighs parting over his, your feet resting on his hips. The position was utterly exposed, wanton, and perfect. It left you completely open, your slick, swollen pussy on display.

"Beautiful," Gaz groaned, his eyes dark as he looked down at your body. "So fucking beautiful."

Soap shuffled closer, the head of his cock now just inches from your core. He took himself in hand, notching the thick head against your entrance, but not pushing in. Instead, he began to rock his hips, sliding his cock through your wetness, the underside of his shaft bumping against your clit with every thrust.

"Oh, God," you whimpered, your head falling back onto Gaz's shoulder. The sensation was incredible — a delicious friction that stimulated your clit without the intensity of penetration. It was exactly what you needed.

"That's it," Soap grunted, his eyes fixed on where his body met yours. "You're so wet, fuck... soakin' me."

Gaz's hands were roaming your body, one pinching your nipple, the other sliding down to join the messy, slick friction at your core. His long fingers found your clit, circling it in time with Soap's thrusts.

"Tell us how it feels, love," Gaz purred in your ear.

"Feels... so good," you babbled, your hips starting to move, chasing the pleasure. "Both of you... so good... I'm so close already."

"Already?" Soap chuckled. "Fuckin' hell. You're amazin'."

The pressure of Soap's cock on your clit, the expert circling of Gaz's fingers, the heat of Gaz's body behind you — it all coalesced into a tightening spiral. You were grinding down on Soap's shaft shamelessly, using him, exactly as he'd offered, the slick sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.

"Gonna cum," you gasped, the warning tearing from your throat.

"Do it," Soap growled, his rhythm increasing. "Cum on my cock, sweetheart. Make a mess for me."

Gaz's fingers pressed down harder on your clit, and that was it. Your orgasm crashed over you, less of a shockwave and more of a long, rolling tide of pleasure. You cried out, your body convulsing, your inner muscles clenching around nothing as you soaked Soap's cock and stomach with your release.

Soap cursed, his own climax triggered by yours, his hand pumping furiously as he spilled himself on your stomach in thick, hot ropes. The feeling of his cum on your skin, the smell of sex in the air, the arms holding you safe. It was blissful.

But as the waves of pleasure subsided, the ache returned, a persistent, gnawing hunger that demanded more. You were still burning, and one orgasm, however intense, was not enough to quench the fire.

Your eyes fluttered open, and your gaze found Gaz, who was watching you with a mixture of awe and concern. His own need was evident, the hard line of his cock pressing against your back. A wave of gratitude washed over you, for his gentleness, his restraint, his unwavering support.

"Kyle," you breathed, turning your head to look at him. "You've been so good to me. Let me... let me thank you."

Before he could protest, you were shifting, moving away from Soap's spent form and turning to face Gaz. You pushed him back against the headboard, your hands moving to the button of his pants. His breath hitched, but he didn't stop you. You freed his cock, long and slender and perfect, and wrapped your hand around it. He was heavy in your palm, and the guttural sound he made as you began to stroke him went straight to your throbbing pussy.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his head falling back against the wall. "You don't have to..."

"I want to," you insisted, your voice husky with desire and sincerity. You leaned down, taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. The taste of him was clean, masculine, and you moaned around his length, the vibrations making his hips buck.

"Jesus, fuck," Gaz swore, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. "Your mouth... fuck."

You felt Soap shift behind you, his hands on your hips, encouraging you to move. You adjusted your position, rising onto your hands and knees, your ass in the air as you continued to worship Gaz's cock with your mouth. You took him deep, your tongue swirling around the shaft, your hand stroking what you couldn't take.

Then you felt it. Soap's breath, hot and humid, against your exposed folds. His tongue delved in, a slow exploration that had you gasping around Gaz's dick. He ate you with a focused intensity, his lips and tongue working in tandem, lapping at your clit, fucking into your hole. The sensation was mind-blowing. Gaz's cock in your mouth, Soap's tongue in your pussy, their hands on your body, their voices in your ears.

"Look at her," Soap murmured against your folds, his voice thick with awe. "Tastes like heaven, too."

Gaz was panting, his hips thrusting shallowly into your mouth. "Gonna cum," he warned, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."

You doubled your efforts, sucking harder, faster, your hand pumping his shaft in a firm, steady rhythm. With a hoarse cry, he came, his release hot and thick on your tongue. You swallowed it all, milking him through his orgasm until he was spent, his body going soft against the headboard.

As you sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, Soap's tongue became more insistent, his focus narrowing to your clit. He sucked it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it in a rapid, staccato rhythm. The pleasure was sharp and it built quickly, a pressure cooker about to explode.

"Simon, fuck" you whispered, the name escaping your lips before you could stop it. Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, shuddering release that left you gasping for air. You collapsed forward, your forehead resting on Gaz's thigh, your body trembling uncontrollably.

They held you as you came down, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Soap used the discarded towel to gently clean your stomach, his touch reverent. Gaz pressed soft kisses to your shoulder and neck.

But as the haze of pleasure cleared, a new feeling began to creep in, cold and sharp.

Shame.

You stared at the mess on your stomach, felt the sticky residue between your thighs, and the reality of what had just happened slammed into you. You'd just used your friends, your teammates, to get off. You'd begged and whined and degraded yourself for a chemical-induced high.

A sob caught in your throat. "I'm sorry," you whispered, the tears starting to fall. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so... I'm disgusting."

"Hey, no," Soap said immediately, his face full of concern. He tossed the towel aside and moved to cup your face. "Don't ye dare. This is not your fault. This is the fuckin' chemical, that's all."

But you couldn't stop. The sobs wracked your body, violent and uncontrollable. You felt dirty, used up, and horribly, utterly alone despite being held by two of your closest friends. "I'm sorry," you repeated, over and over.

Gaz held you tighter, his arms a cage of comfort. "Look at me," he said, his voice firm but kind. When you didn't, he gently turned your head to face him. "We wanted to help. We chose this. You didn't force us into anything. We're a team, remember? We look after our own."

You looked from Gaz's earnest, worried eyes to Soap's pained expression.

You knew they were telling the truth, but the guilt was a poison, spreading through your veins. You'd crossed a line, and you didn't know how to come back from it. You curled into yourself, trying to escape their pity, their kindness, which only made you feel worse.

The drug-induced lust was gone, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing that was almost as hard to bear.

They didn't try to talk you out of it anymore. They just held you, Soap lying down on your other side, forming a protective, comforting barrier around you as you cried yourself into a fitful, exhausted sleep. But even in your dreams, you were haunted by the image of Simon's stricken face as he walked out the door.

It was quiet when you woke again. The kind of deep, predawn quiet that felt like the world was holding its breath. The fire inside you was reduced to the faintest of embers, a dull ache that was more memory than reality. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, your mind was clear.

You were alone in the bed. The sheets were clean, the mess from before meticulously erased. You sat up slowly, your body aching with a deep, muscular soreness. On the bedside table was a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers, and a note.

The note was in Soap's messy scrawl.

 'Gone to get ye some real food. Gaz's on watch outside. LT's... around. Drink the water. Take the pills. We'll talk when you're ready. -J'

Your heart clenched. You swallowed the pills with shaky hands, the water cool and soothing. You needed a shower. You needed to scrub the last twenty-four hours off your skin until you felt like yourself again.

The small, attached bathroom was a sanctuary. You locked the door, peeled off the remnants of your clothes, and stepped under the hot spray. The water stung your overused, sensitive skin, but you didn't care. You stood there for a long time, letting the steam and the water cascade over you, washing away the sweat, the tears, and the lingering scent of sex and regret.

When you finally felt clean enough, you shut off the water and wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel. You caught your reflection in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, and almost free. The monster was gone.

You took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

The main room was just as you'd left it, except for the man sitting in the armchair by the window. Simon.

He was in full kit, his mask back in place, his posture rigid and military-straight. He didn't stand when you emerged, just watched you with an unreadable expression.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was devoid of all emotion, a flat, neutral line.

"Clear," you replied, your own voice quiet. "I think the… I think it's gone."

He nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his head. "Good. That's good."

The silence that followed was a chasm. You wanted to run to him, to explain, to apologize for everything, but the icy wall he'd thrown up was impenetrable. You felt more naked in that towel, in front of that mask, than you had when you were writhing naked on his bed.

"Simon—" you started, taking a hesitant step forward.

"Don't," he cut you off, the word a soft but absolute command. He stood, his movements stiff and economical. "What happened... was a medical procedure. A necessary intervention under extreme circumstances. It's classified. It doesn't leave this room. It doesn't... change anything."

The words were precise, clinical, and they cut you deeper than you thought possible. He was erasing it, boxing it up and locking it away.

"Is that what you really think?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

"It's what needs to be thought," he said, turning away from you, his gaze fixed on the closed door. "You're cleared for duty tomorrow. Report to me at 0800. We'll debrief then. Get some rest, Sergeant."

He walked to the door without another glance, his back a wall of rejection. When the door clicked shut behind him, you sank to the floor, the towel pooling around you, and finally let the silent tears fall. The drug was gone, but the damage it had wrought was only just beginning to surface.

The next few days were a special kind of hell. The base was the same, the mission clockwork ticking on as if nothing had happened. But for you, the world had tilted on its axis and refused to right itself.

Soap and Gaz were... they were good. Too good. They treated you with a gentle, protective camaraderie that made your chest ache. They joked with you at mess, included you in conversations, and watched your six during drills with an extra layer of vigilance. They never mentioned what happened, but it hung in the air between you, a shared, unspoken secret.

Ghost had been living up to his name. Before, his presence had been a constant, a dark but steady shadow you could always count on. Now, he was a void. He'd assigned you to a different fireteam during drills, his orders delivered through Gaz or the comms channel. If you entered a room he was in, he found a reason to leave. If your paths crossed in a narrow hallway, he'd press himself against the wall, his masked face turned away, creating a cold, silent bubble of space around him that felt miles wide.

It was a brutal, efficient erasure of every moment of intimacy you'd ever shared, every lingering glance, every quiet conversation. He was Simon Riley, your Lieutenant, and nothing more.

And it was killing you.

You told yourself it was for the best. His "medical procedure" logic, as cold as it was, made a certain kind of military sense. Fraternization was a minefield. What had happened was a catastrophe of protocol. He was protecting you, protecting the team, by building this wall.

But to you it didn't feel like protection. It felt like punishment.

And as the days turned into weeks, a horrible, insidious thought began to take root in your mind: he found you disgusting. He'd seen you at your most vulnerable, your most debased, and the sight of you now was just a repulsive reminder of that chemical-fuelled madness. The way he couldn't even look at you seemed to confirm it. He was revolted.

This thought became a splinter under your skin, working its way deeper with every cold shoulder, every averted gaze. It festered, poisoning your own self-worth. You started avoiding mirrors, started pulling away from Soap and Gaz's gentle concern, retreating into a shell of your own making.

The breaking point came during a late-night gear check. You were alone in the armory, the air cool and smelling of oil and steel. You were methodically cleaning your rifle, the familiar motions a comfort, when the door opened.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was. You could feel his presence, the way the air suddenly felt heavier, charged. You kept your eyes on your weapon, your hands moving with practiced precision, hoping he'd just get what he came for and leave.

He didn't. He moved to the workbench opposite you, his movements unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He began cleaning his own sidearm, the slide of metal on metal a grating counterpoint to your own rhythm.

The silence was unbearable. It stretched, thin and taut, until you couldn't stand it anymore. You had to know.

"Are you ever going to talk to me again?" The question came out sharper than you intended, laced with the pain of a week's worth of silence.

His hands stopped. He didn't look up. "I am talking to you, Sergeant. I'm giving you an order: maintain focus on your gear."

The use of your rank was a slap in the face.

"Don't," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "Don't hide behind that with me. Not after... everything."

"There is no 'everything'," he bit out, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "There was a mission, a complication, and a resolution. End of story."

"No," you said, finally looking up, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. "There was you, holding me while I begged for you. There was you, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world, and then looking at me like I was nothing the next day. You can't just... order that away, Simon."

He slammed his pistol down on the bench, the sound echoing in the small room. He still didn't look at you, but his entire body was rigid, thrumming with a tension you recognized all too well.

"I am your superior officer," he ground out, each word precise and clipped. "You are a soldier under my command. What happened was a lapse in judgment, a catastrophic failure of protocol on my part. It cannot and will not be repeated. It will not be discussed. Is that understood, Sergeant?"

His words were a wall of steel, but you heard the crack in his voice, the slight tremor in the last word. He wasn't just angry; he was in agony. And your own pain, your own festering insecurity, gave you the courage to lunge for the crack.

"Is that what this is about? Protocol?" you asked, your voice softer now, losing its anger. "Or is it about me? Do you... do you think I'm... repulsive now? Is that why you can't even look at me?"

He flinched, a full-body recoil that was as good as a confession. He finally turned his head, eyes finding yours.

It was the opening you needed. "Then what is it?" you whispered. "Why are you doing this to us?"

He was across the room in two long strides, his body a coiled spring of violent energy. He caged you in against the workbench, his hands slamming down on the metal on either side of you, his masked face inches from yours. The sudden proximity, the raw power of him so close after days of nothing, was dizzying.

"Want to know why, bird?" he snarled, his voice a guttural thing that bore no resemblance to his usual controlled tone. His eyes were blazing. "Because every time I look at you, I don't see my sergeant. I see you on my bed, with my name on your lips. I see you with Johnny's cock in your mouth and Gaz's hands on your skin. And I want to bloody kill them for touching you."

Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I walked out that door because if I had stayed," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, tormented growl, "I would have thrown them both out and fucked you myself. I would have shown you what it really feels like to be filled by me. And it wouldn't have been a goddamn medical procedure. It would have been me claiming you, owning you, ruining you for anyone else."

He was so close, the heat of him enveloping you. You could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tremor in his clenched fists.

"I'm not disgusted by you, sweetheart," he hissed, the endearment a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. "I'm terrified of you. Of what you make me feel. Of how badly I want you, even now, right here. So I stay away. Because ‘s the only way I can keep from breaking every single rule I have left."

His confession left you reeling. But the splinter in your heart didn't dissolve. Instead, it twisted, a fresh wave of doubt washing over you.

You reached up, your hand trembling as it brushed against the hard line of his jaw, the fabric of his mask rough against your fingertips. He flinched like a stray dog expecting a kick. He leaned into your touch for a split second, a pathetic, desperate gesture, before pulling back, as if your touch burned him.

"Don't stay away," you whispered, your voice thick with tears, but also with a hard edge of disbelief. "Please, Simon. Don't punish us both for this." you told him gently, your words a test. "I'd much rather you break all your rules with me than be like this."

A shuddering breath escaped him, a sound that was almost a sob. He leaned his forehead against yours, a gesture of utter defeat. For a moment, he was silent, the mask a barrier you still desperately wanted to tear away.

Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice a broken plea. "Tell me to go, and I'll walk out that door right now. I'll be your LT. I'll pretend none of this ever happened."

You slid your hand around to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft, short hair at his nape. You pulled him down, forcing him to feel the steady, undeniable rhythm of your breathing.

"Stay," you breathed, your lips brushing against the rough fabric over his mouth. "And don't ever pretend again."

With a ragged groan, Simon crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was immediately filthy—a desperate starved friction. But the balaclava was a thin, infuriating barrier keeping you from the man beneath it. You could feel the heat of his lips, taste the moisture seeped into the weave, but you needed more. You needed him.

Your hands scrambled up his chest, fingers hooking into the heavy straps of his vest, dragging him impossibly closer. You bit at his lower lip through the fabric — a sharp, possessive snap that ripped a growl from his throat.

He answered in kind. His massive hands left the bench to seize your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. He hoisted you up onto the edge of the cold steel, sweeping aside gun parts and tools with a brutal flick of his arm, before stepping flush between your parted thighs. The contrast was dizzying—the freezing metal at your back, the inferno of his body pressing into your core.

"Simon," you gasped into the fabric.

You didn't strip the mask off completely—you couldn't bear to take the Ghost away, yet you wanted every single piece of him. Instead, your hands hooked under the hem of his balaclava, yanked it up over the bridge of his nose, and left the dark fabric bunched above his cheekbones.

The sight was intoxicating. The skull motif still stared down at you, dark and imposing, but beneath it was his bare, scarred mouth—his lips swollen, wet, and panting for air.

You didn't give him a second to think. You dragged him back down, claiming his mouth with a raw, desperate hunger.

This time, there was nothing between you. His lips were rough yet surprisingly soft, faintly tasting of coffee and mint. You licked into his mouth, your tongue sweeping deep, claiming every inch of the territory you’d been denied for an agonizing week.

"I wanted you..." you managed to breathe out between bruising, open-mouthed kisses, your hands cupping his stubbled jaw. You pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, your voice trembling with absolute truth. "I needed you back then, Simon. In that room... it wasn't the chemical calling your name. It was me."

Simon froze, a shuddering gasp tearing through him as your words hit him.

"Fuck," he rasped, his bare mouth sliding over your jawline, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "Don't... don't do this to me unless you mean it."

"I do," you whimpered, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. You dragged his mouth back to yours, kissing him until you were both breathless. "I need you now more than I ever did when I was on that drug. I'm clear, Simon. I'm completely sober, and I’n fucking begging you."

A primal sound vibrated as he took control of the kiss, turning it into a battle for total dominance. His tongue rolled over yours, possessive, sucking you deep into his mouth. Through your uniform, you could feel him — hard, thick, and straining against your core — and the pressure sent a sharp, delicious shockwave straight down to your pussy, soaking your panties instantly.

You reached down, grabbing the hem of his black t-shirt, tugging it upward with frantic urgency.

"Up," you commanded weakly.

He obeyed instantly, stripping the shirt over his head in one smooth motion and tossing it aside.

Your bare hands were all over him then, mapping the broad, scarred expanse of his chest, your palms delighting in the rough dusting of hair that tickled your skin. You leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, biting the hard line of his collarbone before laving over the mark with your tongue.

"Jesus, sweetheart—fuck," he hissed, his head falling back, exposing his throat to your mouth.

His hands moved with ruthless speed, yanking at the buttons of your uniform shirt, popping them off one by one until the fabric fell open. He didn't bother with the clasp of your bra; he simply hooked his large, calloused hands over the cups, shoving them down to spill your bare breasts into his palms.

When his bare thumbs rolled over your hardened nipples, you arched off the cold bench, thrusting your chest directly into his touch, a loud, wanton moan echoing off the concrete walls. You were already so close, the build-up of the past week, the sheer, filthy reality of finally having him, pushing you to the edge in record time.

His mouth followed his hands, ducking down to close over one nipple, sucking it hard. The wet heat of his mouth, the sting of his teeth—everything was more intense, more real, than you'd ever imagined.

Your fingers flew to the buckle of his belt, desperate, clumsy in your haste. You got it open, fumbling with the button and zipper of his cargos, freeing the heavy, thick length of his cock into your waiting palm. You groaned at the feel of him, velvet skin over rigid steel, and began to stroke him from root to tip.

He cursed against your breast, the vibration of his voice a new layer of sensation that had your thighs quivering around his hips.

"Keep doing that, and this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he warned.

"Good," you panted, your free hand reaching up to fist the back of his head, the other squeezing the base of his cock possessively. "I want you to fuck me on this bench, Simon. Now. No more waiting."

His only response was to grab your hips, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench.

With rough, impatient hands, he yanked your pants and panties down in one go, leaving them tangled around your boots. He froze for a second, his gaze dropping between your spread thighs, and a low, reverent curse escaped him.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, his eyes wide with disbelief as he took in the sight of you — so wet you were practically dripping. "All this... f’ me?"

You nodded, your hands gripping the edge of the bench behind you, your chest heaving. "All for you. Always for you, Simon."

He fell to his knees on the hard, concrete floor, his massive hands gripping the backs of your thighs, pushing them up and out until your legs were over his shoulders.

"Need to taste you," he growled, the words muffled against your inner thigh. "Need to know this is real."

And then his mouth was on you.

The first long, slow lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit was almost enough to make you come undone right then. He groaned against your folds, the sound vibrating through your most sensitive flesh. It wasn't gentle; it was a man starving, feasting. He licked and sucked with a brutal intensity, his tongue delving deep inside you before circling your clit with devastating precision.

You cried out, one hand flying to the back of his head, holding him to you, your hips grinding shamelessly against his face. He let you, his own hands digging into the flesh of your ass, holding you open for his ravaging mouth.

"Simon... oh God, don't stop," you whimpered, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.

"Never," he growled against your swollen flesh, the words a dark promise. "Gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, sweetheart. Gonna feel you cum all over my face."

His words were filthy, but his hands were filthier. He slid two thick fingers inside you, curling them upward to find that spongy, sensitive spot deep inside. The sudden, intense pressure made you cry out.

"Shhh," he soothed, his voice a velvety rumble. He didn't stop what he was doing, his tongue still lashing relentlessly at your clit. Instead, he brought his free hand up, pressing his palm firmly over your mouth. The gesture was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the raw, primal way he was devouring you. "Can't have the whole base hearin' what a needy little thing you are for me, can we?"

You whimpered against his hand, the sound muffled, your eyes rolling back in your head. The feeling was overwhelming. The stretch of his fingers inside you, the relentless stimulation of his tongue, the weight of his hand on your mouth, grounding you while simultaneously driving you wild. You could feel the slickness of your own arousal coating his face, see the way drool and your juices mingled at the corners of his mouth, but he didn't seem to give a fuck. He looked utterly lost in you, his movements messy and uncoordinated in their desperation.

He was watching you the entire time, his eyes now dark with lust, fixed on your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure as if it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He pulled his mouth back just enough to speak, his thumb still circling your clit.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see those eyes when you cum for me. Let me see you fall apart, little bird."

You locked eyes with him, the intensity of his gaze almost too much to bear. He plunged his fingers back inside you, curling them again, while his tongue returned to your clit, flicking it in rapid, staccato movements. The pressure snapped, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that started deep inside and radiated outwards in overwhelming waves.

You screamed against his palm, your body convulsing on the cold steel, your back arching off the bench as you came hard. You could feel your release flooding his hand, soaking his palm as he continued to work you through it, his movements slowing only when your trembling started to subside.

He finally pulled back, his face glistening with your essence.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction. He slowly lowered your legs from his shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to your inner knee before standing up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as he shoved his own pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It was angry, dark red, jutting out from a thatch of hair. It was, you thought then, more than you could take.

He stepped between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your oversensitive, soaked entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just stood there, his hands on your hips, his chest heaving as he looked down at you.

"'m not wearing a condom," he said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of intent. "I need to feel you. All of you. Are you okay with that?"

You were still panting, your body thrumming with aftershocks, but your answer was immediate. You reached down, wrapping your hand around his thick length, guiding him to your opening. "Yes," you whispered. "Just... please, Simon. Fuck me, I need you inside me."

He let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sigh of relief, and pushed forward.

The stretch was incredible, a slow, exquisite burn as he filled you inch by thick inch. He was so much bigger than you'd imagined, his girth forcing your body to adjust to him. You were trembling again, the over-sensitivity from your orgasm making every nerve ending feel like it was on fire.

"Si," you gasped, your nails digging into his forearms.

"I know," he soothed, his voice strained. He stopped when he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass, giving you a moment to adjust. He bent over you, his body a hot, heavy blanket, and captured your lips in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. It was a stark contrast to the raw power of him inside you. "I've got you. Just... breathe for me, sweetheart."

You did, taking deep, shuddering breaths, your body slowly relaxing around his. He started to move then, with shallow, careful thrusts, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. He found your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning it to the bench above your head, a gesture that was both intimate and grounding.

As your body adjusted, the burn morphed into pleasure. Deep, profound pleasure that had your head spinning. "More," you whimpered against his lips. "Harder."

He growled his approval, straightening up and grabbing your other hip. He pulled out almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming back into you. The new angle was devastating, the head of his cock hitting a spot so deep inside.

"Fuck!" he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "You're so fucking tight. So fucking perfect."

He set the rhythm, the heavy steel of the workbench creaking and groaning under the force of his thrusts. Each snap of his hips made the sound of skin slapping against wet skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. You were a mess beneath him, trembling and moaning, completely at his mercy.

He leaned down again, kissing you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth in time with his cock thrusting into your pussy. It was overwhelming, a complete sensory overload. His hand was still holding yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a surprisingly sweet gesture amidst the primal fucking.

"Look at me," he commanded again, his breath hot against your lips. You opened your eyes, meeting his intense, burning gaze. "I'm never gonna get enough of this. Of you."

You watched him, watched the way his jaw clenched, the way the muscles in his neck strained. He was holding back, you could tell, his movements controlled despite the raw power behind them.

"Don't hold back," you panted, your free hand moving to his face, your thumb tracing his lower lip. "I want to feel all of you, Simon. Let go."

His eyes flashed with a feral light. He released your hand, only to grip both your hips in a bruising hold. He lifted your ass off the bench slightly, changing the angle, and began to pound into you with a renewed, unrestrained ferocity.

The new angle had him hitting your g-spot with every single thrust, and you were gone. You spiraled back into a blinding orgasm, your body clenching down on his cock like a vise. You cried out his name, your voice echoing off the walls, no longer caring who heard.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" he roared, the feeling of you pulsing around him triggering his own release. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot, powerful jets of his cum filling you up, marking you from the inside out.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your neck.

Slowly, he softened inside you, and you immediately felt the hollow sense of emptiness when he started to slip out. A small, involuntary sob escaped your lips at the loss. He stilled instantly, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes filled with concern.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, pulling out the rest of the way and then quickly gathering you into his arms. He sat back on the bench, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap, your head tucked under his chin. He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. " I’ve got you. You're okay."

You nuzzled into his chest, the scratch of his chest hair against your cheek a comfort. "Just... didn't want it to end," you admitted, your voice muffled by his skin.

"It's not over," he promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Not by a long shot. We're moving this to my quarters. My bed."

You were quiet for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his solid warmth around you. Then a thought struck you, and you pulled back slightly to look at him. "What if... what if someone had walked in?"

A wicked smirk spread across his face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Someone did."

You froze, your eyes going wide. He chuckled, a low, deep sound.

"Right about the time I had my tongue in you, I heard the door. They left pretty quickly after that first scream, though."

You felt heat creep up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and excitement . "Oh my God," you whispered.

"You have a very impressive set of lungs, Sergeant," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a little breathless. You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss.

"Good," you whispered against his lips. "I'd hate for anyone to think the chemical was better than the real thing." You pulled back with a sly grin. "Because it wasn't even close."

He laughed, a real, genuine, happy sound that you knew you would do anything to hear again. He stood up with you still in his arms, holding you securely against his chest.

"We’re in a lot of trouble," he mumbled against your forehead.

FANBOY! KENMA who figures that — although it's nice that there's less trolls and spammers in your livestreams now, and that he doesn't have to bid against thousands of other fans for a private show anymore — the suspended growth of your channel cannot be a good thing. firstly, he doesn't enjoy imagining a sweet, gentle girl like you struggle financially, or struggle in any sense of the word. secondly, if your explicit content creation doesn't continue to provide a steady and decent stream of income, you'll probably abandon it, similar to how you stopped making gaming content. and of course, that would be kenma's worst nightmare.

FANBOY! KENMA who is this close to transferring someone's yearly salary straight into your bank account, just so he can implore you to keep making porn. but he unfortunately realises not only is that solution unsustainable, but it's also on a level of absolutely pathetic that he has yet to reach.

FANBOY! KENMA who is more concerned about your channel than he is his own. even if his gaming content were to suddenly lose motion, he'd still have his stocks and company investments to fall back on — but what do you have? shamefully, it keeps him up at night thinking that he soon might never see your gorgeous pussy plastered over his monitors again. or hear those cute moans as you mewl his (user)name over and over during one of your private shows.

FANBOY! KENMA who doesn't have to fret for long. on your main account, you send a text post to all your fans, admitting that your channel has been struggling recently. however, you weren't ready to give up so easily; you figured that in order for your account to blow up, you need to pull some sort of viral publicity stunt. something adjacent to sleeping with 100 men in one day, but unforunately you don't have the endurance for that. instead, you're looking for a popular, non-erotic youtuber to make content with.

FANBOY! KENMA is left aghast. not only at the vulgarity of your proposal, but also at how shockingly clever it was. by poaching a youtuber who doesn't already make nsfw content, you'll not only bring in their audience to your channel, but also a large portion of individuals who will want to see the content purely due to the curiousity and shock-factor alone. it was certainly the perfect scheme for a viral moment. the only glaring issue with your plan lied in the fact that there probably wasn't many popular youtubers who are willing to sacrifice their entire reputation, dignity and future sponsorships for a quick buck.

FANBOY! KENMA who is more than happy to end his youtube career for a quick fuck. especially from you.

FANBOY! KENMA who hesitantly messages you through his verified account, enquiring about the possiblity of a collab. he pays attention to the way he types and makes an effort to stray from his usual typing quirks, lest you recognise the way the types from the hours of private shows you've spent together. and the hundreds of comments he's left under your nude pics from his gooner account.

FANBOY! KENMA whose heart jumps in his chest when he receives a message back from you, which reads that you're delighted to get this oppertunity to work with him and you're happy to discuss setting up a date to meet in-person.

FANBOY! KENMA whose cock stiffens at the mere thought of finally seeing you in real life. getting feel those cute tits, and admire your gorgeous face up close. it makes him light-headed to think he might get to taste that tight cunt he's spent so many late nights drooling over. in fact, he struggles to even picture you in three dimensions — you're just so gorgeous with the most perfect tits, a small part of him suspected you must be some sort of hyper-realistic v-tuber.

but no, you're real. you're a real person and soon he's going to meet you in real life and feel the inside of that pretty hole that he's been obsessing over for years.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Main Street Flats. Room 605. It's on the sixth floor but the elevator is broken right now </3 see you soon!

his heart is pounding in his ears as he gently knocks on your door. despite streaming for audience of over twenty thousand viewers on a weekly basis, this is the most nervous he's felt since highschool. his stomach churned and pulsed, as he gripped onto the hem of his hoodie and prayed he wouldn't throw-up.

the worst part was his original fears would only spawn new ones; in the beginning, his biggest worries pertained to his desirability — what if you think he's too ugly and grimy to have sex with? — and his identity — what if you somehow recognise him from his gooner account and figure out he's perverted loser? it was an endless spiral of anxiety that halted when your apartment door swung open.

"oh, hi! you're here early." you sing, noticing him visibly stiffen at the sudden introduction. famous youtuber and twitch streamer , applepi : this guy was a big name in a the gaming sphere at the moment. admittedly, you didn't watch a lot of his content, but his influence and fame was undeniable. you revised for this meeting by binge watching his past livestreams, so you weren't going in totally blind — overall, he seemed like a sweet guy and the perfect candidate for your publicity stunt.

plus, he was so cute. his hair is long for a guy, and slightly bleach damaged, but it suited him somehow. his features were appealing to look at too ; piercing eyes that are almost feline. though they are currently widened to match his awkwardly startled expression.

or at least, that's what you thought. really, although you did surprise him a bit at first, the reason he was still stood staring at you in prolonged silence, was simply because he was soaking up your ethereal presence. he couldn't believe you were real and standing right afore him.

and you were exactly like your account promised. no editing or filters. that pretty face with those glossy lips that tempt in-person just as much as they do online. your perfectly shaped body was currently clad in a baggy pair of shorts and a low-cut tank top which exposed the bold curve of your tits and that salacious cleavage which was already starting to drive him crazy. was it bad that he already wanted to start sucking on those pretty tits? was he perverted for wanting to rip those shorts right off to see if your pussy was as cute and tight as it is online?

fuck, he's not even been here for a minute yet and already getting hard.

"uh— hello? kenma. you there?" you ask with a curious tilt of your head, since he seemed too stunned to respond.

snapped out of his trance, he hurriedly stammers out a reply, "uh, yeah— hi."

"hi," you repeat with a kind smile, "kenma. that's your name, right?"

"yeah." he mumbles, his cock throbbing upon hearing you say his real name in that melodic voice. he was so used to hearing you mewl and moan, it was kinda weird hearing you talk normally.

"why don't you come in?" you offer, stepping out of the way and softly gesturing for him to enter. he does so, timidly shuffling inside and examining your flat while you shut the door behind him.

he could help but gawk at his surroundings , having finally step foot in your home — it was like a place of mystery and myth. having seen snapshots of your flat in the background of your posts and videos, it was as though he was finally putting together the strangest puzzle. what he never sussed out earlier though, is that you live in a studio. still, he recognises the various parts from content. there, to his immeidate right, was your kitchen area, and the familiar countertop you are bent over in many up-skirt pics. in front of him, there is the large window which you frequently pose nude in front of , which would leave him seething at the thought of any pervvy window-cleaners catching a glimpse of you. against the adjacent wall, was your infamous desk with your pc setup on it, surely the one you would use to broadcast your rauchy livestreams. it felt terribly meta seeing the device in-person, along with your leathery gaming chair, which is shockingly prisitne, yet he seen first-hand how much squirt that thing has been covered with. finally , although he couldn't view it well from where he was standing, a few feet behind your desk was your bed. the main attraction.

"sorry, i don't have a living room or anything, but feel free to sit down here." you scramble to pull out one of the bar stools by your kitchen counter, and it grates against the wooden flooring, causing kenma to wince, "would you like me to get you a beverage? maybe a tea or something?"

cautiously, he sits down on the stool and his eyes follow your figure as you move round the counter into the kitchen to prepare yourself a drink, "water, please."

after removing two wine glasses from your cabinet, you fill each one with water from your filter, "yeah, i'm not feeling tea right now either. and coffee probably isn't advisable." you snicker to yourself, and kenma smirks.

he mutters his thanks as you hand him a glass, and you remain on the opposite side of the counter as you converse, "so, i was thinking we could shoot a video today?" you say, shockingly casual, then take a lengthy sip of your water, "is that okay with you, or do you just want to stick with photos?"

"a video is fine." kenma croaks, attempting to not choke on his water.

"great. my bed is just round there. i've set up some lights and a tripod too, so we should be good to go. oh, and clean sheets." you explain, trying your best to project confidence and praying that he doesn't pick up on how inexperienced you are — especially as you are meant to be the 'expert'. but your insistent lack of eye-contact and stammering might've given you away. "heh, i should admit, i've never done anything like this before."

kenma raises an eyebrow, "hm? i thought this is your job."

"sorta. what i mean is that i usually make, erm— solo content. i'm not used to working with others. not like this anyway." you idly fidget with the stem of your glass, beginning to ramble from sheer panic, "i mean, sometimes my friends might help me take pics. y'know, posing or getting the right lighting. but they don't feature in any, it's mostly just me. well, except for that one time, but yeah."

kenma was forced to sit there and grip onto the stem of his glassware and pretend like he didn't know exactly what you were talking about. (for your birthday, you released exclusive content, wherein fans could buy you stuff off your amazon wishlist and receive special photos in return. most of them were of you in your birthday suit, but a couple of the more candid ones showed you dancing in the club with your friends.)

"i'm new to this as well. but we'll work it out together." he reassures, in his silky voice that already has you rubbing your thighs together with anticipation.

"alright. i guess i'm done with my drink. do you want to just, erm, get started?" you inquire through gritted teeth, and he answers your question by simply getting up and following you to your bed.

before you plop yourself down at the end of the bed, and he perches beside you, the camera is first turned on and the lights are adjusted to suit. "i hope they are not too bright?" you ask, as you notice he sublty winces at the harsh illumination.

"it's fine." he shrugs.

"okay, i find this setting works well for me when i'm on my own. but let me know if you wanna change it."

well, kenma thinks to himself, if this is the lighting that makes you look like an otherwordly, divine spirit in all of your videos, then he must be able to put some faith in it.

"also, remember, the key to a good porno is lots of foreplay. think you can do that?" you challenge, and without hesitation, kenma nods.

"great, in that case, should we just start?" you suggest, toying with your own fingers, "don't worry about messing up or getting it right the first time. i rarely get the right footage in one take, it usually takes me three or four rounds before i get the perfect shot."

fuck, there's no way. as soon as the words exit your word, there's a horny pang that ruptures through kenma's mind, almost causing him to shudder. all the times he's seen you squirt at your desk , or orgasm uncontrollably on your bed, that's been the third or fourth take? to think, how swollen and sore your poor little clit must've been from all that stimulation, just to get the perfect shot for your viewers. you were too heavenly. and what he would do to give that sweet clit a kiss.

"kenma? hello?" you call out, as he appears to be lost in a daze once again.

"uh, hi." he jumps back to reality with a firm blink, "thanks. i'm down to reshoot as many times as we need." which is true, he's been working on his stamina and going on runs specifically for this purpose.

"that's great. but are you sure that you want to do this today? you seem a bit distracted."

he shakes his head slightly, "i'm fine."

"if you say so." you sigh, as you sit up and throw one of your legs over kenma's lap so you are straddling him, "the cameras are rolling, so let's go. don't hold back on me." you purr, arching your back into him and tugging him up by his hoodie's drawstrings into a deep kiss, which he is quick to reciprocate.

it's as though he was having some sort of out-of-body experience, like his mind just couldn't comprehend that you — the woman he's been fanning over and masterbating to for years — was finally on top of him. and he didn't need to empty his bank account for it to happen.

despite the surreal feeling, he tried his best to ground himself by slipping a hand under your shorts and squeezing a handful of your ass, reminding him that you were real and he could touch you. in fact, your lips even vibrated against his own as you mewl over the rough groping. he was more randy than you initially assumed, but that's not to say you didn't enjoy it.

as your lips weaved together in a sensual rhythm, his hand becomes increasingly eager and is able to locate your pantie-clad pussy under your loose shorts. his fingertips poked at and explored your soft folds, and he could feel the wet patch in the fabric where it was drooling for him. the camera would only show his hand stuffed between your thighs, but you knew how his slender fingers were toying with your supple cunt.

similarly, as you got lost in the kiss, his fingers drew towards your clit like a magnet to metal, even through the damp fabric of your panties. it was odd but also kinda a turn-on how familiar he was with female anatomy — you figured he must get a lot of action, or something like that. little did you know, he didn't know the first thing about women's biology , he was only able to find your clit so easily due to the fact he's seen so many of your livestreams that an image of your pussy is basically seared onto his prefrontal cortex. so, considering how much time he's spent watching you abuse that little nub with your vibrator, it would be shameful if he didn't couldn't locate your clit in under a second.

your lips were still dancing against his in a sloppy kiss and your arms were wrapped around his shoulders and your soft tits were pressed against his chest and was it just his imagination of could he feel those cute nipples poking him through your tank top? while you whined into his mouth, his hand adventured under your shorts and rubbed that spongy spot between your folds and you were so wet it was seeping through your panties and sticking to his fingers and when he moved to slap your cunt , he could feel the dip where that tight hole was and how the fabric clung to it and— and fuck, he needs to tear this shit off you.

you try to put on a performance for the viewers — make a little show out of tugging your shorts of for the video that was hopefully going to be viewed by thousands , if not millions of horny gamers. but kenma prevented you from doing so.

"hurry up." his fingers, which were previously digging into the supple flesh of your thighs, move to keenly tug at your waistband. although you were making good progess sensually pulling your shorts down as you sway your hips for the camera, kenma is far to impatient and you stumble as he rushes them all the way down your legs and carelessly tosses them aside.

he grabs a fistful of your newly exposed ass cheek and kneads it in his hand, pulling you back in and deepening the kiss once again. "you're so pretty like this.." he rumbles against your mouth, and you can't help but smile. "better than i imagined." maybe he shouldn't have said that, especially as he's trying to pretend like he's not a fanboy that's been routinely pleasuring himself to you for the last year.. but it's the heat of the moment, and it's so true. he could've never conceptualised how angelic you'd feel, how sweet you'd taste and how deliciously lewd you'd smell.

you're so soft and malleable and light, it's like if he held you too firmly you'd shatter, but if he loosened his grip you might dissipate into thin air. and he couldn't let that happen.

a low whimper is strung from his throat as you lightly grind hips down against his throbbing erection. the noise he made caused him to cringe a little, hence his hand instinctually gripped your ass harder, and it didn't help when you giggled quietly while littering kisses over his jawline and neck. no, that only made him even more self-conscious, and in a fit of frustration, he smacks your ass with all the strength he has in his arm. then, he does it again.

you squeal slightly and strighten up, clinging to his shoulder and looking down at his blank face with a pout. his hands massages the warm area upon which he delivered his merciless strike, squeezing at your raw skin. "sorry.." he says timidly, though the lustful and greedy glint at his eye suggests that he might not be so apologetic.

still, you howl with your back turned to the camera, "ow, kenma!" and he genuinely feels guilty for a split second, until you lean in and whisper into his ear, quiet enough so the microphone wouldn't pick up on it, "do it harder next time, please."

kenma's eyes widen, and the insenity of his erection has suddenly shifted from mild to unbearable. thankfully, you are there to lead the way, and you push him back so he is laying on the bed, and you crawl on top of him, pecking all across his neck while he desperately works on unzipping his fly. usually, he taking his clothes off in front of a camera and professional lightening would've caused him a decent amount of mental turmoil, but fortunately due to the extreme discomfort between his legs, he was able to bypass that phase and skip straight to the part where he is trying to shove his cock into your snug little cunt. the cocksleeve of his dreams.

but of course, you are there to interupt him by grabbing his dick with your cute hands and whispering, "remember what i said about foreplay." kenma presses his lips into a fine line, almost tearing up while attempting not to come undone right there in your hand.

you let go and shuffle forward so you're straddling his lower torso, and your pantie-clad pussy is sat on his lower abdomen. you take the hem of your fitted tank top and pull it up over your head, and out fall your gorgeous tits. just the right size and it's like your pebbled nipples were staring right at him, begging to be sucked and toyed with, calling out desperately for attention, crying out just like how they did online during your private livestreams together. except the only difference is this time, kenma can actually reach out and pinch those adorable nubs with his own fing—

"kenma!" you yelp, feeling the hot cum that was leaking down his shaft touch your lower back. fuck, he came. despite his effort to bite it back, upon seeing your perfect tits, his seed naturally came spilling out too, drooling down the length of his cock and staining his thighs and the part of your back and ass that had been situated near him.

"mph, sorry. you're too hot.." he groaned, in a low enough tone that the microphone probably couldn't have picked it up. you furrow your brows and look down at him with a disatisfied pout; though you can feign anger all you want, doesn't change the fact you were secretly endeared by how easily he came for you. he's like putty if your hands. not that this kind of treatment from men is foreign to you — you entertain gooner fanboys all day, it's kinda your job — but kenma wasn't one of them. no, he's a famous livestreamer and millionaire stock-trader, who most women would be delighted to have sex with but he's still so down bad for you.

but you're only a niche camgirl; he'd probably never even heard of you before you reached out to him about a collab.

your chest heaved as you were momentarily fixated on the feeling of his hot cum splattered on your back, running down your skin in drops, over the rotund globe of your ass and back down on to his lower stomach where you were sat. meanwhile, his narrow eyes explored your perfect figure some more. your pretty tits, the tempting dip of your waist, your erect nipples, your panties which clung to the outline of your damp cunt: of course, he's seen it all before online, but this was different. and so much better.

his hands traced your silhouette, sliding up and down the sensual curves of your body and cupping those perky tits. the words left him without considersation, "can i taste?" he croaked.

"of course." you hummed politely in response. however, you were lost in thoughts of your own, and were not paying attention to the way he was lecherously gazing at your tits. hence, you assumed he was referring to something else. and this misunderstanding only manifests when you shuffle forward, pull your panties aside and sit on his face.

but kenma doesn't protest. not only because he's suffocating in your pussy and can hardly speak, but also because he prefers it this way. he relished the oppertunity and grips your thighs, pressing them further down against his mouth.

his lips work against your folds, feverishly, lapping at your sopping labia and sucking on it — savouring at prisitine juices you have to offer. his eyes screw shut as he loses himself in your wet cunt, thrusting his tongue into your hole eagerly and devouring you like a depraved, starving man. and fucking loves it too, and this time he can't even bring himself to hide it; you can tell by the way he moans into your pussy and whispers all sorts of nasty shit under his breath about how your tight hole is going to rip his tongue off, or how you long he's been dreaming about eating you out.

and those are only the things you manage to hear over the obscene, wet noises his mouth is making against your cunt. you're not sure if it's from the sloppy make-out session he has with your folds, or if it is from his tongue repeatedly drilling into your sopping hole, but something is emitting a squealching sounds which you pray the microphone will detect.

"hah— mmh, t' much.." you whine, your fingers winding into his darkened roots as your squirm against his face, "you're so good, kenma."

"not done.." he grits, squeezing the meat of your thighs and burying himself deeper into your fluttering hole, "'m not done tasting you."

"but i'm close!" you blurt out, legs tensing around his head as a burning heat swirls within your abdomen.

"do it." he groaned, hips rutting into thin air as his tongue furiously pierces into your desperate pussy. "finish on my face.. please, baby, cum on me." at first it was a harsh demand, but the more your sweet pussy filled his senses, it became a plea.

soon, your first orgasm wracked through your shivering body, causing your walls to constrict around kenma's tongue, but that didn't stop him from him from kissing your hole as you climaxed. once you were finished though — your body relaxed and your pornographic shrieks fade into heavy breathing — when you move to pull yourself off his face, his hands grip onto your thighs and hold you in place. his lips then begin to move again as he reestablishes a rhythm to continue eating you out.

his enthusiasm, although cute, was lost on you as you keep trying to pull yourself off his face, to no avail. he whines, words muffled by his mouth locked to your pussy, "nggh, please, princess. 'm not done. let me go again. you're so tasty." his fingers cling to your supple flesh, unable to let you go.

you squirm against his face from the ticklish vibrations of his voice against your clit. yours hands grasp meekly onto his longish blond locks, idly massaging his scalp, "mm, but we need to keep going, honey. for the.." your breath hitches, and you mouth the final word, "film."

"fuck the video.." he groans, pressuring your cunt down against his mouth as he starts gnawing at your insides once again. his lips peppered sloppy kisses at your puckered entrance, then his tongue wormed through your restrictive walls and lapped at gummy spot within you, causing back to arch and an utterly pornographic moan to be yanked from you.

instictually, your hips began to rut against his face as your body revels in the feral way he eats out your pussy. "so good, baby.. can't get enough of you, please don't ever make me leave." he murmurs, stamina fueled by a lust-induced trance.

"think you c— ngh— kenma!" you open your mouth to tease him but your abruptly cut off by a string of moans and sobs that your body is no longer able to suppress. from the way his tongue laps at your puffy folds and his nose prods at your delicate clit, there's a growing desire in the pit of your stomach which is becoming increasingly difficult to hide.

"you like that ? feel good?"

originally you'd been trying to stay collected as this was only just the foreplay, but he was doing something to you, and you just couldn't contain yourself any longer. there you were on your bed riding his face and jutting your hips against him, craving friction and selfishly chasing your high without a care in the word for the man suffocating between your legs.

his whole arms were locked around your legs to keep you in place and his eyes were squeezed shut as he delved into your hole, pushing into you repeatedly while you called for to him. "kenma! please!" you pleaded to the ceiling. " 'm right there , please."

"anything for you. just cum for me, kitten. let it all out. finish on my face again." his tongue was too far up your hole and he was too immersed in your needy, juicy cunt to give a fuck about the cringy pet name. that's what he's always called you in his head — his cute little kitten, with innocent eyes and a hidden fierceness — even when he was just a fan , pumping his cock to your digital pussy on his screen. but now it was real , as real as your arousal smearing his chin and dripping down his throat.

and as real as the squirt gushing from your pussy as you climaxed, drenching his face and neck. his tongue was freed from your spasming hole but he continued to suck on and nibble at your pulsing clit, massaging your ass to coax you through your high.

it was euphoric, your pent-up stress releasing as a wave of bliss coarsed through your body. your muted screamed bounced off the wall as you revelled in the sensation, without a drop of care for your neighbours or those who might overhear.

as your coming down, the orgasmic dizziness begins to fade and your seneses sharpen, which is when you become conscious of a hot fluid dripping down your back. your brows furrow, and you try to reach your hand back to touch it but unfortunately your arms don't bend that far. that's when you hear a murmur of a dishevelled kenma from between your legs, mouth still brushed up against your clit, "erm, sorry. again."

you turn around to see that he came a second time, and now his cum has spurted all up his chest and some must've also splattered across your back, again.

all you can do is titter in response, shuffling off his face and kneeling on the bed beside him, "don't worry about it.." taking his slender hand in your own, you guide it towards your hips as you twist around and bend over on the bed, bracing yourself with your elbows with your ass in the air. "c'mon. 'm ready to take you." still riding your depleting high, you look back at him with your bottom lip captured betwen your teeth and a wanton glint in your eyes. "wanna hurry up and give it to me, daddy?"

even though a part of him reckoned you were playing it up for the camera, he couldn't help but relish at how needy you are. who knew fucking yourself stupid with a dildo and toying with your clit all day while livestreaming wasn't enough for your greedy little pussy? still desperate to get stuffed by him; a guy you hardly knew. god, it drove him crazy to think about.

he swiftly sat up and aligned himself with your entrance, smearing the head of his cock over your glistening folds and lubricating himself with your arousal. he couldn't believe this. his breath hitched at the sight , along with the realisation that he was about to enter the same sweet cunt that he's been dreaming about for ages. he salivates at the notion, wondering whether your walls would squeeze his dick just like he imagined.

there was only one way to find out. wasting no time, the distance between his hips and yours narrow as he buries himself into your creamy hole. his eyes screw shut and he clenches a fistful of your ass, experiecing an overwhelming level of satisfaction as your walls grip onto his length. "nngh, i knew this pussy was made for me.." he grumbles, torso going slack as he leans forward, body laying against yours, with his cheek pressed against the back of your neck — without an ounce of concern for the cum on your back which was now surely staining his chest further.

"mhm, n' you fill me up so good." you mewl, squirming back against him and appreciating the inches of stimulation it brings you. you're given some time to adjust to his impressive length, stretching your stubborn walls to fit him inside you while he remained stagnant, body caving into yours as he savoured the moment.

" n' you're so fucking tight too.. you're like a dream come true." he droned in his usual monotone voice, "don't think i can ever pull out of you. this is where i belong. deep inside you." talk about pussy-drunk; this is the most talkative you've seen him so far.

it took one or two more agitated squirms before he figured out you were attempting to covertly ask for more. as much as he was enjoying himself cuddling into your back while balls-deep in your cunt, he straightening his posture and slowly begins to rock his hips into you. starting a reasonable and moderate pace, and working his way up until he was hurriedly slamming his cock into your pussy over and over.

a staggered cry emitted from your mouth with every harsh slap of his hips against yours ass, along with the cruel pierce of his length against yoru cervix. your whole body was rocked by his brutal force, and your tits swung in such an overt way — easily identifiable by a potential viewer.

"hah— yes, ke— kenma! right— there—" the breathy words stumbled out of you, accompanied by a high-pitched whine of pleasure. "no— no one's ever— mph, fucked me like this!"

"you're taking it so well, kitten." meanwhile, kenma's focus was zeroed in on your ass, watching it bounce against him as he pounded into your sopping hole repeatedly. the juices seeped out of you — an unholy mixture of precum, your wetness and his saliva — and culminated in a ring at the base of his cock.

your gummy walls swallowed him whole and took him so nicely. hugging every inch of his unloved cock and showing him the affection he deserved. so tight, and so good for him. it almost made him feel bad for mercilessly drilling into you. "just like that. stay just like that, pretty girl." he heaved, as his fingers idly trail up your thighs until they reach your folds, wherein he begins to rub and pinch at your clit.

it was all just so much. his expert fingers; his fat cock; his warm body against yours. plus, you were still sensitive from your previous two orgasms. the rigid knot was building up within you so quickly. your body was tensing and he could sense you were close from the way your walls clung to his unforgiving dick. "please, ke— enma. i'm so close, i'm so fucking close."

"shh. i know, baby. n' i'm going to take care of you. so just relax." his voice his shaky yet so calming and remorseful; in stark contrast to the way his dick keeping ploughing into you, relentlessly bullying your poor cervix and your aching little hole. this was serious, as reflected by the severe glint in his eyes; this means a lot more to him just some stupid video. he's a man on a mission.

his length ravaged your insides yet it was stroking all the right places, just as his hands caressed your thighs and ass. "such a good girl. can't believe this pussy's all mine."

with that, you tossed your head back and let pure bliss encapsulate your trembling body. your arms gave out from underneath you but the overwhelming pleasure coarsing through you distracted from the discomfort of your face hitting the mattress. despite how your cunt clamped down on him, kenma attempted to still fuck you through your high, but all he managed was a few feeble thrusts and a single stroke of your clit before he came undone inside you.

your moans bounced off the walls and filled the room. it was hard to cope with the conjestive feeling of his hot seed permeating your insides, but you were given time to lay down and recover. and soon, kenma's twitching body collapsed on top of you and joined you.

his dick was still buried in your stuffed pussy , and he was a bit heavy on top of you, but you were far too worn out to utter a complaint about it. instead, you just laid there and tried to catch your breath, flinching occasionally.

until you eventually spoke up, "that was a good demo. i think we've still got a lot of practising to do though, before we're ready to shoot the real thing."

"sure." he replied plainly.

there was a beat of silence between you, in which you could hear kenma still puffing for air. to lighten the mood, you ask, "by the way, what's with the nickname? 'kitten' ; i've never heard that one before."

"oh, do you not like it?"

"no, i don't mind it." you say defensively, "well, maybe you shouldn't use it during the final take, but it's not that bad. certainly new. never been called that before, which is pretty crazy considering guys online have called me plenty of unique nicknames: pumpkin, sugarplum, even honey muffin — but not kitten."

"hm, i think it just reminded me of you." he explains flatly, "but now that i think about it, i guess 'bunny' might've suited you more."

"hm, how come?"

"cos of your halloween costume. remember?"

"oh, yeah!" you giggle at the memory; the year you went as a bunny was certainly a wild one. gosh, it must've been ages ago now.. you think to yourself. and suddenly, your heart rate begins to increase as a realisation comes crashing down on you:

"huh, it's strange you know that, though. considering the only people who know about that costume are my friends, and the fifteen people who bought the pictures off my account."

you're storming—no, stomping—down the cracked pavement path that leads to the shared dorms, the cool, gritty concrete biting into your bare soles with each deliberate step— god, your feet ache, but not as much as your pride—or whatever's left of it after that disaster of a date. your high heels dangling from one hand like defeated trophies, their strappy black leather swinging with each furious step. your feet are bare against the cool, rough concrete, toes curling slightly with every gritty contact, the pavement's uneven texture scraping just enough to remind you how utterly pissed you are. god, it feels grounding in the worst way, like the earth’s way of saying hey, girl, snap out of it, but all it does is fuel your grumble, a low, muttering rumble that spills from your lips in fragmented curses.

your dress—oh, this goddamn dress—this slutty little number you picked out with such wicked intent, clings to your body like a second skin, slutty in the best (or worst) way possible, the kind of outfit you picked out with mischief in mind, envisioning tangled sheets and breathless moans until the sun peeked over the horizon; is a deep crimson slip of silk that clings to every curve like it's painted on, the fabric so thin it whispers against your thighs with each movement, riding up just a tad too high to be innocent.

it's got a plunging neckline that dips dangerously low, framing the swell of your breasts with lace-trimmed edges that scream come and get it, and the hem barely skims mid-thigh, leaving your long legs exposed to the night's breeze, flirting with the edge of indecency, short enough that a gust of wind could expose the even sluttier lace thong underneath. underneath? even sluttier—a matching black thong that's more string than substance, paired with a bra that pushes everything up and out like an offering to the gods of debauchery, the kind that screams fuck me without you having to say a word.

you shaved everywhere, smooth as silk, and doused yourself in that vanilla-caramel perfume that always turns heads, the scent lingering like a sweet, seductive trail. your makeup's still flawless, smoky eyes and red lips that could make a saint sin, hair tousled just right from the wind and your earlier anticipation. you are a vision, honestly — you're a walking fantasy, so fucking pretty you could blind someone with a glance, curves in all the right places, skin glowing under the dim campus lights. but tonight? all that effort wasted on some idiot who couldn't appreciate the masterpiece in front of him.

your face is a storm cloud of upset, brows furrowed deep enough to carve permanent lines, lips pursed in a pout that's equal parts adorable and menacing, eyes narrowed like you're plotting murder—which, honestly, you kind of are. each step comes with a grumble, words tumbling out in a heated whisper to yourself, “fucking idiot, who does he think he is?”

the date had started so promising: a cozy little restaurant downtown with dim lighting and candles flickering like they knew the vibe, the guy across from you all chiseled jaw and charming smile, handsome in that generic way that makes your pulse quicken. food was great—steak juicy and rare, wine smooth and heady, conversation basic but bearable, small talk about classes and cursed techniques that didn't bore you to tears. and you? you were geared up for the main event, ready to get dicked down until dawn, body primed and eager, imagining hands on your skin, moans echoing through some cheap motel room. but no. nope. hell no.

the conversation veered into bedroom territory, and he hits you with that stupid question: can you squirt? you're honest—“not sure, never have, no guy's ever made me—and suddenly his face twists like you just confessed to being a cursed spirit in disguise. calls you broken, says he likes girls who can make him feel drowned, like he's some aquatic fetishist who needs a fucking flood to get off. the fuck was that? you're not broken just because squirting's not in your repertoire; it's a stupid, shallow reason to bail, as if your body's some defective toy he can return.

you could do so much better than squirt, anyway—hell, you could clench around him like a vice, milk him dry with those kegels you've been practicing, ride him reverse cowgirl until he's begging for mercy, deepthroat like a pro and swallow every drop without spilling, or arch your back in doggy so perfectly he'd see stars.

you could moan his name in ways that shatter egos, scratch down his back leaving marks that last days, or even edge him for hours until he's a whimpering mess. squirting? please. that's amateur hour compared to the symphony of pleasure you could orchestrate. and the fucking guy can squirt himself if he's so obsessed—shove a hose up his ass and drown his stupid self in it.

you grumble louder now, voice rising in the quiet night, “if he wants to drown so bad, he can jump in the fucking ocean, not hunt for girls like they're goddamn fountains.” the words echo off the dorm buildings, your bare feet slapping the pavement harder, frustration boiling over until you spot a trash can by the path—rusted metal, overflowing with soda cans and wrappers—and you kick it, hard, the clang ringing out like a gunshot in the silence, the can wobbling but not toppling, your toe throbbing but the satisfaction worth it.

“take that, you symbolic piece of shit,” you mutter, pushing through the double doors of the dorm with a shove that makes them bang against the walls.

inside, the lobby's dimly lit, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like annoyed bees, the air thick with the faint scent of instant ramen and lingering cursed energy from earlier training sessions. you stomp deeper, into the communal living room where mismatched couches sag under invisible weights, a tv flickering static in the corner, posters of old jujutsu missions peeling from the walls.

it's college life at its finest—messy, chaotic, shared among sorcerers who pretend they're adults but act like overgrown kids. but your dramatic entrance gets halted mid-stride by voices, two of them, lazy and teasing, cutting through the quiet like knives dipped in honey.

“look at that, strolling in like a lost little slut after curfew,” comes the first voice, smooth and mocking, belonging to gojo satoru, that white-haired menace sprawled on the couch with his long legs kicked up, blindfold pushed up to reveal those piercing blue eyes glinting with mischief. he's in his usual casual getup—black shirt hugging his lean muscles, sweatpants low on his hips—looking every bit the pervert he is, a smirk playing on his lips like he owns the damn room.

“yeah, what happened, princess? date ditch you 'cause you couldn't keep up?” adds geto suguru, his dark hair loose around his shoulders, lounging beside gojo with that infuriatingly calm demeanor, but his eyes—sharp and hungry—rake over your form, lingering on the way your dress clings, the bare feet, the upset flush on your cheeks. he's in a simple tank top that shows off his broad shoulders, gauges glinting in the low light, voice dripping with that mean sweetness that always gets under your skin.

you freeze, heat rising in your chest—not just from anger, but from the way they look at you, like predators toying with prey, affectionate in their filthiness, loving in their menace. enemies? sure, on the surface—always bickering in class, clashing during missions, their teasing pushing your buttons since freshman year. but there's something deeper, stupid and sweet, a dynamic where their perversion feels almost caring, their insults laced with unspoken want. you whirl on them, heels still dangling, face twisting further into that grumble-pout. “shut the fuck up, both of you. not in the mood for your bullshit tonight.”

gojo laughs, that high-pitched, deranged cackle that echoes too loud, like a fucking hyena leaning forward with elbows on knees. “aw, come on, don't be like that. you look all dolled up and slutty—that dress? damn, it's practically begging to be ripped off. but your face says the night bombed. what, pretty boy couldn't handle you? or wait, did he call you broken too?” he mimics your earlier grumble, voice pitching up in dramatic mockery, and somehow he knows— damn you gojo and his stupid six eyes. . . while geto chuckles low, filthy and soft, “nah, satoru, look at her grumble. bet she scared him off with that attitude. or maybe she promised the world and delivered a drizzle. pathetic, aren’t you?”

you step closer, bare feet padding on the worn carpet, anger flaring but mixed with that weird, playful heat they always spark—stupid, affectionate, like they're mean because they care too much not to be. “fuck off, idiots. he was the broken one, obsessed with squirting like it's the holy grail. and you two? calling me a slut? pot meet kettle—you're the perverts who stare at my ass during training.” your voice rises, dramatic and crazy (must be loose her mind’ both men thought), hands gesturing wildly, but there's a spark in your eyes, a flame pull toward their teasing, the way gojo's gaze drops to your cleavage, shameless. . .  while geto smirks, “oh, we're perverts? says the one barefoot and fuming in lingerie disguised as a dress. tell us more, sweetheart—did he at least make you moan before bailing?”

“moan? ha, as if,” you snap back, crossing your arms which only pushes your breasts up further, drawing their eyes like magnets, the argument heating up in that ‘make me mad but i know you are gonna fuck me later’ way—mean words flying but softened by the underlying affection, their shamelessness, rude. . . fucking meannnn wrapping around you like a warm, sticky post-sex hug.

gojo stands now, towering over you with that dramatic flair, like he knows he is better than anyone— he is, he soooo fucking is. “come on, admit it, you're upset 'cause you wanted to get fucked silly, and now you're taking it out on us. poor thing, all dressed up with no one to drown.” geto joins in, voice sweet but cutting, “yeah, but we could fix that—if you're not too broken for us.” 

your frown deepens, carving sharp little trenches between your brows, lips twisting into something so pouty and stormy it could summon rainclouds inside this damn dorm. you're more upset than you thought possible, chest tight and hot, because—of all the fucking people to run into tonight—it's them. gojo satoru and geto suguru, the undisputed strongest duo on campus, the ones every girl whispers about in the locker rooms with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

especially gojo, they say. especially, the gojo fucking satoru. that white-haired freak apparently fucks like he fights: relentless, overwhelming, leaves you shaking and stupid for days. and you hate that the thought even crosses your mind—hate that you can't believe that idiot from the date couldn't handle you, yet these two perverts have probably ruined half the female population with their dicks. it's unfair. it's infuriating. it's making your thighs clench in the worst way. it make your pussy cry for thier said 'magical' cock. . . or cocks???  yeah, you can definitly do both. . . wink, wink. 

you let out a long, dramatic groan that echoes in the empty living room, shoulders slumping as you spin on your bare heel. “fuck off, both of you,” you mutter, voice low and gravelly with exhaustion and lingering rage, before turning toward the elevator at the end of the hall. your heels still dangle from your fingers, swinging like pendulums counting down to your escape, bare feet padding softly against the cold linoleum now, each step a little stomp because you're still pissed.

behind you, gojo lets out the most pathetic, high-pitched whine you've ever heard from a grown man. “whaaat? you're just gonna leave us hanging like that?” he yells with that gangly, dramatic flair, long legs carrying him after you in two big strides. geto follows at a more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets, but you can feel his dark eyes burning into your back like brands.

“i wanna get away from you idiots,” you call over your shoulder without looking back, voice flat and mean, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly like it's personally offended you. the doors finally ding open with a tired groan, and you slip inside, pressing your back against the far wall, arms crossed tight under your chest—which, of course, only pushes your tits up higher in that slutty crimson dress. key word; purposely (you try to get fucked but too shy to ask).

but peace? nope. not tonight. gojo barrels in right after you, all boundless energy and smirking lips, while geto slides in smooth and quiet, the doors closing with a soft thunk that traps all three of you in this tiny metal box. instantly, the air thickens—cursed energy, perfume, and the faint musk of their cologne mixing into something heady and dangerous. geto's on your right, leaning casually against the wall, while gojo crowds your left, towering and unapologetic.

geto glances at the panel, that lazy smirk curling his mouth as his dark eyes flick to you. “12, right?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough, not even waiting for confirmation before his long finger presses the button for floor 12—your floor—and then 8, theirs, right below. the elevator lurches upward with a soft hum, and you exhale a tiny, relieved sigh, thinking thank fuck, they'll get off first, leave you alone to stew in your room with a vibrator and some spite . . . lie, you rather stew, stir, anything with cock, or cocks.

“thanks,” you mumble under your breath, barely audible, staring at the floor numbers lighting up one by one.

geto hums in response, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through the small space. “anytime, princess.”

but gojo—fucking gojo—can't let anything be peaceful. he's staring at you openly, head tilted, blindfold pushed up so those stupidly bright blue eyes can rake over every inch of you. he's leaning sideways now, one palm flat against the wall right beside your head, caging you in without touching, his body heat radiating like a furnace. that signature smirk stretches wider, lazy and filthy.

you finally snap your gaze to him, frown sharpening. “what the fuck are you looking at?”

he shrugs, slow and exaggerated, eyes dropping deliberately to your chest. “your tits,” he says, voice dripping with casual perversion, like he's commenting on the weather. his smirk grows even bigger, sharp canines glinting. geto snorts beside you, a soft puff of laughter he doesn't bother hiding.

“fuck off, satoru,” you hiss, cheeks burning despite yourself, arms tightening across your chest like that'll hide anything in this dress.

but gojo doesn't listen—never listens. instead, his free hand lifts, fingers bold and unhesitating as they hook into the plunging neckline of your dress. he tugs it down slow, deliberate, the silk sliding lower until the lace edge of your bra peeks out and even more cleavage spills into view, the cool elevator air kissing newly exposed skin. both of them let out twin hums of approval—gojo's high and teasing, geto's low and rumbling—like they've just uncovered buried treasure.

“fuck, that's better,” gojo breathes, eyes hooded, thumb brushing the swell of your breast for half a second before you react.

you slap his hand away hard, the crack echoing in the tiny space, your voice rising sharp and dramatic. “you're both disgusting! absolute perverts—get your filthy hands off me!”

gojo whines again, cradling his slapped hand to his chest like you mortally wounded him, bottom lip jutting out in the most over-the-top pout. “owww, so mean! we were just appreciating the view you put on display, sweetheart. walking in here all slutty and grumpy—it's practically an invitation.” that's right. . . i'm inviting you two to fuck me, please take the goddamn bait' you thought.

geto chuckles darker this time, shifting closer on your right until his shoulder brushes yours, voice soft and sweet like poison. “he's not wrong. that dress is begging to be messed up. and you're the one who came home all worked up and unsatisfied… we can smell it on you.”

your breath hitches, thighs pressing together instinctively as the elevator climbs agonizingly slow, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, thick enough to choke on. they're so close—gojo's fingers still hovering near your chest like he might try again, geto's gaze heavy and knowing on your face—and you hate how your body's reacting, how the anger's twisting into something hotter, needier, nastierrrr. the burn is excruciating, every second stretching into eternity as the floor numbers tick upward, and you know—you just know—they're not getting off on 8 without dragging you into whatever filthy chaos they have planned— hope it's fuck you till you cry domain.

the elevator dings like a smug little bitch, doors sliding open with a soft whoosh to reveal the dimly lit hallway of floor 8—their floor, all muted blues and grays under the flickering fluorescent lights, posters of old missions taped crookedly to the walls, the faint smell of instant coffee and boy-sweat lingering like a signature. geto steps out first, smooth and unhurried, turning to plant himself right in front of the doors with his arms loosely crossed, that dark hair falling over one shoulder, smirk sharp enough to cut glass as he blocks any hope of escape. gojo's still glued to your left side, body heat pouring off him in waves, that stupidly tall frame crowding you against the wall like he owns the damn elevator.

you tilt your head at him slow, deliberate, one brow arched high in that silent, universal language of get the fuck out, now. your bare toes curl against the cold metal floor, heels still dangling uselessly from your fingers, crimson dress riding up just a little higher from all the shifting.

gojo blinks those ridiculous blue eyes, points at his own chest with a long finger, then jabs it toward the open door like he's genuinely confused. “me? out?” he mouths dramatically, lips forming the words in exaggerated slow-motion.

you nod once, firm and pissed, lips pressed thin.

he nods back, all solemn and fake-serious—then in one fluid, idiotically strong motion, he ducks low, arm hooking behind your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly the world flips upside down. your stomach drops as you're hoisted over his shoulder like a goddamn sack of cursing, squirming girl. the breath whooshes out of you in a shocked yelp, your heels clatter to the elevator floor forgotten, hair tumbling down in a wild curtain as blood rushes to your head.

“what the fuck are you doing, satoru?!” you screech, voice echoing off the hallway walls, fists pounding uselessly against the broad, annoyingly solid plane of his back—muscles flexing under your palms like he’s enjoying the massage. upside down, you catch geto strolling behind, one hand in his pockets while the othe now holding your heels, laughing low and rich, eyes crinkled with pure satisfaction.

“put me down right now or i swear to god i'll scream!” you threaten, kicking your legs, bare feet flailing in the air, thighs brushing dangerously close to gojo's face with every swing.

geto tilts his head, voice all velvet and filth as he walks backward down the hall, keeping pace. “go ahead and scream, baby. everyone on this floor already thinks satoru's fucking you good when you make noise like that. they know his reputation.” he winks, tongue flicking over his lower lip like he's tasting the idea already.

you go dead silent for a beat, dangling there like a furious cat, staring at geto upside down—blood rushing louder in your ears. “are you fucking kidding me?” you finally hiss, incredulous and hot-cheeked. “you’re both disgusting—absolute animals—put me down!”

you kick harder, one heel connecting with gojo's abs— which does absolutely nothing except make him grunt a pleased little “mmph”, and you slap at his back again, nails scraping through the fabric of his shirt. but he's the strongest for a reason—your hits are mosquito bites to him, and he just chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest into your belly where it’s pressed against his shoulder.

gojo strides down the hall like he’s carrying a prize, long legs eating distance until he stops at a door—their shared dorm, you realize dimly, the one everyone jokes is basically a brothel disguised as student housing. he kicks it open with one foot, the bang loud and dramatic, revealing a messy, lived-in chaos of clothes strewn over chairs, empty energy drink cans, two unmade beds pushed together into one massive one because of course they share, posters of cursed techniques and half-naked models taped side by side. the air smells like them—clean sweat, mint, and something darker, muskier.

he finally lowers you, slow enough that your body slides down his front, dress hiking up embarrassingly high, thighs brushing his hips, until your bare feet hit the soft rug. the world spins for a second—head rush making everything tilt—and before you can steady yourself or spit another curse, gojo's hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks soft and sudden, and his mouth crashes onto yours.

fucking yesss.

it’s not gentle. it’s hungry, stupid, overwhelming—lips hot and demanding, tongue sliding in without asking, tasting like the strawberry candy he’s always sucking on. you groan into it immediately, a low, betrayed “nngh” that vibrates between you both, hands flying up not to push but to grip—fingers digging hard into his biceps, anchoring yourself as your knees threaten to buckle. the door clicks shut behind you—geto locking it with a deliberate turn that echoes like a promise—and then his presence is at your back, heat radiating, but for now it’s just gojo devouring your mouth like he’s been starving for it.

you kiss him back just as filthy, teeth nipping his lower lip in retaliation, tongue tangling messy and wet, another soft moan spilling out of you, “mmph, fuck.” because god damn it, he tastes good, feels good, and all that earlier anger is melting into something molten and stupid between your thighs. your body arches instinctively, pressing closer, nipples tightening against the silk of your dress as his chest molds to yours.

geto’s low chuckle ghosts over your ear from behind, affectionate and mean all at once. “look at her, satoru. already moaning like she’s been waiting for this all night.”

gojo pulls back just enough to grin against your lips, breathless and wrecked. “told you we could fix that bad date, sweetheart.” then he dives back in, deeper, hungrier, one hand sliding down to palm your ass and squeeze like he owns it, while your head’s still spinning from the kiss and the carry and the fact that you’re in their room now, door locked, no escape—and honestly, you’re not even sure you want one anymore. bitch, you never do.

you feel geto before you even hear him move—his chest pressing flush against your back like a wall of warm, solid muscle, the thin fabric of his tank top doing nothing to hide the heat pouring off him. those big hands, calloused and rough from endless hours gripping weapons and throwing punches during training, slide up your bare arms slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over your skin like he's memorizing every inch. goosebumps erupt in their wake, your body betraying you instantly as his palms glide higher, over the delicate curve of your shoulders, thumbs brushing the thin straps of your crimson dress. he leans down—god, he's sooo tall—and his lips find the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, one, two, three, each one lingering longer than the last, his breath hot and minty against your skin. the faint scratch of his stubble makes you shiver, a tiny, involuntary “mmh” slipping from your throat.

you melt. like, actually melt—knees going soft, body sagging back into him until your head thuds gently against his chest, hair spilling over his collarbone as you let out a long, shaky sigh that sounds way too needy for your own pride. geto's chest rumbles with a low, pleased hum, one arm banding around your waist to hold you up while his lips keep working, sucking lightly now, leaving damp little trails that cool in the dorm's air-conditioned chill.

gojo, never one to be left out, crowds in closer from the front, that stupidly pretty face dipping to pepper kisses along your cheek—soft and teasing at first—then down to your jaw, nipping playfully before his mouth finds your neck on the opposite side from geto. he's not gentle like geto; he's greedy, lips sucking hard enough to bloom bruises almost instantly, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting before he latches on again. “nngh,” you moan softly as he marks you, one hickey, two, three, dark little claims blooming across your throat like he's signing his name in purple and red. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow, pulling you tighter against him so you can feel how hard he's already getting, the thick line of him pressing insistently against your lower belly through his sweatpants.

geto's hand starts wandering—slow, filthy exploration—from your shoulder down the front of your dress, palm cupping one breast through the thin silk, giving it a lazy squeeze that makes your nipple pebble instantly against his touch. “ah—” you gasp into gojo's mouth as he steals another kiss, geto's fingers rolling the sensitive peak just enough to make your back arch before his hand slides lower, over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, until he's cupping your pussy right through the dress. the fabric's so thin it's basically nothing— lingerie in disguised' quote gojo, his heat searing straight through to your thong-clad folds as he presses two fingers along your slit, rubbing slow and testing.

he pulls his lips from your shoulder with a wet little pop, breath ghosting over the damp skin there as he mutters a soft, incredulous “huh,” like he's just discovered the most baffling thing in the world. his fingers press a little harder, parting your lips through the layers of fabric, searching for wetness that should be flooding by now if that date had gone anywhere good.

“you're not dripping,” he says, voice low and velvet-rough, almost disappointed but mostly amused, fingers circling your clit lazily through the silk. “like, not even close to ‘just got fucked full’ dripping. sweetheart… did that guy even touch you?”

you groan, breathless and wrecked, head still lolling against geto's chest as gojo keeps sucking another hickey just below your ear, his teeth grazing in a way that makes your thighs clench. “nngh—no,” you manage, voice cracking as geto's fingers keep teasing, the pressure maddeningly light. “he didn't fuck me. the idiot didn't want to… said i was broken because i told him i've never squirted. as if my pussy's suddenly less because i'm not a fucking fountain.”

gojo pulls back just enough to laugh against your neck, the sound high and unhinged, vibrating through your skin as he licks a stripe up to your earlobe. “that's the dumbest shit i've ever heard. baby, you're soaking through your dress just from us kissing you—feel that, suguru?”

geto hums again, deeper this time, pressing his fingers harder until the fabric of your thong is wedged between your folds, the wet spot growing under his touch. “yeah… starting to now. but still, poor thing came home all dressed up like this and didn't even get properly railed. what a waste.”

you whine, hips rocking forward into geto's hand without permission, chasing more friction as gojo's mouth finds yours again, swallowing the sound with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. “mmph— shut up,” you mumble against his lips, but there's no heat in it anymore—just needy, desperate want as both of them press closer, sandwiching you between their bodies, hands and mouths everywhere, the slowburning feelings finally catching fire and threatening to burn the whole damn dorm down with how stupidly, sweetly, lovingly mean they're being about fixing your ruined night.

gojo breaks the kiss with a wet, obscene pop, lips shiny and swollen as he grins down at you like the cat that finally caught the canary—except the canary's currently sandwiched between two very hungry cats and not even pretending to fly away anymore. his forehead rests against yours for a second, breath coming in hot little puffs that mingle with yours, those stupidly long white lashes fluttering as he stares into your eyes with that unhinged, affectionate gleam. “broken? because you don't squirt?” he echoes your earlier grumble in this high-pitched, mocking voice that's somehow still dripping with sugar, like he's teasing a toddler who dropped their ice cream. “baby, that's the funniest shit i've heard all week. guy probably couldn't find your clit with a map and a flashlight.”

geto laughs behind you, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your spine like thunder wrapped in velvet, his big hand still cupped possessively over your pussy, fingers lazily stroking up and down the dampening silk of your dress as if he's petting a needy little kitten. his other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you harder against him so you can feel every inch of how affected he is too—the thick, heavy ridge of his cock pressing insistently against the small of your back through his loose pants, hot and throbbing like it's got its own heartbeat. “seriously,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the shell before he nips it lightly, making you jolt with a tiny “ah—”. “if that's his standard, no wonder he's out there drowning in mediocrity. meanwhile you're here, all pretty and aching, and we haven't even gotten you out of this dress yet.”

you whimper, a soft, broken “nngh” that you can't hold back as geto's fingers finally slip under the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric up your thighs slow and teasing until his rough palm meets the bare skin just above your thong. the contrast—his calloused warmth against your smooth, shaved legs—makes your hips twitch forward into gojo's grip, chasing more touch like the desperate slut they've been calling you all night. gojo's hands slide down to join the fun, grabbing fistfuls of your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints, spreading you just a little so geto has better access.

“feel that?” gojo whispers, voice dropping low and filthy as he grinds his hips forward, letting you feel how impossibly hard he is, the thick length of him dragging against your lower belly. “that's what a real cock feels like when it meets a perfect pussy. no stupid requirements, no fountain bullshit. just wants to be buried inside you until you're crying and clenching and coming all over it.”

geto's fingers finally hook into the thin string of your thong, tugging it aside with zero ceremony, and the cool air hits your slick folds for half a second before his middle finger slides through them—slow, deliberate, gathering wetness from your entrance to your clit in one long, dragging stroke. “fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent, circling your swollen clit once, twice, making your thighs tremble. “listen to her. already so wet just from some kissing and teasing. that idiot really fumbled the bag.”

you moan louder this time, head falling back harder against geto's shoulder as your body goes liquid between them. “mmh— pleaseee,” you manage, voice cracking, not even sure what you're begging for but knowing you need more. your hands scrabble at gojo's shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only thing keeping you grounded as geto sinks one thick finger inside you without warning—slow, steady, curling just right to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

gojo watches your face like it's the best show on earth, eyes blown wide and dark, licking his lips as he leans in to suck another hickey right over your pulse point. “aww, look at her,” he coos, mean and sweet all at once, one hand coming up to pinch your nipple through the dress until you squeak. “already falling apart and we've barely started. bet we can make you come so hard you forget that loser's name existed.”

geto adds a second finger, scissoring slow and deep, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet dorm room as he pumps them in and out, thumb grinding against your clit in tight circles. “we're gonna ruin you for anyone else, princess,” he promises against your neck, voice soft but edged with that loving menace that makes your pussy clench around his fingers. “no more dumb boys with dumb standards. just us. just this.”

you cry out—a high, needy, “ah, fuck— suguru,” hips rocking shamelessly between them now, chasing the building pressure as gojo drops to his knees in front of you without warning, shoving your dress higher and mouthing at your inner thigh, teeth grazing dangerously close to where geto's fingers are working you open. the slowburn is gone now, replaced by a wildfire licking up your spine, and all you can do is cling to them and let it consume you, moaning their names like prayers as they take you apart piece by stupid, affectionate, filthy piece.

but oh, they are your enemies for all the right, stupid reasons—the kind that started with bickering over mission rankings freshman year and snowballed into years of relentless, mean-spirited teasing that always skates the line between hate and something way too hot to name. they love pushing you, love watching your cheeks burn and your eyes gloss over until you're one sharp word away from actual tears, then swooping in with that soft, affectionate crap that makes it impossible to stay mad. tonight, with you already bruised from that idiot's rejection, they smell blood in the water and decide—without even needing to speak—that yeah, this is the perfect time to be extra fucking relentless.

geto's fingers slide out of you in one cruel, sudden motion, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing, a pathetic little flutter that has you gasping in shock. your eyes fly open, wide and confused, head whipping around to find his face in the dim light. “huh—?” because why the fuck did he stop? his dark eyes are glinting with that particular brand of loving cruelty they both wear so well, the one that's been your personal torment since the day you met these two assholes. he's staring down at you with that half-lidded, dangerous fondness, dark hair falling forward as he leans in and presses the softest, most mocking kiss to your forehead—like he's comforting a kid who skinned her knee.

“not yet, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and syrupy, thumb stroking your cheek like you're something precious he's about to break. “just for research. for fun. let's find out if you really can't squirt… or if you just needed better motivation.”

your stomach drops, heat and dread twisting together, because you know that tone—it's the same one he uses right before he corners you in training and makes you tap out five times in a row just to prove a point.

gojo, synced up like they're sharing one perverted brain cell tonight, lets out a delighted little “yes!” suddenly you're being turned, manhandled with that effortless strength and spins you toward the massive, unmade bed with hands on your hips. the sheets are a tangled mess of navy and black, pillows half on the floor, scattered everywhere from whatever dumb pillow fight they probably had last night, the whole thing smelling like boy and sleep and them. gojo's hands are on your hips, urging you forward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. “dress off, princess,” he demands, already yanking at the hem himself, fingers brushing your thighs in teasing little grazes. “let's see the full outfit. come on, come on, don't be shy now.”

you huff but obey—because arguing feels pointless when your body's already humming like a live wire—sliding the crimson straps off your shoulders, letting the dress pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. the cool air hits your bare skin, nipples tightening instantly under their hungry stares. gojo whistles long and low, dramatic as ever, eyes raking over the black lace thong and matching bra like he's appraising a masterpiece. “fuuuck, look at you. all shaved and pretty and wrapped up like a present.” his fingers hook into the waistband of your thong, tugging impatiently. “these too. off. now. don't be shy—we've seen tits before, promise.”

you huff—half annoyed, half turned on but obey because arguing feels pointless when your body's already humming like a live wire—and shimmy out of the crimson silk, letting the dress pool at your feet in a whisper of fabric. the cool air hits your bare skin, nipples tightening instantly under their hungry stares. the second your matching black lace thong and bra come into view, gojo whistles long and low, dramatic as ever, eyes raking over the black lace thong and matching bra like he's appraising a masterpiece, spinning you slow like you're on display. “fuuuck, look at these. shaved, wrapped up in slutty little bows—someone was hoping to get fucked tonight.” his fingers snap the strap of your thong against your hip, the sting making you yelp. “these too. off. now. don't be shy—we've seen tits before, promise. i wanna see tits.”

you roll your eyes but obey, unhooking the bra and sliding the thong down your legs until you're completely naked, flushed and trembling between two fully dressed idiots who look way too pleased with themselves. it's unfair—gojo in his black shirt and sweats, geto still in that tank that clings to every muscle. it's unfair, it's humiliating, and it's doing horrible things to the heat pooling between your thighs.

geto drifts over to the nightstand drawer, pulling it open with a casual rattle that makes your heart kick. he lifts out a thick, curved wand vibrator—shiny black silicone, clearly expensive and mean—and a smaller bullet vibe for good measure,  with a flared tip clearly designed for g-spots and ruin. your voice comes out smaller than you'd like. “suguru… what exactly are you planning to do with those?”

he turns back, smirk slow and filthy, holding the wand up like a trophy. “told you. scientific experiment. wanna see if that idiot was right… or if we can make you squirt so hard you forget his name. purely scientific.”

before you can protest, gojo's behind you again, his blindfold already off his face and dangling from his fingers, the soft black fabric warm from his skin. in one smooth, practiced motion he loops it over your eyes and ties it snug at the back of your head. everything goes dark—pitch black, no hints of light, no shape, just sudden, overwhelming nothingness that spikes panic through your chest.

“satoru—what the fuck—why are you blindfolding me?!” you squeak, hands flying up to tug at the knot, heart racing. “take it off, i don't—”

they both burst out laughing—gojo's high and manic, geto's low and fond—like you've told the world's cutest joke. “shhh, relax, sweetheart,” gojo coos right against your ear, hands sliding down your arms to calm you even as his voice drips with mockery. catching your wrists and pinning them gently to your sides. “it's better this way— it's more fun this way. no seeing, just feeling—feel everything. no peeking, no distractions. just us and that pretty pussy. trust us.”

“yeah,” geto adds from somewhere lower, voice dripping with fake reassurance, “stop freaking out or we'll have to tie your hands too. be a good girl.” i'm a good girl.

you whine, a soft, frustrated “nngh”, that only makes them chuckle harder, but you stop fighting because the darkness is already doing things to you—heightening every sense until the air feels thick, every breath louder. you feel the mattress dip as gojo guides you to sit on the edge, his chest presses against your back a second later—he's climbed behind you, sitting up against the headboard and pulling you between his spread legs so your back is flush to his front, his hard cock nestled hot and heavy against the curve of your ass through his sweatpants. his hands splay over your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles, holding you open and pinned.

geto settles on the floor between your legs—you hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the rug, feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. “come here, baby,” he murmurs, big hands wrapping around your thighs and tugging you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, legs draped over his broad shoulders. “spread for me. wider. there we go… fuck, look how pretty she is.”

you can't see a thing. just feel—feel geto's rough palms keeping your thighs forced open, the cool air kissing your slick, exposed folds; feel the anticipation coil so tight in your belly you're already trembling; gojo's chest rising and falling against your back—heart thudding against your spine, his cock twitching every time you squirm; his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles over your ribs and stomach, brushing just shy of your breasts.

geto hums, satisfied and mean. “let's find out, yeah?”

the vibrator clicks on with a low, ominous buzz that fills the quiet room like a threat, and before you can brace yourself the rounded head is pressed right against your clit—steady, relentless pressure that has your hips jerking up with a sharp, broken “ah— fuck!” you cry out instantly, hips bucking hard, the sudden intensity ripping a sharp, broken moan from your throat as pleasure slams through you white-hot and overwhelming.

gojo laughs softly behind you, one hand sliding up to cup your breast and roll your nipple between his fingers. “there we go. no squirting yet, but listen to those pretty sounds. we're just getting started, baby. hold still… or don't. makes it more fun when you thrash.”

the vibe circles slow, then faster, geto's free hand coming up to spread your lips wider, exposing every sensitive inch to the torture. your world narrows to vibration and heat and their voices—sweet, filthy, affectionate torment promising they're nowhere near done finding out exactly what your body can do tonight.

geto circles the wand slow, then presses harder, the vibrations sinking deep into your clit until your thighs shake against his grip. “feel that? all for science,” he teases, voice affectionate and utterly merciless. “gonna keep you right here until we figure it out… or until you're crying and begging. whichever comes first.”

they are so fucking relentless—like twin devils who've decided your body is their new favorite toy and breaking you is the only acceptable outcome tonight. the wand never stays in one place long enough for you to chase the high; geto wields it like he's dumbledore with a particularly filthy spell, swirling it in tight, maddening circles over your clit one second, then dragging it down to buzz against your entrance the next, then pulling it away completely just to watch you whine and buck into empty air. every time that coil in your belly tightens, every time your breath hitches and your pussy flutters with the promise of something huge, he eases off—slows the vibe to a teasing hum or lifts it entirely, letting the sudden loss punch the air from your lungs in a frustrated, trembling sob.

“nngh— please, fuck. . .” you cry out, voice cracking high and desperate, hips chasing the wand like a pathetic little puppy. your thighs are already shaking uncontrollably, muscles jumping and quivering against geto's shoulders, slick dripping down your ass to soak the sheets beneath you.

geto hums, low and thoughtful, like he's conducting an actual experiment. “hmm, not yet. she’s getting close though—feel her twitching?” he murmurs, and you feel one of his big hands leave your thigh, the sudden absence making that leg slip off his shoulder and fall toward the bed. before you can close it even an inch, gojo's hand is there—long fingers wrapping around your thigh from behind, yanking it back open and pinning it wide against your chest so you're spread obscenely, pussy on full display for geto's torment. asshole.

“gotcha,” gojo chuckles right against your ear, breath hot and teasing, his grip iron-strong as he holds you splayed for his best friend. “wider, baby. suguru needs room to work his magic.”

geto takes the invitation immediately—of course he does—pressing the wand harder now, sliding it lower to nudge right against your entrance, letting the thick head buzz just inside your hole without pushing in, just vibrating against your sensitive walls until your back arches off gojo's chest with a broken wail. "ahh— suguru, pleaseee," you sob, eyes squeezed shut so tight behind the blindfold that you see stars anyway, hands scrabbling blindly for something, anything to hold onto. your fingers finally find purchase behind you, nails digging into the warm skin of gojo's neck as you clutch him like he's the only solid thing in the spinning dark.

"aww, look at her," gojo coos, voice all fake sympathy and real amusement, tilting his head to nip at your jaw while his free hand roams your stomach, tracing the trembling muscles there. "shaking like a leaf already. poor little pussy can't decide if it wants to come or cry first."

"both," geto answers for you, voice calm and cruel as he pulls the wand away again right as your hips start grinding down desperately, leaving you empty and aching. "definitely both. listen to her—whining like we stole her candy."

you are whining—high, wet, pathetic sounds spilling out with every breath, "please, please, don't stop, i was so close. . . " tears actually gathering behind the blindfold now because they're edging you so ruthlessly, building and building like a fucking Fix-it Felix, Jr— that pressure until it's a physical ache low in your belly, then ripping it away like it's a game, crumble like they are Wreck it Ralph. your whole body is shaking uncontrollably, thighs spasming in their grips, pussy clenching around nothing so hard it hurts.

gojo's cock is a steel bar against your lower back, throbbing every time you moan his name or dig your nails deeper into his neck. "fuck, you're cute when you're desperate," he whispers, lips brushing your temple in a kiss that's way too soft for how mean they're being. "gonna keep you right here on the edge all night if we have to. science takes time, sweetheart." science my ass.

geto drags the wand up again, pressing it directly to your swollen clit and cranking the speed higher—merciless, unrelenting vibration that has you screaming almost instantly, a raw, “fuck— ah, ah, ah—!" ripping from your throat as your hips jerk wildly. he holds it there for five agonizing seconds, ten, letting the pleasure crest so high you're dizzy with it—then pulls it away again, just as you're teetering right on the brink.

"no—no no no—pleaseee," you sob outright this time, actual tears soaking into the blindfold, body thrashing between them as the ruined orgasm pulses through you without release, leaving you wrecked and empty and shaking harder than ever.

geto leans in—you feel his hair brush your inner thigh—and presses a soft, affectionate kiss to your dripping folds like he's praising you for taking it so well. "good girl," he murmurs against your pussy, voice vibrating through your clit. "we're getting somewhere. just a little more data. . ."

gojo tightens his arm around your waist, holding you steady as you tremble and cry and beg, his lips brushing your ear in that loving, menacing way only he can manage. "shhh, we've got you. not done playing yet. gonna make you squirt so hard you see stars behind that blindfold—or we're gonna die trying. either way, you're ours tonight."

and they dive back in—wand buzzing to life again, gojo's fingers pinching your nipples in time with geto's ruthless patterns, their voices overlapping in filthy praise and mockery as they edge you over and over and over, relentless and mean and so stupidly affectionate about every sobbing, shaking second of it.

after what feels like hours of their stupid, relentless edging game—your body reduced to a quivering, sweat-drenched wreck, blindfold clinging wetly to your tear-streaked cheeks, every muscle twitching like a live wire, voice hoarse from begging and sobbing their names in broken loops—they finally take pity. or maybe they just decide the data is conclusive, or finally decide you've suffered enough for their little ‘experiment’. . . geto presses the thick head of the wand flush against your clit again, no more games, no more teasing circles or cruel pull-aways, just brutal, steady pressure on the highest setting he'd dared so far— high-speed vibration that sinks straight into your core like a lightning strike. the buzz so intense it feels like it's vibrating your bones.

gojo's grip on your thigh tightens, his other hand back to sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple in time with the rhythm, whispering filthy little encouragements right against your ear like, “come on, baby, give it to us. soak him. show us how much that dumb fucker missed.”

the orgasm doesn't creep up—it crashes, it detonates. your whole body locks up, spine snapping into a harsh arch as the pleasure rips through you like a tidal wave. one second you're teetering on that agonizing edge again, hips grinding desperately, and the next your entire body seizes up with a violent, full-body shudder.

“fuck— ah, ah, aah— i'm—!” you scream, the sound raw and ugly and perfect, back arching off gojo's chest so hard your spine bows like a drawn bowstring. your pussy clenches hard, then gushes—a hot, forceful rush of liquid that sprays out in messy arcs, splattering geto's face and soaking the front of his tank top in seconds. he doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away; if anything he leans into it, mouth open just enough that some of it hits his tongue, a low, satisfied groan rumbling out of him as he keeps the wand pinned right where it hurts-so-good.

you squirt and squirt, longer than you thought possible, wave after wave, thighs shaking so violently gojo has to brace you or you'd thrash right off the bed or to keep you from kicking geto in the face. “nngh— stop, stop, too much,” you sob, actual tears streaming down your cheeks under the blindfold now, but geto doesn't care—doesn't even pretend to.

he keeps the wand exactly where it is, buzzing mercilessly against your oversensitive clit and laps at your dripping folds between the sprays like he's savoring every drop— broad, filthy strokes of his tongue dragging from your spasming entrance up to your clit, swirling around the buzzing toy like he's trying to drink you dry. his tongue is hot and rough, dragging from your entrance up to swirl around the vibe, pushing you straight into a second, even more brutal climax before the first has fully faded. the overstimulation is excruciating, pleasure twisted into something almost painful, and you scream again, high and broken, “no, no, ahh— fuck, suguru!" as he assaults your pussy without a shred of remorse.

“that's it, pretty girl,” he praises between licks, voice muffled and vibrating against your folds, hands gripping your ass to tilt you higher into his mouth. “give me everything. fucking drown me—good girl, so good."

it isn't long before the second wave hits—the second squirt is obscene—stronger, messier, your body barely recovered from the first before hitting geto's chest in thick streams. geto finally pulls his face back just in time to watch it, eyes dark and hungry, lips shiny with you as he cranks the wand to its absolute highest setting without warning. the sudden spike in vibration rips a scream from your throat, "suguru— no, no, please, i can't— ahh!"

geto hums, tossing the wand aside for a second but not done—not even close. his fingers replace it immediately, rubbing fast, tight circles over your throbbing clit, slick and relentless, forcing the last spurts out of you in messy little bursts. “come on, baby, one more. empty it all out for us.”

the squirt erupts in a powerful stream, clear and hot, splashing across his chest and collarbones, rolling down in rivulets that disappear into his waistband. gojo whistles low and impressed behind you, fingers digging into your thighs as he watches over your shoulder.

your hips jerking so hard your ass lifts clean off the bed, whole lower body suspended in the air, leaning entirely against gojo's chest as you shake and gush and fall apart all over again.

“holy shit,” gojo laughs, breathless and delighted, nuzzling your neck. “that idiot you went on a date with? he'd be eating his own words right now if he saw this. ‘girls who can't squirt’—yeah, right. look at you, turning suguru into a fucking fountain show. guy must feel so stupid, passing up all this."

you think—hope—that after this you'll finally get peace, get to float down into that soft, boneless quiet. but no. these are your enemies, after all, mean and perverted to the core, and they love nothing more than pushing until you're crying for real.

gojo's hand comes down in a sharp, wet slap against your hypersensitive pussy—light enough not to bruise, but stinging like fire on raw nerves. you jolt with a strangled wail, another surprised gush squirting out in response, and he does it again—slap, slap—each one perfectly timed to make you spray more, body convulsing violently between them. "satoruuuu— stop, please, i can't—" you sob, but it's useless; your hips lift clean off the bed on instinct, whole lower body suspended in the air from the force of the shaking, leaning entirely against gojo's chest as your ass clenches and your thighs spasm out of control.

one hand flies forward blindly, fingers tangling desperately in geto's damp hair, tugging hard for any kind of anchor as the pleasure-pain overwhelms you. the other claws backward, nails digging deep into gojo's forearm where he's still holding you open, leaving red crescents he's definitely going to brag about later. you're a complete mess—whimpering, shaking, squirting in weak little pulses now with every slap until there's nothing left but tremors and the wet sounds of your ruined pussy.

gojo laughs, breathless and delighted. the impact forces another surprised spurt out of you, smaller but no less humiliating, and you wail as your hips buck involuntarily. "fuck, look at that," he croons, voice dripping with smug affection, slapping again—once, twice—each one making you squirt a little more until your thighs are trembling so badly you can't hold the position anymore. your ass collapses back onto the soaked sheets with a wet thud, body going completely limp against gojo's front, chest heaving, little aftershock twitches rippling through you every few seconds.

finally, mercifully, gojo stops the slapping. his fingers turn gentle instead, tracing soft, soothing figure-eights over your clit, easing you down with slow, feather-light strokes that make you twitch and whine but in a softer way now. "shhh, there we go," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your sweaty temple. "good girl. fuck, you're perfect."

geto finally—finally—clicks the vibrator off and tosses it aside fully, the sudden silence deafening except for your ragged breathing and the wet sounds of him licking his lips. he leans in again, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your inner thighs, your fluttering entrance, your abused clit like he's apologizing and praising all at once.

"good fucking girl," he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with want, hands stroking soothing patterns over your shaking legs. "told you we could make you. that guy you went out with? he'd be kicking himself so hard right now if he knew how much you can squirt when someone's actually competent."

gojo snickers, nuzzling into your damp temple, fingers idly tracing the mess on your stomach where some of it splashed back. "seriously. imagine his dumb face—'i don't fuck girls who can't squirt'—and here you are, turning suguru into a human sprinkler twice in a row. idiot probably couldn't find a g-spot if it had a neon sign." he slaps your pussy one last playful time, lighter now, just to watch you jolt and whimper pathetically. "bet he'd cry harder than you did if he saw this."

you can't even form words—just little broken sobs and whimpers, body utterly spent and boneless between them, blindfold still on, world reduced to the feel of their hands petting you down from the high. geto climbs up onto the bed properly, knees slotting between your trembling legs, hands sliding under your knees to push them up and back until you're nearly folded in half—ass lifted, pussy still dripping and exposed.

he lets one leg slide off his shoulder gently, then reaches up to finally—finally—untie the blindfold. the fabric falls away and light floods in, dim and warm from the dorm lamps, but still blinding after so long in darkness. you blink sluggishly, eyes watery and unfocused, vision hazy with lust and exhaustion and that floaty, drunk kind of bliss. everything feels soft around the edges, like you're underwater—geto's face swimming into view first, hair damp and falling forward in dark strands, a few droplets still clinging to his lashes and lips, that affectionate menace softened into something almost tender.

he leans down slow, presses the gentlest butterfly kisses to your forehead—one, two, three—lips lingering each time like he's tasting the salt of your tears and sweat. "there you go," he whispers, voice rough but impossibly soft now, thumb stroking your cheek. "hi, pretty girl. you back with us?"

you laugh—it's breathless, watery, a little hysterical around the edges—and nod slow, words thick and fuzzy in your throat. "yeah... so good. fuck, so good."

gojo chuckles behind you, arms loosening to cradle you properly now, one hand petting your hair like you're a kitten. "look at her, all fucked out and smiley. cutest thing ever."

"proud of you, princess," geto adds quietly, crawling up to cage you between them, both of them still fully dressed while you're a naked, shivering mess covered in your own slick. "experiment success. conclusion: you're perfect exactly how you are, and that guy can go drown in a puddle for all we care."

you manage a weak, watery laugh that turns into another hiccuping sob, burying your face in geto's neck while he spoons you from the front, their arms wrapping around you in a tangle of warmth and lingering menace. they're not done with you—not even close—but for now they let you come down, murmuring sweet, stupid, filthy praise into your skin until the shaking stops and all that's left is the slow, heavy thud of three hearts beating way too fast in the quiet dorm room, sheets absolutely ruined and no one giving a single damn.

for a moment it's just that—soft and sweet, their hands gentle, voices low and fond, letting you float in the afterglow while your body twitches with little aftershocks. geto's still between your legs, chest glistening with you, tank top absolutely ruined, and gojo's cock is still hard as steel against your back, but they're giving you this tiny pocket of peace, murmuring praise like "did so well for us" and "perfect little mess" and "love how you shake when you come undone."

but of course it doesn't last. they're mean, after all—lovingly, affectionately, stupidly mean.

geto's warm smile twists slow into something wicked again, eyes glinting as he picks up the discarded wand, still slick with you, and bops you lightly on the nose with it—boop—like it's a toy hammer. "aww, look at that face," he coos, voice dripping with fake innocence. "all hazy and happy. but now that we've proven you can squirt like a fucking champ... think you're ready to take some real cock, princess?"

he tosses the vibrator away from within reach, somewhere across the room—it lands with a thud on a pile of laundry—and leans in closer, hands sliding up your thighs to spread you wider again, cocky grin sharp and hungry. gojo laughs high behind you, fingers dipping down to tease your dripping entrance, already plotting round two.

because peace? rest? not tonight. not with these two. they're just getting started ruining you properly, and the look in their eyes says you're not leaving this bed until you've forgotten every dumb boy who ever made you doubt how fucking incredible you are.

especially now when geto rises from the bed like some kind of dark god finally shedding the last of his mortal clothes, tank top peeled off and tossed somewhere into the corner with a wet slap—still soaked from your earlier mess—and his sweatpants follow, kicked aside without ceremony. he's butt naked now, all lean muscle and cursed energy humming under inked skin, cock standing proud and thick in his hand as he strokes it once, slow and lazy, precum already beading at the flushed tip like he's been edging himself just watching you fall apart. his hair is still damp, strands clinging to his forehead and neck, and that wicked, affectionate smirk hasn't left his face once.

behind you—no, under you—gojo has maneuvered you both to the edge of the bed, his long legs planted firm on the floor like he's anchoring the whole damn world. he's naked too now, shirt and sweats vanished in that effortless way he does everything, pale skin and ridiculous abs on full display, cock hot and impossibly hard against the curve of your ass. his hands are on your hips, big and steady, guiding you to straddle him reverse—back to his chest, thighs spread wide over his—so you're sitting pretty on his lap like a throne made of pure torment. the position leaves you completely exposed, pussy still twitching and dripping from everything they just did to you, and gojo doesn't waste time lining himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance, slick and insistent.

but god, you're sensitive—every little brush feels like fire and electricity and too much all at once, your folds swollen and raw from the wand and the slapping and the squirting until you're a whimpering mess before he's even inside. “wait— fuck, satoru, i'm so sensitive, please, slow. . . " you complain, voice cracking high and pathetic, hands flailing for something to hold as your thighs already start shaking again. they don't listen. of course they don't and your whining only makes their eyes gleam darker.

gojo chuckles low against your ear, breath hot and teasing as he circles his tip through your folds, gathering wetness just to torture you more. "aww, poor baby, too sensitive? but look how you're still dripping for it. you can take it, princess—we know you can. you've been begging with that pussy all night."

geto steps closer, still stroking himself slow, thumb swiping over his leaking slit as he watches gojo tease you. "yeah. . . don't be weak now," he adds, voice all velvet cruelty and fake sympathy. "you just squirted like a champion—twice, or three times? this is the reward. real cock, like we promised. be good and take it."

you curse under your breath, but your hips are already rocking back instinctively, chasing the pressure despite the overstimulation, and gojo takes that as permission. he pushes in—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open, your walls fluttering wildly around him from how sensitive you are. it's too much and perfect and overwhelming, the drag burning in the best way until he bottoms out with a final thrust that seats him deep, balls pressed against your ass.

a full, broken whimper tears out of you, “fuck, satoru, you're—" your thighs shaking harder now, weak and jelly-like as the overwhelming fullness hits you all at once. your hands scramble blindly forward for support, fingers finding geto's hips, then his hand, clutching desperately as you try to breathe through it.

geto threads his fingers with yours immediately, squeezing gentle and steady, letting you grip as hard as you need while you adjust. "there you go," he murmurs, soft for a second, thumb stroking your knuckles even as his other hand keeps lazily pumping his cock. "breathe, baby. you've got him all the way in. look at you—taking it so pretty."

both of them chuckle at the same time—gojo's high and unhinged, geto's low and fond—when your legs keep trembling like you might collapse any second.

"so weak already," gojo teases, hands sliding up to grip your waist, lifting you just an inch before dropping you back down slow, making you feel every ridge of him. "one orgasm—or three—and you're shaking like a leaf. cute."

"fuck you both," you manage to gasp out, voice wobbly and hoarse, but there's no heat in it—just needy frustration as your head falls back against gojo's shoulder.

another soft whisper of a moan slips out, "mmh," as gojo starts moving your hips for you, slow ups and downs that have his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls in the most filthy, perfect way. geto steps even closer at the sound, until you're face-to-cock with him, the musky heat of him filling your senses, precum dripping in a slow bead down his shaft.

but he doesn't force it—not yet. instead he lets you lean forward, forehead pressing against the warm, hard plane of his stomach, breath coming in hot little pants against his skin as you try to ground yourself. his free hand comes up to pet your hair, fingers threading gentle and soothing, nails scratching lightly at your scalp while his other keeps stroking himself right in front of your face, slow and deliberate, the wet sound of it mixing with your whimpers and the slick slide of gojo inside you.

"good girl," geto praises softly, voice rough with want, tilting your head just enough so your cheek brushes the side of his cock, leaving a shiny streak of precum on your skin. "just relax. let satoru fuck you open a little more. then you'll take me too—gonna fill you from both ends until you're crying again, but the happy kind this time, yeah?"

gojo laughs breathlessly behind you, hips starting to roll up to meet the slow drop of yours, pace picking up just enough to make you moan louder. "fuck, she's clenching already. hear that, suguru? all that big talk about being too sensitive, and her pussy's trying to milk me dry."

you whimper against geto's stomach, thighs still shaking, hand squeezing his tighter as the pleasure builds again—slow, deep, relentless—sandwiched between your two favorite enemies who are finally, finally giving you what you've needed all night, mean and sweet and stupidly affectionate about every second of it.

geto lets gojo have his moment, because that's what best friends do—share the spotlight, especially when the spotlight is a trembling, cockdrunk girl impaled on one of their dicks and making the prettiest broken sounds against the other's stomach. he's patient like that, a saint in pervert's clothing, standing there with his hand wrapped loose around his throbbing cock, stroking slow and steady, thumb swiping over the slick head every few pumps to spread the precum that's been leaking nonstop since you first squirted all over him.

his dark eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on the scene in front of him like it's the best porn he's ever seen: you, forehead pressed to his abs, lips parted and drooling a little onto his skin from how overwhelmed you are, while gojo's hips roll up slow and deep from underneath, fucking into you with that lazy, relentless rhythm that makes your pussy hug him tighter and tighter.

every thrust drags a new sound out of you—high, wet moans that turn into little cries, your breath hitching hot and damp against geto's stomach, leaving shiny trails of saliva that cool in the dorm air. it's filthy and perfect, and geto doesn't mind the mess one bit; if anything it makes his cock twitch harder in his fist, another bead of precum dripping down his shaft as he watches gojo's face twist in pure ecstasy. gojo's head is tipped back against the headboard for a second, white lashes fluttering, mouth open on a silent groan before he lets out this low, drawn-out "fuuuck" that rumbles through his chest and into your back.

geto hears it all—your moans climbing higher, gojo's breathing getting rougher, the wet slap of skin where gojo's lifting and dropping your hips just enough to make his cock drag against every sensitive spot inside you. it's intimate in the dumbest, dirtiest way, and geto is patient, stroking himself to the rhythm of gojo's thrusts, letting his best friend chase that edge while he enjoys the show. but god, the sounds you're making—those broken little whimpers vibrating against his skin, the way your fingers keep flexing in his hand like you're barely holding on—are starting to chip away at that saintly restraint.

he's heard gojo fuck before, plenty of times actually, thin dorm walls and all that. random girls giggling their way in, then moaning their way out hours later, gojo's voice carrying through the plaster with cocky laughter and the occasional dramatic groan. but this? this is different. you've got gojo making sounds geto has never heard from him—deeper, more desperate, like you're pulling them straight from his soul. his eyes are rolling back now, blue peeking white under half-closed lids, lips parted on gasps that turn into your name chanted like a prayer.

geto snorts, low and amused, dark hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his head. "that good, huh?" he asks, voice rough with his own want, hand still moving slow on his cock. "never heard you sound this pathetic, satoru."

gojo laughs—breathless, wrecked, absolutely unhinged—as he snaps his hips up harder, making you cry out sharp and sudden against geto's stomach. "fuck off, suguru— she's... nngh... she's perfect. like her pussy was made for me. gonna wife this shit up, keep her full forever—romantic as fuck, right?"

it's the dumbest, most gojo thing anyone's ever said—stupidly romantic and utterly disgusting all at once, like he's proposing marriage mid-stroke while balls-deep in you. geto bark-laughs, head shaking, but his cock jumps in his hand because yeah, he gets it. you're clenching again, pussy fluttering wild around gojo from the praise or the thrust or both, and the sound you make is so cockdrunk and ruined that geto feels his patience snap like a frayed wire.

you can't even respond to gojo's idiot declaration—just another wet, open-mouthed moan against geto's skin, drool pooling at the corner of your lips, eyes glassy and unfocused like your brain's checked out and left your body on autopilot. you're too far gone, too stupid on cock, and seeing you like that—knowing he helped put you there—makes geto greedy in a way that's almost mean.

he lets go of your hand gently, both of his sliding up now—one fisting your hair at the roots, firm but not painful, angling your face away from his stomach and up toward his cock. the other guides the flushed, leaking head to your lips, slapping it once, twice, wet and heavy against your mouth, leaving shiny streaks of precum across your cheek and lower lip. "open up, princess," he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, thumb stroking your jaw like encouragement. "you can multitask, right? been taking satoru so well—now take me too. greedy girls get both."

you whimper—high and needy, muffled against his cock as he taps it again, smearing more precum over your lips until they glisten. your tongue darts out instinctively, licking at the tip, tasting salt and him, and geto groans low, hips twitching forward just enough to slide the head past your lips. "mmh—" you moan around him, the vibration making his thighs tense, and gojo laughs breathlessly behind you, hands tightening on your hips to speed up the slow grind.

"fuck, look at her," gojo gasps, voice cracking as your pussy clamps down harder from the new stretch in your mouth. "taking both like she was born for it. our perfect little slut."

geto slides deeper—slow, letting you adjust, feeling your tongue flatten against the underside of him as you suck messily, drool already spilling down your chin to drip onto your chest. his hand in your hair pets gentle now, affectionate and guiding, while gojo keeps bouncing you on his lap, the two of them finding a rhythm that has you stuffed full from both ends, moaning nonstop around geto's cock while your body shakes and clenches and drips between them.

it's overwhelming and perfect and so stupidly loving—the way geto's thumb wipes the drool from your chin even as he fucks your mouth deeper, the way gojo's whispering absolute filth about keeping you forever while his hands bruise your hips, both of them watching you fall apart with that mean, fond gleam in their eyes like you're the best thing that's ever happened to their dumb, perverted hearts. and maybe you are.

they keep fucking you like it's a competition to see who can wreck you sweeter—gojo from below, hips rolling up in that lazy, deep grind that makes his cock kiss your cervix on every upstroke, hands gripping your waist like he's steering a particularly fun ride. geto in front, feeding you his cock inch by thick inch, the salty taste of him flooding your tongue while your drool spills down your chin in messy strings. the room is nothing but wet sounds—skin slapping skin, your muffled moans vibrating around geto, gojo's breathy laughter mixing with low groans every time your pussy clamps down like it's trying to trap him forever.

they're high on praise tonight, drunk on how perfectly you fall apart between them. "fuck, listen to her," gojo gasps, voice cracking as your walls flutter again. "pussy's singing for me—nngh—good girl, keep squeezing like that." geto hums agreement, eyes dark and half-lidded as he watches his cock disappear between your swollen lips. "taking us so well, princess. look at you—mouth full, pussy full, still greedy for more."

geto's hand tightens in your hair—fingers twisting at the roots just hard enough to sting sweet—before his other slides forward, long fingers wrapping around your throat in a firm, possessive collar. not squeezing hard, just there, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point so he can feel how fast your heart's racing for them. the pressure makes you groan deep in your chest, "mmph." the vibration humming straight into geto's cock, and your pussy reacts instantly, clamping down hard on gojo like a vice.

gojo jolts behind you, hips stuttering as he lets out a wrecked, "fuuuuck, yes." his nails digging crescents into your hips. "did you feel that, suguru? she just tried to milk me dry when you choked her a little. kinky little thing."

geto definitely feels it—feels his own cock sliding deeper into the wet heat of your throat, feels the way your muscles flutter and swallow around him every time gojo thrusts up. it pulls a rough groan from his chest, low and filthy, hips twitching forward involuntarily. "shit— yeahh. . . i felt it. throat's doing the same thing. greedy on both ends."

he tugs your hair sharper, angling your head back just enough to push deeper, sliding past your tongue until the head nudges the back of your throat. he holds you there—patient but merciless—watching your eyes water, feeling your throat spasm open and close around him in panicked little swallows.

"that's it," he praises, voice gravel-rough with affection, thumb stroking your cheek even as he keeps you pinned. "relax your throat, baby—fuck, there we go. feel you opening up for me. perfect fucking girl." he only pulls back when your chest starts heaving, when the first real choke bubbles up around his cock—slow, letting you gasp wetly around him before he slides out with a filthy string of spit connecting your lips to his tip.

you cough hard, collapsing forward against gojo's shoulder as you suck in desperate breaths, face messy with drool and tears and precum. "you—cough—fucking asshole, i couldn't breathe," you rasp, voice hoarse and wrecked, but your hips are still rolling back onto gojo like your body can't decide if it wants to fight or fuck.

geto just hums, low and amused, petting your hair once like you're a bratty cat. "now you can," he says simply, tugging your head back up by the roots until your lips brush his cock again. "open up, princess. we're not done."

you do—because of course you do—tongue lolling out obediently as he slides back in, easier this time, your throat already pliant from the abuse. gojo keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, cooing soft praise into your ear about how pretty you look choking on suguru while riding him.

after a while—minutes? hours? time's meaningless when you're stuffed full like this—geto pulls out with a wet pop, hand stroking your cheek as he looks over your head at gojo. "switch," he says, voice calm but edged with hunger.

gojo whines immediately—high, dramatic, ridiculous. "nooo, i'm just getting into it—fuck, her pussy's perfect right now, all swollen and hot—"

geto snorts, already pulling his cock from your mouth with a slick slide. "you've been balls-deep in her pussy for ages, satoru. my turn. if you don't wanna share, go fuck your fist like a big boy."

gojo groans long and suffering, but he obeys—hands sliding to your ass, giving it one sharp, resounding slap that makes you yelp around nothing and your pussy clench on empty air. he spreads the cheek, presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the stinging skin like an apology, then grumbles as he lifts you off his cock with a filthy wet sound. you whimper at the loss—high and pathetic—legs shaking harder now that you're not filled.

geto wraps an arm around your waist immediately, strong and steady, hauling you up to stand on wobbly feet. "up, baby," he murmurs, turning you around slow until you're face-to-face with gojo's dick—glistening with your slick, flushed angry red and twitching in his fist as he strokes himself lazily by the bed. gojo grins down at you, all sharp teeth and affection, thumb sliding into your mouth to press on your tongue. "hallo again, baby," he coos, using his cock to tap your nose lightly—boop, boop—like it's a game. "miss me already?"

geto snorts behind you, hands nudging your thighs apart wider, wider, until your legs are spread obscenely and your knees threaten to buckle. "spread, princess," he orders softly, voice gentle but firm. when your thighs start trembling harder, threatening to give out, he presses his chest to your back, arm tightening around your waist to hold you up. "no, you can do it. just a bit more—there we go. good girl."

he lines himself up slow—thick head nudging your dripping entrance, gathering your wetness before pushing in with one smooth, deep thrust that has you crying out around gojo's thumb. gojo pulls it out with a pop, replacing it immediately with his cock, sliding into your mouth as geto bottoms out behind you.

sandwiched again—geto buried to the hilt in your pussy, gojo feeding you his slick-coated cock until your lips stretch wide around him. they find their rhythm fast, gojo's hands in your hair now, geto's arm banded across your stomach, both of them moving like they've done this a thousand times— maybe in dreams, maybe in fantasy, but now it's real and overwhelming and so stupidly loving.

"fuck, taste yourself on me?" gojo groans, hips rocking shallow into your mouth. "sweetest thing ever."

geto thrusts deeper, hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple in time with his strokes. "pussy's even tighter from this side," he mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin. "gonna ruin you for anyone else, baby. just us from now on."

and you believe him—believe both of them—moaning broken around gojo's cock as they fuck you standing, legs shaking, body held up only by their strength and greed and that mean, affectionate way they have of never letting you fall.

after a while, the rhythm settles into something hypnotic and brutal—geto behind you, cock buried deep in your pussy with every slow, deliberate thrust that drags against your oversensitive walls like he's trying to map every inch of you from the inside; gojo in front, feeding his slick-coated dick into your mouth in shallow, teasing pumps that make you choke and drool and moan around him like a desperate little thing.

your legs are barely holding you up anymore, thighs trembling nonstop, knees threatening to buckle with every roll of geto's hips, but his arm banded across your waist keeps you pinned upright, impaled and helpless between them. the dorm air is thick with the smell of sex—sweat and slick and precum—and the sounds are obscene: wet slaps from behind, gagging whimpers from your throat, their mixed groans overlapping in filthy harmony.

geto starts losing it first, the patience he's been clinging to finally cracking like thin ice. it begins with a low groan rumbling from his chest, deeper than before, eyes fluttering half-shut as his head tips back for a second. then his eyes roll—just like gojo's did earlier—white peeking under dark lashes as your pussy clamps down on him again, fluttering wild and greedy from gojo's cock nudging the back of your throat. "fuuuuck," he breathes, voice rough and wrecked, hips stuttering for the first time. "okay, i get it now. i fucking get why you were making those stupid sounds, satoru. this pussy—shit—it's heaven. gripping me like it doesn't want me to leave."

gojo laughs breathlessly around a moan, fingers tightening in your hair as he watches geto's composure shatter over your shoulder. "told you, asshole. she's unreal. wait till she comes again—gonna suck your soul right out."

geto doesn't answer with words—just a rough, affectionate growl as his hands slide up your arms, grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind your back in one strong grip, arching your spine and forcing your chest out. the new angle changes everything; his cock hits deeper, harder, dragging against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids even with gojo still fucking your mouth. "hold still, princess," geto mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin before he bites down lightly. "gonna fuck you proper now."

and he does—merciless. hips snapping forward faster, harder, the wet slap of his balls against your ass echoing loud in the room as he rails you standing, your body jolting forward onto gojo's cock with every thrust. you choke around gojo, "mmph— guh. . . " drool spilling down your chin in thick strings, tears streaking your cheeks from the overwhelming fullness. your pussy's making the filthiest sounds, squelching wet and loud, and geto groans like he's dying, eyes rolling again as he pounds into you.

"nngh— fuck, take it, take it," he pants, voice cracking with affection and menace. "pussy's so fucking good—milking me already. you love this, don't you? stuffed from both ends like our perfect little toy."

you can't answer properly—just muffled, cockdrunk moans around gojo, your tongue swirling sloppy and desperate because it's all you can do. gojo's hips start moving faster too, matching geto's brutal pace, fucking your throat in shallow thrusts that make your eyes water more. "yeah, she loves it," he gasps, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek even as he pushes deeper. "look at her—crying and still sucking like she needs it to breathe."

it's too much and perfect and stupidly loving, your body shaking between them as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, pussy fluttering wild around geto, throat swallowing convulsively around gojo. you're close again—teetering on that edge they've been dancing you along all night—and they feel it, both of them groaning in unison as your body tightens.

"fuck— she's gonna come," geto grits out, thrusts turning erratic, grip on your wrists bruising now. "pussy's clamping—shit—gonna make me—"

gojo pulls out of your mouth suddenly with a wet pop, hand fisting your hair to tilt your face up as he strokes himself fast and sloppy. "wait—fuck, me too—gonna cum, baby, gonna—"

they both curse at the same time, voices overlapping in desperate, filthy harmony, "fuck, fuck, coming. . ." and geto pulls out of your pussy with a slick rush that leaves you empty and whining high in your throat. your legs finally give out, knees buckling as the sudden loss hits, but gojo's there instantly, hauling you down to the rug with strong hands under your arms until you're on your knees between them, shaky and wrecked and dripping.

gojo drops down from the bed too, both of them standing over you now—tall and flushed and gorgeous, cocks in hand as they stroke themselves fast and frantic, eyes locked on your face like you're the only thing in the world. "open your mouth, princess," gojo pants, voice sweet and mean all at once, free hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head back. "tongue out—yeahhhh, just like that. good fucking girl."

geto groans beside him, hand still pinning one of your wrists behind your back even on your knees, keeping you arched pretty for them. "gonna paint you, baby," he mutters, voice rough with affection. "deserve every drop after taking us so well."

you obey—mouth open wide, tongue lolling out obedient and desperate, eyes glassy and adoring as you look up at them. "please," you whimper, voice hoarse and small and needy. "want it—want your cum—please—"

that's all it takes. gojo comes first—high, broken moan of your name as his cock pulses, thick ropes of cum striping your face in hot, messy bursts—across your cheeks, your nose, your waiting tongue. "fuck— take it, take it all," he gasps, aiming the last spurts right into your open mouth, watching with hooded eyes as you swallow greedily.

geto follows seconds later—deep, guttural groan that sounds like it's punched out of him, hips jerking forward as he paints your face too, cum mixing with gojo's in sticky lines over your lips and chin, dripping down your neck. "shit— perfect, so perfect," he praises, voice cracking soft at the end, thumb smearing the mess across your lower lip like he's marking you.

they milk themselves dry onto you—stroking slow through the aftershocks, making sure every drop lands on your face, your tongue, your chest—until you're glazed and messy and utterly ruined, kneeling there panting with cum dripping off your chin and the biggest, dopiest smile tugging at your swollen lips.

04. Muzan and his god complex

"You should be thanking me—thanking me for allowing you to feel me at all. Say it." ✦ "thank...aphf thank you!"

05. He bent you over his lap, asking you to tell him of your day. Every time you lie, his palm slams down on your cheeks.

"nghh... what was that for?" ✦ "That was a lie. you did not go straight home after." "I'm unsure whether to punish you for disobeying my orders or lying about it."

KOKUSHIBO

01. Breeding

02. Pleasuring his girl

03. Inspecting to see if his human girl was good during the day

04. A pure representation of the control he wants in bed. Control over you, your movements, orgasm, moans—everything

05. How he thrust right after punishment sex. After all your crying, he goes slow right before releasing inside and wipes your tears

06. Such a peaceful cuddle and kiss turned dirty. When his fingers slip between your thighs

“Stay. Still.”

DOUMA

01. He barely has to try and he has you undone

02. Modern-daybf!Douma loves using these

03. He's in love with how you try so hard to take your god's cock

04. One of Modern-day!Douma favorite videos of you two. In his album of sex tapes.

03. Forcing you to ride him while he becomes a pillow princess

"Awhh, you're being lazy. didn't want it to come to this but it seems—" ✦ "no!...phf, I'll m-move."

AKAZA

01. Even a modernau!Akaza would find himself sneaking through your window at night as your secret boyfriend

02. He only visits at night, every second he's inside you feels as if he tries to make up for days he's been gone.

03. In another universe, Akaza is obsessed with morning sex.

04. When he visits after a battle, he's usually more impatient, unbothered to fully undress you

05. Just very Akaza.

HANTENGU CLONES

Click here for fic — here!

GYUTARO

01. He gets so jealous sometimes.

02. Sometimes he just needs a distraction from all his self-loathing

04. He knows he's not supposed to cum inside, but he just can't help it!

03. Where is your samurai husband now? If he couldn't be here to protect his own wife, what good is he?

05. Working in the entertainment district, you see a lot of weird shit. But you doubted any college had a client such as yours with odd contortions, unmatched strength to ragdoll you, or a dick as good as his.

ENMU

01. In the beginning of the relationship, Enmu believed he was 'unworthy' of entering you, so he'd limit himself by bucking himself against your sex.

02. Dry humping

03. Disciplining your boyfriend when he gets too clingy and needy for your body

04. Obsessed with eating you out.

05. The type of shit you wake up to on the daily