Ain't shit magical girl

Your skin is sticky with dried pool water and sunscreen, bikini bottoms damp under your shorts, hair tied up out of the way while you hover in the kitchen eating whatever your mom shoves into your hands.

“Eat your fruit too,” she says, swapping out the popsicle—that would have been your third—for an orange.

Your brother had called dibs on the shower the second you all came in, already half up the stairs, towel over his shoulder and a trail of wet footprints behind him.

You rolled your eyes, said you’d go in after, and let him have it because you were hungry enough to chew the counter.

Cook had been at the table with you, slouched in a chair in nothing but low-slung swim trunks and a towel around his neck, watching you eat with lazy eyes that kept slipping from your mouth to the stretch of your thigh where your shorts stuck.

By the time you’re licking the last smear of sauce from your sandwich from your thumb and your mom is yelling at someone on the TV in the next room, your brother comes back down, hair damp, wearing fresh clothes and complaining loudly about how there’s no more clean towels.

You glance at the kitchen doorway.

No Cook.

Your brother pops open the fridge, grumbling about snacks, completely oblivious.

“Oi,” you ask, already knowing the answer, “where’s Cook?”

“Dunno,” he says around a mouthful of leftovers. “Said he was gonna shower after me. He went up when I came down, I think.”

The fork clatters a little harder than it needs to when you put it in the sink.

Heat that has nothing to do with the weather washes through you, thick and annoyed.

You toss your napkin, mutter something vague about putting your things away, and head for the stairs, bare feet quiet on the wood.

The sound of the water running hits you immediately—that steady rush behind the bathroom door.

Steam curls faint under the gap, carrying with it the faint tang of your body wash, and something in you snaps.

He knew you were next. He knew how hot and sticky you were, how desperate you were for the first cool rinse of the day, and he still slid in front.

You rap your knuckles against the door, sharp. “Cook.”

There’s no answer at first, just the hiss of water, the soft drum against tile. Then his voice, muffled but unmistakable, drifting through the wood drunk on heat and shower steam. “Occupied, babe.”

“You’re a dick,” you fire back, hand on the handle. “I said I was going next.”

“You snooze, you lose,” he calls, and you can hear the grin, lazy and pleased with himself. “I’ll be quick, yeah? Just gotta scrub all this chlorine off. Don’t want my skin fallin’ off or whatever.”

You roll your eyes so hard it practically hurts. “You’re not the one with hair to wash.”

He laughs, a low, rough sound that makes your irritation flare into something else. “You wanna argue about it or you wanna get in?”

There’s a beat where you know he expects you to huff and stomp back to your room, to let him finish and pretend it doesn’t bug you.

Instead you twist the handle.

The bathroom is a small cloud of steam, mirrors fogged, light softened around the edges.

Your towel is still hanging on the back of the door where you left it, untouched.

In the shower, behind the rippled glass, his shape is a blur: broad shoulders, the curve of his back, the flick of his hand through his hair.

You can see the way he tips his head back under the spray, the tattoo on his arm broken into wavy lines by condensation.

You strip quick, bikini top tugged over your head and flung onto the radiator, bottoms peeled off with a wet smack and dropped onto the tiles.

The heat sticks your skin to the air; goosebumps prick up in the wake of cooler bathroom air on your damp thighs.

You grab your towel and wrap it around your body, more for principle than modesty, knotting it tight above your breasts.

Then you slide the shower door open.

Cook turns, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into something else.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, water running in rivulets down his chest, over his stomach, catching in the trail of hair leading lower.

He’s naked, obviously—no trunks now, just skin and ink and the heavy hang of his cock between his thighs, already starting to thicken just from the sight of you with your towel clinging wetly to the curves underneath.

“Oi,” he says, a little breathless, trying for cocky. “This is a solo show, yeah.”

“You jumped the line,” you answer, stepping in anyway, dragging the towel off and hanging it on the hook.

His eyes drop like they’re on a string, and you feel them move: over the full curve of your breasts, water beading on your nipples as steam kisses your skin; over your damp stomach, down to the space between your thighs.

“We’re sharing.”

The water is hot and relentless, beating against your back and shoulders as you step into the spray with him. The stall is small enough that there’s no such thing as personal space; your body brushes his in a dozen places as you adjust, bare thighs sliding against his, the soft weight of your tits bumping his chest when you reach past him for the conditioner.

His hand comes up to steady you, fingers wrapping briefly around your hip, thumb pressing into the slick dip of your waist.

“Christ,” he mutters, eyes dark, steam curling between you. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

“That’s what you get for being greedy,” you say, but your voice has lost most of its bite. Your pulse is loud in your ears, matching the rhythm of the water.

You tilt your head back under the spray, closing your eyes as the heat soaks your hair, hands working conditioner through your hair.

When you open them again, he’s watching you, jaw slack, chest heaving like he’s just run up the stairs. His cock is fully hard now, thick and flushed, curving up against his stomach, the head slick just from the sight of you.

You lower your hands slowly, foam sliding down your arms, over your breasts, tracing the line of your ribs.

His gaze follows a bead of white that tracks from your collarbone to the tight peak of your nipple, where it clings for a moment before the water washes it away.

It takes a second before his hand clamps around your wrist, dragging your soapy fingers off your stomach.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gone ragged, and then he’s turning you, pressing your back gently but firmly to the cold tile.

The temperature shocks a gasp out of you, drowned almost immediately by the wet slide of his mouth against yours.

The kiss is sloppy and hot, tasting like steam and shower gel and him.

You open for him without thinking, hands flying up to brace on his shoulders, slick skin under your palms. His body is solid against yours, heat searing into every place you touch, from the press of his chest to the hard line of his thigh wedged between yours.

He lifts your leg like it weighs nothing, hand sliding under your thigh and hiking it up around his waist.

Your heel hooks at the small of his back, calf pressed to dripping skin. The new angle drags your pussy right along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock pressing against your folds, slipping easily through the slick that has nothing to do with shower water.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he breathes against your mouth, grinding once, so that the thick head nudges your clit and knocks your head lightly back against the tile. “You in that fuckin’ bikini. You know what you’re doin’ to me?”

“Apparently taking the shower I was promised,” you manage, though it comes out more like a whimper when he rocks his hips again, cock sliding through your slick, bumping your clit with every pass.

He laughs, kissing his way down your cheek to your neck. “Yeah? That what this is?” His teeth scrape lightly over the tendon there, and you shudder. “’Cause from where I’m standin’, looks like you’re drippin’ for me, babe.”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to tell him to stop talking and fuck you. What comes out instead is his name, broken on a breath, your fingers digging into his wet shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

You angle your hips, guiding him with a tilt, and he gets the message, hand dropping from your waist to fumble between you.

His fingers find his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. Even with the water, you feel every second of it: the blunt push against your hole, the stretch as he starts to press in, the way he groans into your neck as your body yields around him.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hand tightening on your thigh, nails biting just a little. “You’re so—shit, you’re tight, man.”

He sinks into you in inches, stretching you open.

Your free leg wobbles, knee threatening to buckle, but he’s there, pinning you to the tile, mouth hot at your jaw.

When he’s finally all the way in, hips flush to yours, he pauses, breath sawing in and out.

You’re full in a way that makes your whole body pulse, cunt clenching around him, the deep ache edged with something bright and addictive.

“Move already,” you whisper, nails scratching down his back, catching at the water-slick skin.

He sets a rhythm fast, out of sheer necessity—the shower, the footsteps that could come up the stairs, your brother’s voice still somewhere downstairs in the house.

His hips slam forward in quick, hard thrusts, each one pushing a sharp moan up your throat that you barely manage to bite back.

The slap of wet skin on wet skin echoes off the tile, muffled under the rush of water and the broken curses he spills into your ear.

Your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him deeper, forcing his cock to bottom out with every thrust, the thick length grinding against that sweet spot inside that makes your toes curl.

Your free hand slides down his back, fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit, too frantic to be shy now. You rub tight circles in time with his thrusts, feeling your own slick mixing with the water, dripping down your inner thighs.

“Look at you,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes blown and wild. “Little princess, yeah, always walkin’ around like you’re in your own world—now you’re fuckin’ whinin’ on my cock in your mom’s shower. That what you wanted?”

You nod, words knocked loose, breath coming in short, hitched bursts.

There’s no point pretending anymore; every roll of his hips drags a noise out of you, high and needy, muffled only when he slaps his hand over your mouth without thinking, palm firm against your lips.

“Quiet,” he hisses, though there’s nothing scolding in it, just panic and lust. “You know they’re downstairs. Don’t make me explain why you’re screamin’ in here.”

The irony is that his hand only makes it worse.

The heat, the weight of it, the way his fingers press into your cheeks as he fucks into you—something feral snaps free.

You moan into his palm, sound caught and swallowed, eyes rolling back as you chase the drag and pound of him.

Your orgasm hits fast and sharp, coiled from the minute you stepped into the stall. It breaks over you with a violent tremor, your whole body going tight and then loose as your cunt clamps down around him, milking him with a grip that makes him curse into your neck.

“Oh, fuck—fuck, that’s it,” he groans, hips stuttering, thrusts losing their rhythm as he slams in as deep as he can, chasing his own end.

His hand stays glued over your mouth, muffling your cries as your climax rips through you, thighs shaking, heel digging into his back.

He follows a heartbeat later, burying his face further into throat, teeth scraping your skin as his cock throbs inside you, spilling hot and thick.

You feel the warmth flood you, feel the way his whole body shudders with it, muscles locking and then loosening as the aftershocks roll through.

For a moment you just cling there, stuck between tile and him, water pounding down on both of you, steam wrapping everything in a hazy cocoon.

Your heart is racing; his isn’t much calmer, thudding against your chest where he’s pressed to you.

Slowly, he eases his hand away from your mouth, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, now swollen and slick with more than just gloss.

You catch the pad of his thumb with your teeth, biting lightly. He laughs, breathless, forehead coming to rest against yours.

“You still mad I took your shower?” he asks, voice ragged and smug all at once.

You swallow, feeling the mix of his cum and your slick slowly starting to leak around his softening cock, washed away in thin streams by the water.

“Yeah,” you say, though your voice is wrecked, satisfaction bleeding through the syllables. “Next time I’m getting in first.”

“Next time,” he echoes, and the way he says it makes your stomach flip, a promise tucked somewhere inside the joke.