Shiu Kong

Elegant dates like exhibition openings at a gallery, premières, chef’s table, long lunch - loves the ritual/ceremony of it all. It’s very drawn out, self-indulgent.

He’s not “above” more relaxed dates, those are just the type he likes to plan out. He probably gets a thrill from of seeing you in his spaces, like at some smoky bar playing billiards with him, coaching you as you play if you’re not familiar. When it’s not his turn he’ll let his eyes linger on you appreciatively, whisky and a cigarette in hand.

Taking you shopping! I imagine when he goes to get a suit tailored, he’d bring you with him and walk around with you, his arm offered for you like a gentleman or draped over your shoulder or at the small of your back, taking you wherever you want to browse.

If you smoke, he will shotgun smoke for you or lights your cigarette with his, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours as he leans in.

Puts his coat over your shoulders when you are cold.

Will feed you bites from his plate for you to try, or when you have a dessert to split between you.

Toji Fushiguro

Long drives with no particular destination in mind, just following the road and enjoying the moment. Has a bag in the trunk for an impromptu picnic or to go to the beach, or you stop by somewhere that catches your eye to explore.

Takes you to arcades and festivals/fairs, will win you prizes but is also lowkey doing it to preen and peacock his strength with the hammer and speedbag.

Probably gets a kick out of play fighting with you and letting you wail on him (doing absolutely nothing), and then once he’s had enough, he’ll grab you and wrestle you into a hug and pepper you with kisses.

Drops you off and picks you up from work when he can.

Indulges your interests and curiosity even if he doesn’t get it, like going with you to shows or pop-ups etc., making him do the purikura photo booth at the arcade. Lifts you up to sit on his shoulders to give you a good view at a concert.

Will grumble and make fun of whatever TV show/movie you’re watching but just ends up staying there the whole time and asking you questions about it anyway. Insists he isn’t going to stick around to watch, but is stood behind you arms crossed watching.

Hiromi Higuruma

This is a man that knows how to make a nice evening in. He puts on a record, lights some candles, and makes dinner for you both. Maybe you both indulge in a glass of wine and dessert, and stand swaying and holding each other to the music while in the kitchen after.

Will always do his best to make time for you despite his schedule. Loves small dates when he can squeeze on in during the work week, just so he can see you, like having a coffee with you at the park near his office on a lunch break.

Taking you to museums and galleries, record and bookstores.

Going out for a movie together, discussing and critiquing over dinner afterwards.

Leaves you sweet text messages but he texts like an old man 💔❤️ (it’s endearing, OK?) Will send you a message when he thinks of you or saw something and it reminded him of you AKA “Just saw a snail… Effervescent.”

Atsuya Kusakabe

Outdoorsy and active dates, ones where he shares his interests with you. Think hiking/trail walks at a national park, bouldering. Teaching you how to fish or showing you some swordsmanship, he’s standing behind with his arms wrapped around you to guide your form. (Some say he’s lazy, but I see him as one of those active people that has stamina to do activities like that for hours, but is an immovable object when he’s not feeling like doing something and wants to lounge around instead, or grumbling about walking somewhere when it’s not even tiring.)

Has touch as a love language. When you’re both on the couch, he loves having you sat in front of him between his thighs, his chin resting on your head and your back flush to his chest as he cuddles you.

Dinner dates for sure. Sushi purist 100%, will balk at what sushi you’re eating if it’s not traditional or he doesn’t agree with your choice, but he won’t stop you. Will take you to authentic hole-in-the-wall places for noodles or rice bowls.

The low light pools in the corners of the apartment, amber and languid, draping shadows across the scattered poker chips and glass tumblers. Shiu lounges on the leather couch like a crow perched on a corpse, smoke from his menthol curling upward in lazy spirals. Toji, with his lazy slouch is sat opposite; face unreadable save for a faint twitch of amusement on his scarred lips.

Between them, the table is chaos—bent cards, a mound of mismatched cash and spoils—but the air buzzes with the quiet thrill of men who play to win or destroy. They’re both stripped down to their undershirts, slacks and boots still on, sprawled out like they own the night.

The liquor bottle’s three-quarters empty and the atmosphere in the room is one joke away from a brawl or a blowjob. Maybe both. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Fuckin’ cheater,” Toji mutters, flicking his cards onto the table indignantly. “That river was cursed.”

“Hey, now. It’s sink or swim, Toji,” Shiu grins, canine teeth flashing. “You sank.”

They’ve been laughing for hours, whisky laughs, deep and dirty. They talk the raucous kind of talk that often comes with a side of bruises. Conversation keeps slipping back to you—your mouth, your thighs, the look on your face when Toji had you straddle his lap with Shiu watching on; left slack-jawed and speechless for once in his life.

“Her voice when she moaned,” Shiu proclaims. “Like a hymn to my ears.”

Toji snorts, eyes on his hand. “Aren’t you a bit too religious to be making that kind of comparison?”

“Sure, but I’m a heretic for her.” There’s a glint in his eyes.

Cards slap. Chips clatter. Another hand. Another round. Toji’s stack has shrunk to nothing. A smattering of silver coins and one crumpled bill remain in his wallet, trying to burn a hole. He downs another inch of Glenlivet and leans back, jaw tense.

“You’re skint,” Shiu says. “Unless you’re finally throwing in that watch.”

Toji shoots him a look. “Told you last time, s’not comin’ off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sentiment and all that.” Shiu casts his eyes over the table. “So, what else?”

Toji says nothing, just breathes through his nose.

Shiu leans in real close, smirk returning. “And don’t say your dick, I’ve seen what that’s worth.”

Toji’s eyes flick up, narrowed.

“How about,” Shiu starts, testing the waters. “A date. With your girl.”

If Toji had a penny, it would have dropped. He freezes. Measures. Weighs the option out like a dog deciding if the fence can be jumped.

“Come on,” Shiu coaxes. “Just one night. One date. I’ll be good. Or I’ll try.”

Toji laughs, but it’s flat. “You’re never good.”

Shiu’s lips curl round the filter of his cigarette. “But she likes that.”

A beat.

Toji leans back in his chair, tongue in cheek. “One date. One night. Nothing more.”

Shiu taps ash into his empty glass. “Mine to plan.”

Another beat.

You could cut the fucking tension with a knife. Cards get dealt. Five down. Eyes narrow. Breaths are held. Toji lays out a two pair. Solid. Confident. Shiu lays his hand slow, like a priest unveiling relics. Straight flush.

Toji blinks once. Says nothing. Sips.

Shiu smirks, just a little twitch of his lip. He’s had one taste and has been dreaming of seconds. “I’ll pick her up Friday.”

Toji leans back and sighs deep. Then, grins. “Hope you survive it, prick.”

Shiu laughs low. “Hope you don't.”

###

The kettle wheezes like a smoker on his fifth stair as you sit with your legs draped over the arm of the couch, nursing a mug half-full of bitter coffee with too much milk to compensate. You’re wearing Toji’s boxers and “your” shirt; one of his old tees, far too big, smells like sleep and sex and him. The sun through the blinds paints the room in those dusty gold stripes that make everything look dirtier; realer.

You lounge. No rush, shoulders slumped, and hair still tangled from bed. Toji’s at the counter, shirtless. He scratches at his jaw like he’s got bad news or a worse itch.

“Hey.” His voice is low. “Got something to tell you.”

You glance up and squint over the rim of your mug at him. “What did you do?”

Toji’s not thrilled with you assuming he’s gone and done something, even though you’re correct. Just doesn’t sit right with him, he thinks, on principle.

He snorts. Doesn’t look at you straight on. “So, poker night. Shiu.”

You set the cup down, slow. Real slow. “...Yeah?”

“Made a bad hand worse.” He turns now, leans on the counter, arms folded.

You blink. “What the fuck did you bet, Toji?”

“Don’t look at me like that. He was bluffing.” His mouth twitches like he’s chewed a lemon and is trying to wince through it.

Your eyes narrow. “You bet me.”

No response.

“Toji,” you urge.

“I bet your time, yeah?” He shrugs that lazy bastard shrug he always pulls when he’s too stubborn to say sorry. “Just a date. You liked him last time, didn’t you?”

You gape. Actually gape. Your coffee sits forgotten on the table. “You bet a date with me? With Shiu?”

“You let him between your thighs with me watching. What’s dinner compared to that?”

Your jaw clicks shut. “You are a fucking maniac.”

He laughs, deep and warm, like you’ve just confirmed it for him. “Could’ve been worse. Coulda bet the car.”

“You don’t own the car either, Toji.” You lean back on the couch, shirt riding up your thighs as you cross your arms. “So, let me get this straight.” You give yourself a moment to gather your thoughts. “You lose a poker hand to your smug rat of a mate, and now I’m meant to get dolled up so he can wine me and pretend he’s not gonna try fingering me under the table?”

Toji lifts his brows. “He won’t try it.”

You snort. “You hope he won’t.”

Silence. Cogs turning in his head. He walks over and plants a hand on the back of your chair, leaning down close, a sing-song lilt to his voice. “If he does, you’ll stop him, won’t ya?”

You meet his eyes. “You want me to?”

Beat.

He doesn’t answer, just looks; that heavy gaze of his boring into you.

You grin, slow and crooked. “This is fucking wild. Even for you.”

He averts his eyes with a huff. “It’s still my girl he’s picking up Friday.”

You sip your coffee again; heart pounding and thighs squeezed together under the table.

###

Friday morning. The flat’s quiet but bloated with tension, like a held breath. Then, it comes. A knock at the door, a courier. Toji's sprawled on the couch, sweatpants clung low on his hips. He doesn’t look up until you unhook the latch and crack the door.

“Oi, that for me?” he calls out, lazily.

It’s your name on the parcel. Clean lettering. No sender.

“No idea,” you mutter, carrying it to the kitchen table, slicing the tape with a nail. Inside: crepe paper folded neat. A notecard, set like a trap. Toji’s up now, sauntering over. His hand cups the back of your neck, resting there, thumb brushing your nape as you unfold the card.

“For tonight. Thought I’d save you the trouble. —Shiu.”

God, even his handwriting looks expensive.

You lift up the contents of the package. A black dress unfurls in your hold, silk spreading like ink on water as the weight of it drops and settles. Strapless. Slinky. A slit rides cruel and high up the side. It toes the line like a tightrope; something you could wear to a gallery or a goddamn strip show depending on the light.

Then you see the rest. Nestled underneath, stark against the pale paper—lingerie. A matching set. Sheer, black, barely there. You’d feel less exposed stark bloody naked. Even if it were cut to actually cover anything, the fabric itself leaves very little to the imagination.

You’re laughing before you mean to. A shocked, breathless little snort. Toji's eyes have gone hard. Jaw locked. He doesn’t speak for a beat. Then, in that low, don’t-fuck-with-me growl:

“You kidding me?”

Clicking your tongue in approval, you hold the dress up to the light and admire it. “He’s got taste.”

“Like fuck he does,” Toji balks, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll carve it into him.”

You grab his wrist with a grin, dragging him back from the cliff edge. “C’mon, stud. You picked out my last outfit, right? This one’s his date, his rules.”

“He’s not fucking you.”

“No,” you say, letting the word hang. “But I’ll be thinking about you while he tries.”

That shuts him up. For now.

###

Evening hits slow. You’ve showered, shaved, exfoliated until your skin feels peeled clean—then exfoliated again, for good measure. You’re stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, letting the reality of the evening sink in. A sticky heat clings to your thighs.

The panties hug your curves; lace wet with anticipation already. The bra’s but a whisper of fabric – you’re ‘covered’ in the loosest possible sense, though it’s not enough to hide anything once someone gets close. You snap the straps off and adjust the cups.

Behind you, the hallway creaks. Toji’s lurking again. You don’t need to look back, because you can feel his eyes burn holes.

With nobody else to have in on the joke, you smirk at your reflection in the mirror. “How many times are you gonna pretend you’re not watching me?”

He’s been skulking round the flat like a restless zoo animal since the parcel arrived. The way he acts, you’ve half a mind to leave him a frozen pumpkin stuffed with raw meat as his enrichment for the evening.

The dress slips on like sin, fingers fumbling with the zipper as your heartbeat starts to spike. Your skin is hot. Your stomach flutters. You smooth your hands down your sides. Every sensation sends shivers through your body.

You lean in to lacquer your lips, glossy and wicked. Then mascara. Liner. A little highlighter down your collarbone, applied with hands that now quiver at the memory of that night. Shiu’s mouth. Toji’s hands. Your cunt soaked, lips swollen, every part of you ravished like you were born to be devoured. You’re wet again just thinking about it.

The heels go on last. Thin straps. Ankle wrapped. They make your legs look criminal. You step back. Fuck. You’re ruinous.

There’s the purring of an engine and the low whistle of wheels outside. You’re at the window, peeking past the sheer, pretending you’re not. Toji’s behind you, arms crossed over that brutal chest, jaw set. He hasn’t said a word in five minutes, but his presence is thick, flammable.

He’s been watching you since your heels clicked down the hallway like you were already halfway gone. You look fucking devastating, and you know it. The dress clings, slit slicing up your thigh, fabric smooth and liquid—God, the fabric moves. Toji hasn’t even lit his cigarette, he’s just holding it white-knuckled and staring.

You peek again. Shiu’s car. Sleek as sin. Dark. One of those that makes you wonder what kind of shit a man like him has in the glovebox—a weapon, cash, IDs under another name? The door swings open. He steps out. Christ.

Shirt half-undone, cuffs rolled, jacket folded over one arm. Hair slicked back with that deliberate fuck-you looseness, the kind of look that says I’m not trying hard, I just know how to win.

“Go on,” Toji says, voice low. Dangerous. A muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Don't stab him,” you say, smoothing your dress down like it's not already perfect.

You glance back at him. Toji doesn’t answer, just grumbles as he watches you strut past with your shoulders back and heart pounding. You walk to the doorway on legs that feel ten feet long, pulse in your throat. You open the front door. Shiu’s already smiling.

“Hey, doll,” he greets warmly. “You look fucking edible.” His eyes rake up along your form slow, drinking you in. From your heels to your hair, he takes his time.

Your skin simmers from the attention. It’s not just the words—it’s the hunger that smoulders in his gaze. He reaches for your hand, brings your knuckles to his soft lips just like that night. Your thighs twitch at the memory. His dark eyes lock with yours, then he meanders a brazen trail of kisses up along your bare arm to your shoulder.

Behind you, Toji’s breath goes sharp.

Shiu lifts his voice a little, just enough to carry. “Me and my girl will be heading out now,” he says, smooth as bourbon. “Don’t wait up, yeah?”

You almost laugh. Almost. But it’s swallowed by the sound of Toji’s scoff—a low, barbed exhale, somewhere between fuck off and I’ll gut you later.

You pull Toji in for an embrace, smile coyly up at him as you wrap your arms around his solid frame and he returns the gesture. Your hands slide up along his waist and chest to cup either side of his jaw. As you pepper his face with glossy kisses, his scowl softens into a resigned smile.

“Try not to miss me too much,” you giggle. “I’ll see you later, handsome.” You turn to part from Toji, but not before he can grab a claiming handful of your ass.

Shiu offers his arm like a gentleman, and you take it as he leads you to the car. The car door is opened for you; you sidle in like the seat was built around your curves. Once you're in, he shuts it behind you with a thud. Inside, it's all leather and hush. Shiu slides in next to you, smooth, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the chain round his neck.

“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” he says finally, not looking at you.

You let your thigh edge just a little toward his, the slit daring. “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to pick something.”

###

The restaurant’s dim. Velvet booths. Gold trim. Shiu guides you in with a hand at the small of your back. The air between you is charged; you can feel the pull of him like static along your skin. Waiters see him and scramble to get you both seated like he's a man who tips well but breaks noses better.

The table’s nestled away in a corner, private. He slides into the booth first, lounging, arms stretched along the top. You sit opposite, legs crossed just enough to show.

Shiu orders for both of you. You let him. He’s saying something to the waiter, but your focus drifts—caught on the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadow of stubble and the moustache that frames his mouth that’s sculpted to be kissed and bit. His cheekbones are high and severe, softened only by the faint laugh lines at the corners of those dark and unreadable eyes.

There’s a quiet arrogance in the way he carries his face, like he’s aware he’s handsome and daring you to look longer. His lips move, slow and deliberate, and when he glances your way, catching your gaze without hesitation, it hits low in your stomach. Those eyes don’t just look at you—they press.

The wine comes first; a Rioja, he had told you. You try not to think too hard about the flutter of his tongue when he rolls the ‘R’. Your glass clinks softly against his.

“To making Toji sweat,” he says with a wink.

You sip. Smile. Let the heat slide down your throat.

He leans in just a little, voice low, tongue flicking behind his teeth.

“Do you remember how I touched you last time?” he asks, casual. Like it’s small talk. Like how’s the weather? Or you catch the game last night?

“Maybe.” You shrug and let your leg brush his under the table. “Do you remember how I tasted?”

That earns you a grin from him, big and wicked.

Dinner arrives, but it’s just a prop to you. The real meal is in the way his eyes trace your mouth every time you lift your fork. The way he watches the wine stain your lips and doesn’t comment, but his fingers drum slow against his thigh like he’s imagining smearing it with his thumb.

Every comment’s laced with charm and a little something dangerous.

“Your skin looks even better under candlelight.”

“I think Toji knew he was losing when you moaned my name.”

“You’re not wearing that perfume for me, are you? Shame. It’s working.”

Without fail, your body reacts. Heat coils low in your belly. Your thighs press together tight. There’s no guilt, no shame, just the buzz of a game in motion. You both know how this ends—you’re just savouring the moves.

###

The dark velvet and shadows of the booth have swallowed you whole. The flickering candlelight casts halos over everything, as if either of you could ever be passed off as saints. Your knees brush his beneath the table, just once, accidental enough to lie about.

Your cocktail lands, something sweet and lethal; pale orange with a maraschino cherry sunk like a ruby at the bottom. You stir it slowly, straw tracing circles through the ice, and pretend not to see his gaze trail the movement of your fingers. Your glass sweats in your palm, ice clinking gently against it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, “you don’t look like someone who plays games.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping slow, tongue catching the salt rim. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He chuckles low. “A challenge.”

Then he reaches, both hands across the table. Clasps your hand between his, as if in prayer. His thumbs stroke over your knuckles first; reverent and slow like he’s learning you by touch.

“You’ve never held a weapon, have you?” The pink tip of his tongue peeks from between his lips as he runs it along his teeth.

You blink. What the fuck?

He lifts your hand, turns it over in his palms. His fingers glide across your palm, your wrist, each joint. He's inspecting you as a jeweller would appraise a fine gem.

“Not a scar,” he murmurs, tracing your lifeline with his fingertip. “No cuts. No burn marks. Not even a fucking hangnail.”

You flush. It’s stupid, the way it spreads across your face. But the way he says it—like you’re something untouched, something rare—makes your stomach flip.

He meets your eyes; smile tilted just this side of wicked. “Toji must have to tie his hands every time you walk past.”

You feel the heat surge to your cheeks, and his smirk grows with his mission now accomplished.

Two can play at that game.

You smile, sweet and harmless, then slide your heel under the table and let it climb, slow. Inch by deliberate inch, motion unbroken. You lean forward like you’re about to talk politics.

“So, are you a regular here?” you ask, voice syrupy slick. “Or did you pick this place just to impress me?”

He blinks, slow.

Your heel’s at his ankle. Then his shin. Then higher.

He’s still holding your hand, but his grip twitches. You see it—the subtle tension in his jaw, the shift of his eyes as your heel creeps further up his leg, pressing slow against the inside of his thigh.

You keep going. You smile wider. You flit your lashes at him.

He coughs once. A little too hard.

“You alright, Mr. Kong?”

“Peachy,” he rasps.

You take another sip of your drink, the ice cool against your lip. Your fingers reach for the cherry. You pluck it delicately by the stem, holding it up between thumb and forefinger like a prize. Then, drag your tongue over the glossy skin, lips parting just enough to let it disappear into your mouth.

Softly, you moan. “Mm,” you drawl, rolling it around on your tongue. “So sweet.”

You let the stem hang from your lips, work it with your tongue. Shiu’s breathing shallows as you curl and twist it in your mouth. With an obscene pop, you pull it out—a perfect knot. He watches on with his eyes darkened, frozen in place as if you had tied him up too.

Your heel’s at his cock now, pressing just enough to feel it twitch. You don’t break eye contact—not once. He stares at you like a man trying not to cum in his pants from just a fucking gaze would. You cross your legs and apply just a hint of more pressure with your sole.

“Dessert?” you simper. “Or shall we skip to the good bit?”

The stem lies twisted on your tongue, still warm as you place it next to your half-drunk glass. His hand twitches under the table like he’s deciding between flipping it over or fucking you on it. It’s not quite a smirk that plays on your lips, but the look that you give him says you’ve already won.

Shiu shifts in his seat, one long leg moving as if to ease the pressure building under the tablecloth. It doesn’t help, not one bit. His jaw tics once, sharp, then he’s lifting a hand, fingers snapping urgent in the candlelight like he’s calling for a weapon, not a waiter.

“Check,” he says, voice coarse enough to flay. “Right fucking now.”

You laugh, light and amused. Your heel’s still pressed firm to the hardness straining under his slacks, and the poor bastard can barely keep still. The waiter scurries over and drops the bill without a word. Shiu barely glances at it before he slaps a card down. You catch the edge of the tip—big enough to buy silence. Or forgiveness.

Shiu doesn’t bother with waiting for the receipt to print or saying his thank-yous to the waitstaff. It seems his mind is elsewhere tonight. He rises smoothly from the booth, helps you to your feet like you’re some duchess on the arm of a gangster. You slip your hand through the crook of his elbow like it was made for you and walk out of the restaurant with your head held high and pulse thrumming.

Outside, the rain-slick pavement glistens faintly under the sodium glow of streetlights, and his car—sleek and low—awaits like a getaway ride. Shiu opens the door for you. You slide in legs first, flashing a little more thigh than necessary. He closes it gently, then circles round the front, jaw tight and muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like ‘fucking tease’.

Once he’s in the driver's seat, door shut, engine growling back to life, you shift a little. Just enough that the dress slides up your thigh again, that little triangle of lace peeking. You tilt your head.

“It’s your night, Shiu,” you purr. “So, what comes next?”

Shiu doesn’t dignify that with an answer other than the groan that’s wrung out of him, hot and low. Then, his hands cup your jaw, palms warm, fingers framing your face like he’s checking if you’re real. His eyes lock with yours—burning, desperate—and he drags you in.

The kiss is devastating; wracked with hunger. His mouth seals over yours like he’s laying claim. Tongue slick and slow, he teases the seam of your lips before plunging deep. His hands slide from your jaw to your throat, thumbs brushing your pulse, down to your collarbone, then over your breasts, trying to memorise every inch.

You moan into him, and his growl vibrates into your mouth in return. There’s the taste of wine and want and fucking danger on his tongue. By the time he pulls back, you’re flushed, panting, lips swollen and slick. His breath hitches, and he straightens his collar, then the chain, like it’s going to help.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, voice cracked.

You grin, eyes half-lidded.

He starts the car, adjusting his grip on the gearstick, hands a little shaky. “Now,” he says, laughing under his breath, “try and behave yourself for the drive to mine, yeah?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“The car’s manual,” he adds, as he throws it into gear with a smirk. “So, I’d prefer both hands free to get us back in one piece.”

You hum, thigh sliding closer to the centre console. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his eyes on the road, jaw clenched tight.

“Once we’re there,” he drawls, “you’ll have my full fucking attention.”

And you believe him. Every word of it.

###

The atmosphere in the car's gone syrupy, heavy, it’s soaking through your clothes and pooling between your thighs. But the talk is light. Distant. Shiu snickers about the valet at the restaurant who looked like he’d piss himself if you so much as winked at him. You laugh, cheek tilted toward the window, watching streetlamps smear across the glass like gold paint under a wet brush.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, forearm taut where it curves along it, the other rested casual on the gearstick. You stare openly, no shame. His jaw set just so. The dip of collarbone where sweat clings to his chain. The way he carries himself—presence commanding, even here, even now. Without posturing, without posing. Just real.

He and Toji. Fuck. Two ends of the same weapon – one cuts smooth, the other breaks bone. You roll that thought around in your head like a lozenge, lips parting slow in a little gasp of disbelief. What has Toji gotten you into?

You’re grinning like a lunatic. Horny. Reckless. High on your own heat. You glance at Shiu again and shift slightly in the seat, letting your thighs spread under the dress. One knee brushes the door, the other slides toward the centre console. You know how high the slit rides. You know. He catches it, the motion. Just a flicker of eye from the road, like a reflex. He clears his throat once, fingers tightening slightly on the gearstick like he’s clocking something but doesn’t want to let himself believe it.

You bite your lip. Your breath hitches. Fuck it, you think. If you’re already this far out over the edge, might as well cannonball. You trail your hands slow over your chest, palms brushing over the curve of your tits, pushing them up slightly under the dress. You feel the weight of them shift, your nipples already pebbled. You drag one hand down your body, fingertips gliding over your stomach, the other resting on your thigh—teasing closer and closer to where the dress splits.

Shiu’s driving. You’re performing. You moan. Barely audible, but not quiet enough. His eyes snap toward you again. Just a blink. He looks back at the road, then again. Double-take. His jaw twitches.

“You uh… you all good there, doll?” he asks, voice rougher now. Less sure, like he’s scared to hope.

You nod, dumbly. “Mhm.” Your head tilts back against the headrest and you blink slow, mouth slack. “I’m good, Shiu.”

Your hand disappears under the fabric, fingers slipping into the sheer lace of the panties that he'd picked out, the ones that have been wet before you even stepped out the door. You hook the crotch of them aside, your glistening folds catching the light from the dash like wet lacquer.

“I’m really good,” you drawl, voice cracked at the edges.

Two fingers dip down, slick coating your fingertips like honey. You moan again, longer this time, as your hand returns to rub circles, dizzying and slow, on your clit. The car seat’s cool against your skin, your head tilting back further, mouth falling open in a gasp.

Shiu chokes on his own breath. “Fucking hell…”

You writhe. Small motions, just enough to grind against your hand, hips rocking in subtle rhythm. Your chest rises and falls faster now. The hem of your dress is pushed up almost to your waist, the leather seat squeaking faintly beneath you with every little shift. Like fog curling off a lake, the heat and scent of your arousal radiates from you.

You glance at Shiu. He’s clenching the wheel like a lifeline. Knuckles white. Eyes straight ahead, but the strain in his throat betrays him. And you keep going. Your fingers rub fast and merciless now. One hand spreads you, middle and ring fingers plunged deep into that soaked heat, knuckles slipping wet between your thighs while the other works your clit.

The car's cabin has gone fever-warm, all steamed windows and fogged glass and the sound of your breathing drowned out under the thump of your heart. Your lower half is exposed and shameless, covered by nothing but that tragic little triangle of black lace stretched to the side like a ribbon on a half-unwrapped present.

The slap of slick against your fingers is audible now, thick and wet and utterly obscene. You're panting, face tilted up toward the roof of the car, lips parted and gloss-smeared, thighs spread wider with every moan you fail to stifle.

Shiu’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s his last anchor to reality. His other hand, Christ—he shouldn't, but he does—slides off the gearshift.  Eyes still forward, his palm finds your thigh, warm and steady. His thumb presses into the muscle, massaging slow, kneading the tension coiling like rope beneath your skin.

“Dirty girl,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. His voice is barely there, rough and hoarse. “Needy little fucking thing. This what you do when Toji’s not keeping you stuffed full, yeah? Sit there making a fucking mess in someone else's passenger seat?”

You moan; a broken little sound punched out of your lungs. “Shiu…” you whimper, hips jerking. “Shiu, how much longer?” Your voice fractures around the words. Your breath trembles. Your legs are shaking now, cunt clenching down hard around your own fingers like your body’s trying to milk something that isn’t there. “I’m right… there…”

His hand tightens, thumb dragging upward to press the heat of his palm just above where your fingers rub frantically.  “Come on, then,” he coaxes. “Go on, make a mess. I want to hear it. Want to watch you go.”

You whimper. Your spine arches, fingers curling inside yourself just so, stroking that soft patch of nerves you can feel swelling with pressure, clit sore and throbbing under the steady rhythm of your wrist. Your thighs snap wide, heels planted hard into the leather floor mat, and you cry out—

“Toji—!”

It rips from your throat sharp and breathless before you can stop it. Part of it’s a joke—yeah. A tease. A slap at Shiu’s pride. But part of it’s real, deep. Muscle memory. It’s his name you scream when the world whites out behind your eyes. It’s always his name.

Your whole body spasms, orgasm wrenching up from your core in waves. Slick spills out between your fingers, onto your palm, soaking into the seat beneath you. You’re a mess, chest heaving, makeup smeared just a little around your eyes from how tightly they squeezed shut.

Shiu doesn't say anything for a moment. He breathes slow as his hand slips away from your thigh, real gentle now, like you’re made of glass. The car keeps moving.

###

The car eases into a low rumble, tires rolling to a stop outside a clean-lined building, pale concrete glowing under the streetlights like bone. You blink slow, head still swimming, thighs still tacky with slick, nerves buzzing from the aftershocks rattling your limbs.

Shiu pulls the handbrake, lets his palm fall from the gearstick to rest on his thigh. Then he turns toward you—finally, fully—and there’s no smirk, no swagger this time. Just that soft, stupidly handsome smile, warm in the glow of the dashboard lights. “You ready?” he asks, voice earnest. You nod, lips quirking despite yourself.

He slides out first, door thudding shut. Then he rounds the bonnet, long strides eating the pavement, hair a little messy now, collar skewed. The door opens, cool air flooding in as he crouches slightly. You try to swing your legs out. Mistake. Your heel wobbles. Ankles nearly give. The mix of orgasm and cocktail and two hours of foreplay for dinner hits all at once. You flinch, he catches.

“Whoa, there,” Shiu says, already slipping arms under your thighs and behind your back. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” And then—you’re up. In his arms, bridal carry, light as air.

He’s warm and solid under you, biceps flexing under rolled-up sleeves, the smell of him drowning your senses—clean sweat and musk, his expensive cologne that clings to your skin like it’s learned your curves. His chest is firm beneath your palm, the open buttons of his shirt exposing just enough to make your mouth water.

“Comfy?” he says, glancing down as he hikes you a little higher, shutting the car door behind him with a bump of his hip.

You hum, languid. Your fingers trail circles on that bit of skin just under his collarbone. Smooth, warm, a little bristled where the hair starts to creep in. You lean your cheek against his shoulder, grin sloppily. “This your usual first date routine?”

“Just for the pretty ones.”

The key scrapes into the lock. Door clicks open. He kicks it shut behind him. The interior’s swathed in soft shadows and deep leather and low light. Not sterile, lived in. His. You smell tobacco and menthol and a faint trace of cleaning spray.

The couch’s right there. He doesn’t let you go, but sinks down onto the cushions, still holding you like you’re breakable—like the act of setting you down would ruin the moment. You end up curled over his lap, straddling his thighs, palms on his chest. Your cunt presses warm through the lace against where you can feel him throb beneath you.

He pulls a cigarette from the packet on the side table and tucks it between his lips. You reach for his breast pocket. Your fingers slide in and fish out the lighter without looking. Flick. Flame. You hold it up to the end of his cig, your face close, pupils wide. He inhales. The ember glows hot. He exhales smoke—at you—a little playful puff that fans across your cheek. You wrinkle your nose, laughing.

He looks impressed. “How’d you know where that was?”

“Please,” you murmur, smoothing your hands over his chest again. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without one. Plus, I felt it when I was feeling you up. While you were carrying me.”

He grins, teeth flashing. “Jesus.” His hand slips to your thigh and squeezes, possessive. He lifts the cigarette again, offers it.

You shake your head, coy. “No thanks.” Instead, you slide down. Off his lap. Onto your knees. Hands planted on each of his spread thighs. He watches, eyes darkening by the second. Smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon.

You glance up through your lashes. “I think,” you whisper, voice low and sultry at his throat as your fingers make quick work of his shirt buttons, “there’s something else I’d rather get my lips around.”

He groans, deep. You tug his shirt open to expose his chest; letting it hang around his shoulders as you press your mouth to the curve of his collarbone. Then lower. Open-mouthed kisses, teeth, little nips. Down past his pecs. Down the firm plane of his stomach. You leave a trail of spit and heat, smudging down to the waistband of his trousers.

His cock’s already thick behind the fabric, straining. You mouth at the bulge, teasing, fingers working fast to undo his belt, then his fly. He lifts his hips a little to help. With one smooth motion, you tug down his boxers and slacks. His cock springs free, flushed, slick at the tip, a thick vein pulsing along the shaft.

He exhales hard. “Christ…”

You just smile and lean in.

Shiu slumps back into the couch like a king on his throne; legs spread, trousers shoved halfway down his thighs, shirt open and hanging loose like he couldn’t give a fuck about modesty or the dry-cleaning bill right now. His arms stretch wide along the backrest, cigarette burning low in one hand, the other reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger at your temple, warm and heavy, resting there while he watches you with dark and hooded eyes like a man being offered absolution and sin in the same breath.

And fuck, what a view he’s given you. This time, you finally get to admire the length of him proper. Not quite as long as Toji—Toji's cock’s a fucking menace of its own class—but this? This is thick. Heavy. Pretty, even. The head’s flushed a soft pink, a bead of pre already forming at the tip. His shaft is veined subtly, girthy enough that you can feel your jaw ache in anticipation. The dark thatch of hair at the base is neat, groomed with the same care he gives to his facial hair; tight lines, deliberate. Guess it’s more than just that sharp little 'stache he shaves to impress.

You hum, soft. Your lips hover, barely brushing the heat of him as you ghost warm breath down between his legs, letting it roll over his balls. Slow and measured, you begin with a long, broad lick up the seam of them; watching the way his stomach tightens under the pressure, how his hand twitches against the couch cushion.

When his cock jumps, you smirk. Tracing the ridge beneath his shaft, your tongue drags upwards, from the base all the way to the weeping tip. You pause there, eyes locked with his, lips parted as you let the spit pool on your tongue. Drip—you let it fall; a thick strand sluices down the head and along the vein like oil over leather. He groans. That cigarette-hand flicks ash absent-mindedly into a tray nearby, but the other at your head digs into your hair now.

You open your mouth and sink down. With a broken “Oh, fuck,” he throws his head back. His hips jerk just slightly, instinctive. As they scramble for purchase, his fingers tighten at your scalp—half-stroking, half-clutching; caught between either fucking your throat or staying very, very still to worship the feel of your tongue sliding warm and wet around him. You moan around his length, your jaw stretching, spit sliding thick from the corners of your mouth already.

You’re not being nice about it. You’re feasting. “Lay back and enjoy your prize, yeah?” you purr, voice thick and sultry.

Shiu doesn’t need to be asked twice. His chest rises once, deep, like he’s grounding himself, and then he slumps down full into the couch, spine loose, legs spread wide like he’s offering himself up. His head lolls, cigarette dangling lazily from his mouth, jaw slack with heat.

You go to work, and you take your fucking time. Your mouth slides over the tip again, tongue swirling wet and messy around the head, then down again, slow, licking the shaft without finesse, just raw hunger. Your hand wraps around the base, wrist twisting slow, matching your mouth’s rhythm.

He groans—head tipped back, one long arm still flung over the couch, the other tangled in your hair, fingers twitching every time you suck just a little harder or angle your tongue just so. Now and then, his hips buck up. A reflex, but he tries to hold back. You can feel the restraint trembling in his thighs.

“Fucking hell, doll…” he pants, voice raw. “Mouth like that’ll get someone killed.”

You pull off with a wet gasp, spit glistening on your lips and smeared across your chin. “Lucky I’m on your side, then,” you murmur, then lean in again, lapping at the head.

He makes a sound—low, guttural—like it’s been punched out of him. You don’t let up. Your hands cup his balls, warm and heavy in your palms. You massage them slow while your tongue swirls round the tip again; your lips trailing spit, mouthing and sucking, taking him deeper with each pass.

You moan around him, loud enough for him to feel it in the base of his spine. Your free hand works at the slick shaft when you lick under his balls, flicking your tongue up the seam, teasing at that taut little patch beneath.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiu groans, eyes fluttering shut. “You're gonna fucking—nghh, f-fucking ruin me…”

Greedy and obscene, you keep going. You look up, make eye contact. His pupils are blown, lips parted, chest rising fast. He watches you like you’re a desert mirage as you moan again, taking him deeper. Your name spills from his lips—half-moan, half-prayer. Like it escaped. Like he didn’t mean to let it out but just couldn't hold it in.

He repeats it, breathless. Soft. “Fuuuck, baby…”

###

You pull off him with a slick, wet pop, spit stringing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your mouth is swollen, eyes glazed, and you grin self-satisfied like a cat that's been neck-deep in the cream.

“You’re a gambling man, Mr. Kong…” you pant, voice ragged and cocky. You sit back on your heels between his spread thighs, hands sliding slow up the inside of them, nails scratching light across muscle that jerks beneath your touch. “How about we up the ante a little?”

His brows lift and he nods—eager, dumbly. With lips parted round disbelief and desperation, his cigarette burns away, forgotten between his fingers.

You stand right there between his legs, just far enough back that he gets the full view. Your hips start to roll lazily, dress hitched up, and you hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties—his choice, sheer, dark, and soaked through. You drag them down slow, hips shifting side to side like you’re on stage, not in his living room. The lace peels away from your soaked cunt with an obscene little stretch, and you can feel his eyes pinned to you.

You step out of the panties and ball them in your fist. Grin. Lean forward, real close. You tuck them into the open breast pocket of his shirt, a souvenir. His mouth opens. Shuts. Breath caught, held. He's fucking reeling.

You crawl onto him slow, knees planted either side of his hips, your bare cunt settling just above the flushed, spit-slick head of his cock. The dress bunches up around your waist, pooling in soft folds. Under the low light your cunt glistens with arousal, every part of you ready.

You lean in, forehead pressed to his, hands cradling either side of his jaw. You stare right into his eyes. It’s not a joke anymore. You’re both past teasing. You grind, just enough that the blunt tip nudges your clit—both of you moan, broken things, his breath shallow like you’ve ripped it out his chest.

Your slick coats him again, mixing with the spit from earlier, the head of him sliding just-so through your folds, gliding up and down your seam, teasing against your entrance and it’s fucking agony.

You shudder. He swears under his breath. Then, finally, finally, you shift lower. Let just the tip ease in. Your head falls forward into his, your moan caught in your throat. He gasps—hoarse. His hand on your waist tightens, the other blindly scrambling, cigarette still clutched awkward in his fingers as he fumbles for the ashtray. He finds it, stubs it out with a little clink of glass and a hiss. Then both hands fly to your hips, holding you steady. Bracing.

You take a breath, a long one, and sink down, slow. Your cunt stretches around him, greedy and soaked, swallowing him inch by thick inch until you’re fully seated, hips flush to his. You both pant into each other, lips not quite kissing, just sharing air—your breaths mixing, your mouth brushing his.

He pulls you in. The impact of the kiss sears, it fucking burns; his tongue tangles deep with yours as your arms slide down from his jaw to wrap loosely round his shoulders. You grind your hips in a slow, deliberate roll, and he groans into your mouth, fingers bruising into your waist.

You rock again. Again. The rhythm is hungered, like neither of you want to stop; like neither of you can. It turns filthy, quick. Without pretence or pause, just two bodies in motion. Your thighs flex hard as you ride him, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing in the haze of the living room.

You grind down as he thrusts up, his cock hitting that sweet swollen spot inside you that’s already sore from how hard you came earlier, but you don’t care. You moan his name—loud, needy, drawn out like it means salvation—and he answers with curses spat between clenched teeth, voice low and rasping.

“Christ, look at you,” he grunts, hips snapping up into you hard and steady. “Fucking taking it like a dream… tight little pussy just begging to be split open, huh?”

You gasp—“Shiu,”—and claw at his shoulders, dig your nails into the muscle there, dragging rash red down his back as you start to bounce properly now, riding the length of him with a frantic, desperate pace. Your hair’s clinging to your temples, his is all mussed, his chain jangling at his neck with each jerky movement. You're both soaked—your thighs, his chest, the underside of your dress—slick with sweat; soaked with effort, heat, and want.

He grabs at the bust of your dress, yanks it down with one rough motion. Elastic snaps and there’s the bra; the one he sent, the one you’d worn just to tease him. Barely there, sheer and stretched, your nipples poking through like they’ve been straining all night.

He tuts, grinning wide and wicked, eyes dark. “This shit’s criminal,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock reprimand. “These little tits have been sitting here just begging for attention all night, untouched…” His hands slide up your ribs and plant themselves just under your bust. Pushing up.

“I’ll fix that.” He grabs them—full—both handfuls. You cry out as his fingers pinch your nipples through the fabric, just enough to hurt, just enough to make your pussy clamp hard around his cock. “Fucking hell,” he groans. “You like that, don’t you? Dirty little thing.”

He presses your tits together with his palms, tongue darting out—licking a fat stripe right across the sheer mesh, soaking it. Then he’s burying his face there, mouthing through the bra, teeth grazing one stiff peak, then the other, laving his tongue over them.

You’re writhing now, hips still working, bouncing on his cock while he tongues your tits like a man starved. Moaning, swearing, hair plastered to your cheeks, cunt squeezing tight every time he bites down just a little too hard. You're losing it, and loving it.

You're both close—so fucking close—chasing that high like it’s a hit you’ve been starved for, two bodies hammering together in that frenetic, animal rhythm. Sweat beads at your collarbones, dripping down between your tits. The meeting of your body with his has got the whole room echoing with guttural moans and the filthy sounds of your soaked cunt sliding down onto him again and again and again.

You’re not shy with it. You can’t be—not with how he’s split you open like that, smug prick, his cock thick and pulsing, head tipped back with eyes dark and wild. You reach up and grab his chain, white-knuckled, twisting it in your fist like you’re yanking reins on a beast. His breath chokes off in his throat as you pull him in close, mouths brushing.

“Come on, Shiu,” you rasp, voice raw. “You fucking won this, now fuck me like it.”

And that, fuck, that does it. He growls—a deep, filthy thing from somewhere feral in his chest, and then his palm cracks down hard across your ass. The sting is instant, sharp and electric, and you feel where the silver of his ring bites in for just a second before your nerves catch up and translate the pain into more need.

“Dirty little bitch,” he snarls now, and it's not the smooth Shiu from dinner, not the one with compliments and restraint and that lazy bastard grin. This is the man under that—all gas, no brakes. “Riding me like you’ve got fucking money on it, huh? You want me to wreck you, is that it?”

You moan, loud and shameless, nails clawing down his chest. His hands are all over you now—one guiding your hips, the other splayed on your ass; his bruising grip making you bounce harder, faster. Your thighs are burning. Your cunt's gripping him with every stroke, dripping down his balls with slick. You pant, desperate, eyes rolling half back as you’re slammed down onto him at that brutal pace.

“You feel that?” he pants, hips bucking up into you so hard the couch starts to creak beneath you. “That’s what you fucking asked for. Wanted this cock, didn’t you? Wanted to get split open like the little fucktoy you are.”

“Yes!” you sob, wrecked and breathless, hands clinging to his shoulders as your legs start to twitch and tremble, thighs locked tight to his sides.

“Aye,” he grunts. “That’s what I thought. Fucking look at you—eyes rolling back, cunt squeezing me so hard I might not make it.”

You’re right there, both of you, teetering on the edge. You squeeze around him just right—fucking perfect—tight enough that it’s a battle for him to keep breathing, never mind speaking. His cock’s hitting every right place inside you at that relentless angle, bruising your insides in a way that makes your head spin, makes your moans start to slur and dissolve into little broken sobs that spill down his throat like wine.

Then his mouth’s at your ear, all heat and breath and wreckage. His tongue drags slow along the rim, making your whole body quiver, and his voice—low now, still filthy but softer, meaner for the restraint—is a growl in your skull.

“I can feel how close you are, doll,” he rasps. “Come on. Give it to me.” Then he nips your earlobe, sharp enough to make you whine, hips stuttering.

You keen. You fucking break. Your body seizes round his length, and your cunt clamps tight; milking, wrenching around him as the orgasm explodes out of you. Soaked and trembling, a burst of spend splashes down both your thighs and his lap. Your whole body shakes, legs giving out, arms clinging round his neck as you cry out long and hoarse. You don’t even get a full breath before he’s coming too.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, deep and desperate, cock twitching inside you as he bucks up once, twice, hips jerking as he shoots into you, thick ropes pulsing into your overstimulated pussy. He fucks through it, shallow thrusts, letting you ride it out together—heat and sated hunger rising off you both like steam.

You collapse against him, utterly boneless, chest heaving, your head resting over his heart as it pounds hard under your ear, rising and falling like he just ran full tilt into a fight and won. His hand lazily pets your thigh, the other already lifting a cigarette to his lips like he’s rehearsed this a hundred times. “Fuck,” he repeats, exhaling smoke, voice still breathless. “Best fucking winnings I’ve ever had. Next poker night can’t come soon enough.”

You snort and laugh weakly, still full of him. “After his last stunt, Toji’ll be lucky to still have a girlfriend to bet next time,” you shoot back, grinning against his shoulder. “And if he doesn’t learn his lesson”—you drag your fingertip down his sternum, already tittering at your own joke—“maybe he’ll be the one on your lap, moaning your name.”

Shiu chokes on the drag of his cigarette, sputtering and waving the smoke away like it’s noxious. His eyes go wide for a second before he lets out an uncharacteristic, nervous little laugh. “Hah, yeah. Fancy that…” But he’s not looking at you now. Shiu’s eyes go distant, just for a blink.

It’s not that he thinks you’d mind, or even be surprised. You’ve seen the way Toji touches him, how close they sit. You’re not daft. But those old nights—when Toji ran out of chips or valuables and smirked that filthy smirk and offered himself up instead—well. Shiu figures that can of worms belongs to Toji. It’s not his to crack open.

He ashes the cig, flicks you a grin that’s back to lazy-cocky now. “C’mon now,” he says, patting your thigh. “Let’s get you home.”

You both groan a little as you peel away from each other, laughing through it, limbs jelly, the couch damp with the mess you’ve made. He tucks himself away, adjusting his slacks, straightening his chain, the sheen of sweat across his chest catching the light.

And then: quiet. Just the sound of fabric sliding on skin. Zippers. Laughter low in your throats. You both look like sin, but you dress slow, easy. Help each other with buttons and buckles. Swap grins like shared secrets. The night begins to settle and so do you.

###

The ride back is quiet, not tense but sated; in the way that thrums through you, your body warm and used and fucked limp. You’re curled in the passenger seat again, dress tugged down as best you could manage, thighs still sticky, every bump in the road making the ache of your ruined cunt throb up your spine.

Shiu’s got one hand at the wheel, wind through the open window messing his hair, face lit orange by passing streetlights. You glance at him and almost laugh—his shirt’s half done up, chain askew, and his slacks are creased to hell, crumpled along the thighs where they’d been rucked down mid-thrust. The man’s aglow like he just got off a rollercoaster and found fifty bucks in his jacket. You both reek of sex, like a pair of horny teens caught round the back of a pub, but neither of you says it.

He pulls up out front. Cuts the engine. The car ticks quietly. You reach for the handle and he’s already out, opening the door for you as he offers his hand. You let him walk you up the path, the crunch of gravel under your heels.

You go to fish out your keys, but you don’t make it. The door yanks open, hard. Click. Swing.

Toji’s in the frame, leaning. Crossed arms over his chest, sleeves rolled, forearms flexed. Expression unreadable—but his eyes are dark, the sort that means no one’s fucking sleeping tonight. Not him and definitely not you.

His gaze sweeps over Shiu. Over you. Back again. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks. You try to straighten up and smile like it makes a difference. Like you don’t have his friend’s cum inside you. Like his friend doesn’t have the obscene panties he bought you shoved in his breast pocket still.

Shiu tips his head, cool as ever.

“Hey, Toji.” A grin. Crooked. Cocky. “She was perfect.”

Toji’s face barely moves, just scrunches at the corners in a mock little smile like he’s doing a face for a pantomime show. His eyebrows are lifted, mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile that screams ‘Aww really, buddy? Good for you!’.

“That’s real great, Shiu,” he deadpans. “My turn.”

Before you can blink, his hands are at your waist. Toji hooks you like a stage girl in a Vaudeville show getting yanked off with a cane and you’re dragged in through the doorway with all the finesse of a bouncer clearing a back-alley brawl. Your shoulder hits his back, belly pressed to it as he throws you over like a sack of potatoes, one arm looped round your thighs, the other palming the door shut. The air leaves your lungs with a heave, and the door slams shut behind you like a gavel. Verdict reached? Guilty. From the other side, muffled:

“We still on for cards same time next month?” Shiu calls out through the wood, barely holding back a laugh. Toji grunts and starts marching toward the bedroom.

You're bounced slightly with each heavy-footed step, dress rucked up around your hips again, your bare ass exposed to the hallway light, and all you can do is cling on, grinning into the warm expanse of his back, hearing the growl rumble through his chest.

Payback’s coming.

And you’re fucking ready.

###

Notes: I have so much fun writing the interactions between Shiu and Toji. As a mediator and bona fide smooth bastard Shiu absolutely knows what and what not to say, and he uses these powers for evil to meticulously devise sentences that maximally piss Toji the fuck off. I love seeing suave characters lose their composure, what do you think? Sorry, Shiu! I’m sure he’s nice enough to waitstaff usually, but he was experiencing extenuating circumstances here LOL so let’s give him a pass. Even though in the last fic he already went spelunking in the reader’s throat, those little things like tucking hair behind your ear and lifting you up make my heart race. As always, my username is @eaucherry for AO3, Tumblr, and Ko-fi if you’d like to drop a line, support me, or tell me what you’d like to see next. Currently next on the to-do list is dear Higuruma. Are you hoping for something soft? Rough? A little bit of both? Let me know what you think!

With love,

Cherry

P.S. The amount of smoking undertaken in these stories is actually getting out of hand. Don’t follow their example 💀

Toji's stood in the dim hallway, his tanned body bare from the waist up. Scars litter his flank in pale streaks. He never tells you about them. He never tells you about much at all, really. His secrecy only bolsters the magnetic pull he has on you. Not that he needs any help with that, you muse as you watch him pull on a tight dark tee. The fabric catches on the swell of his chest before sliding down over those carved ridges of abs. There's something about the way he moves; panther-like, unhurried, ready to pounce.

"You remember my boy’s comin’ over tonight, yeah?" he says, voice low. There’s a gravel to it this morning, like he’s halfway through a hangover or halfway to his next. He glances over his shoulder to you, and tugs the corner of his mouth up in a smile. "Shiu. Known him for years. You'll like him."

You take pause at that, eyebrow raised. "You want me to be here for that?"

When he first brought up having Shiu over, you assumed you’d make yourself scarce for the evening and give them their privacy. You don’t mind. When it comes to Toji’s job, whatever it is, you know it’s best not to ask and you don’t. You try not to look overly pleased at the prospect. Meeting someone from that closed-off world of his... it itches under your skin in a way you don’t want to scratch too hard at. What does a man like Toji do for work that he keeps so tight-lipped?

He turns fully, eyes on you now. "Course I do." He stalks forward a step, sets a hand at your hip. His other traces a line up your arm to your throat, thumb under your jaw. "What, you think I’m gonna have drinks with the guy and not show him the best thing I’ve got?".

You bite back a grin, and he sees it. The hand at your throat presses warm and possessive. "Wear that little black dress tonight, yeah? The one with the slit. Makes me wanna ruin your makeup every time I see you in it."

Warmth pools low in your stomach and flutters hot under your skin. You sip your coffee and roll your eyes with exaggerated boredom. "Guess I can play hostess. Make some snacks. Break out the fine china. Hell, I’ll sing and dance and everything. Anything for you and our guest, right?”

"Don’t tempt me," he laughs. Toji kisses you sharp and sudden, biting your lower lip before pulling away. Then he’s gone – wallet in his back pocket, keys in his hand, the scent of his cologne lingering. You stand there in his wake, thighs pressed together and heart thudding a little faster.

###

Morning sunlight had faded into the soft gold of early evening, stretching shadows across the kitchen tiles. Now the clock ticked toward seven, and the low hum of anticipation buzzed in your chest. You didn’t know much about Shiu, just his name, and a smirk in a blurry photo. Whatever they were in on, tonight you’d finally get a glimpse.

Your dress pulls tight across your hips, clinging to you like a second skin. Toji’s taste is specific. Primal. He likes when you look like something he'd have to break rules to touch. The slit rides up too high when you sit, so you perch on the couch’s edge, ankles crossed and wine glass in hand. You’ve glossed your lips generously, and your hair is pinned up with a few strands dangling loose by design.

The knock comes sharp and fast. Three short raps. Toji answers. No "come in." No warning. Just opens the door. Shiu stands there, and scans the room like he’s checking for exits. He’s tall, lean. Not as broad as Toji, but his body’s built in that same slick way. His white shirt is open at the throat, sleeves cuffed. His hair's neat, like he gives a shit, but there’s an edge to him. Something wolfish. With deft fingers, he tucks a cigarette behind his ear. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, just raises his brows a little.

Toji jerks his head. "Shiu. This’s her."

Shiu lets his eyes linger. He doesn't pretend not to. He drags that gaze over your legs, your neckline, your mouth – and you feel it. Heat blooms in your cheeks.

"Fucking hell," he says with a slow whistle as he slinks inside. "Didn’t think you had it in you, Toji."

Toji grins, savage. "I’m not all stab wounds and bad decisions."

Shiu blinks, catches himself. “Ah, where are my manners,” he mutters, low and smooth. “Apologies for addressing Toji first. Habit, you understand.” 

He steps toward you with a charming sort of languor; a man who never has to rush to own a room. His eyes find yours, dark and glimmering with something more than polite interest. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” There's an edge of careful reverence to his voice. “You’re even more beautiful than Toji let on. Which is saying something, considering the mouth on him.”

He reaches for your hand without hesitation, bringing it gently it to his lips. The kiss is anything but chaste, it’s warm and laden with intention. His eyes don’t leave yours, and when his lips brush your skin, your heart kicks violently in your chest and sends a bolt of heat through you. He releases your hand slowly, fingers trailing a second too long. The coy smile on his face is gentlemanly, and completely unrepentant. Shiu slips out of his jacket and folds it over the arm of the loveseat like he owns the place. He settles in opposite your spot on the couch with a lazy, catlike sprawl.

"Hope you don't mind if I light up later," he says, already fishing for a lighter.

You raise your glass. "Only if you share."

Toji laughs again. "Careful with this one. She bites."

Shiu leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Good," he says, eyes locking on yours. "Wouldn’t be worth it if she didn’t."

###

The wine’s dark and cheap but rich in your mouth, its earthy flavour clinging to your tongue. You’re sat with one leg tucked under you. Your dress creeps up with every shift of your thighs, the hem daring itself higher. Beside you on the couch, elbow propped on the arm, Toji toys with his lighter. Flick-flick-flick. A little habit of his when he’s deep in thought. Shiu’s on the armchair, long legs splayed, and dangles his wineglass between two fingers as if he’ll will it into something stronger.

The talk’s easy but coarse, typical men raised on cracked pavement and late-night brawls. They don’t censor for your benefit, not Toji, not Shiu, and that’s what makes it all the more weirdly domestic. There's something wholesome in it, almost. Like when a plumber is over, and you watch your man joke with him over beers. Except the plumber wears a shoulder holster under his suit jacket, and your man’s got a locked box with bloodstains on the lid.

They’re mid-story now, something about a client, or a contact, or some dumb bastard with too much mouth and not enough sense. Toji snorts, deep and warm, and your toes curl a little at the sound. You giggle too, not even because it’s that funny, but because the wine’s got you light and there’s something magnetic in this little scene. You find yourself adrift. Your eyes flit between the two of them and the thoughts come uninvited, lush and fuzzy with merlot.

Toji's a kind of handsome that doesn't make sense on paper. Rough features. Crooked grin. That scar across his lip looks like it was earned in a fight he didn’t lose. His body’s all hard shapes. His presence has a weight to it, real and dense, like heat from a furnace. When he looks at you, it's like you’re stood too close to the flame; dangerous, but fuck if you don't lean in anyway.

Shiu though… he’s all slink and angles. A lean, dangerous kind of pretty, like a blade in low light. His shirt’s loose at the collar, one button too many undone, silver chain glinting at his throat like a little secret. His smirk’s thinner, more wicked. There’s a keenness in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he can read you when he doesn’t even try.

Sat there, you sway a little on the couch, wine heavy in your veins, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight—

"Hey, doll."

You stir from your reverie. Toji’s voice is gentle, but there’s an amused edge to it.

"You mind grabbin’ the bottle? Glasses are running a little dry."

You blink, and realise yours is halfway to empty. Across you, Shiu swirls the dregs of his wine idly. You’ve been sat there agog like a schoolgirl between two delinquents who know exactly what they look like. You set your glass down quickly and stand.

"Of course," you say.

As you walk off toward the kitchen, the air shifts. You feel them both watch, the weight of two gazes settling on your back. Not subtle. You know how the dress sits; just barely below your ass when you stand still. With every step it rides up, and the fabric moves like liquid as your hips sway soft and slow. You make no effort to hide it. Why would you?

Toji leans slightly on the couch, watching you disappear down the hall.

Shiu's head tilts, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. "Bloody hell," he mutters, voice low enough not to carry, but rich with that dangerous mirth.

Toji’s already smirking. They clink glasses.

In the kitchen, you smile to yourself. Your heartbeat thuds fast beneath your ribs. The lighting in here is colder than in the lounge – more sterile, surgical. The stark white of the downlights cuts through the hazy wine heat that swirls round your head. The bottle's slick in your grip, label peeled a bit at the edge where condensation has clung and bled. You pop the cork with a quiet thup and grab the bottle. Your nails clink on the glass as you wrap your fingers around the neck.

###

Every step back down that hall feels heavier. You know they watched. Talked. They look up as you come back in. Toji’s mouth twitches. Shiu’s gaze is hooded, but fixed on you like a hawk that’s sighted a hare. You top up Toji’s glass first, then Shiu’s. His fingers brush yours as he takes it, and he gives you a sly look, teeth barely visible. His lips are pursed like he’s been holding back a line he’s dying to say. You pour your own last, nearly to the brim, then turn to slide back into your spot on the couch.

“Nah. C’mere.” Toji’s voice rings out like a gunshot.

You freeze mid-step. He looks at you with that cocky ease of his. With one hand already lifted, he flexes his fingers in a come here motion. You blink at him, lips parted – but he’s already reaching. He plants a palm right at your waist and tugs you in till you’re between his legs, and your knees nudge against the spread of his thighs.

“Toji, I—” you start, but the words barely form before he pulls again, stronger now, and guides you down into his lap to straddle his thigh. Your dress rides up dangerously, the silky stretch of your panties pressed flush to his hard, jean-clad muscle. You face forward, toward Shiu. Shiu, who hasn’t said a word but is now sipping his wine real slow, his eyes levelled right at you like a man settled in for the best bit of a film.

The heat between your legs pulses. The pressure of Toji’s thigh against your cunt is intense, especially after the wine, after the thoughts, after the way they’d both been undressing you with their eyes. You shift, slightly, trying to regain some modesty. Your hands come up to rest on Toji’s arms. He wraps them round you, slides his big palms slow like syrup down the curve of your waist, then lower, over the swell of your hips. He massages you through the dress, thumbs dipped in to trace the crease where thigh meets ass.

You hiss quiet under your breath, flustered, and glance quickly to Shiu. His mouth's parted now, barely, hovering the rim of the glass an inch from his lips.

You lean your head back and whisper into the side of Toji’s jaw. “Don’t get carried away,” you stammer, throat tight. “Toji… your mate’s right there!”

He laughs, deep and rich. His breath fans hot against your ear, and his fingers ease over your hips like you’re clay for him to grip and mould to shape. “Angel,” Toji murmurs, voice dipped in amusement. His lips brush just behind your earlobe. “No need to be shy.” Toji’s thumbs press in harder as he kneads at the base of your ass now, under Shiu’s watchful eye. "Shiu’s a good friend," he says. “A real good friend. He’s heard a lot about you.”

You stiffen. Your heart kicks fast. Dizzying swirls of arousal and humiliation coil round each other like snakes in your gut. You know he’s playing. You hope he’s playing. But the way his voice drips with pride, with possession, like you're a prize he’s lay out on the table – it makes your core throb and twitch around the bulk of his leg. Your whole body’s braced. A crackling tension jolts up your spine with every shift of Toji’s thigh beneath you. Shiu's eyes haven’t left you. His fingers are steepled under his chin as he takes in the spectacle. But you know better, it’s not just watching. That look is loaded, molten, barely held at bay by the thinnest thread of manners he’s clearly ready to snap.

Toji’s breath hums at your neck, warm and fucking smug. “You wanted to play hostess, aye?” he murmurs. His hand cups your jaw, fingers under your chin like you’re a goblet he’s about to drink from. Then he grins, wide and cocky. “So why don’t we entertain our guest, Mr. Kong?”

You try to twist slightly, murmur his name in protest, but your voice is soaked in wine and want, and all that comes out is a breathy half-sound that’s neither yes nor no – just needy.

He chuckles, low and rumbling, one of those sounds that reverberates in your chest more than your ears. One thick palm comes up to paw at your tits through the dress with rough, greedy squeezes. The fabric strains tight and your nipples harden beneath the thin black cloth. He rolls the weight of you in his palm, like he’s showing off, making sure Shiu sees it.

“Fuck…” Shiu mutters low, like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

Toji’s grin widens at your neck. His other hand has already slipped down, dragging your hem up slow, achingly slow, baring the smooth skin of your thighs inch by inch till the dress is bunched at your waist and your soaked little panties are on full display under the amber light.

“Christ, look at that.” Toji flicks his tongue across his teeth. “So fuckin’ wet already.” His finger hooks under the waistband, gives it a teasing tug. With a snap! it slaps back against your skin, making you jolt. The sting is nothing compared to the burst of hot, dizzying embarrassment and sheer fucking need that floods you.

A moan escapes your throat before you can even clamp it down.

Toji laughs. Full-bodied, pleased with himself like a bastard. “Aye. That’s it, angel. Let it out.”

The heat in your cunt near unbearable. The lace of your panties sticks between your lips as you ache and squirm on his thigh. Shiu leans back slightly. He slides his hand down the front of his thigh like it’s casual, but you catch the bulge strained under the cut of his slacks. His eyes greedily drink up the sight of you by the mouthful.

###

The air has gone thick. Your whole body prickles. The pulse that thrums between your legs makes you want to rub against them like a needy thing, and you hadn’t even made it to your second glass of wine. It’s all breath and heat and the burning gazes that set your skin ablaze from two angles. The thick muscle of Toji’s thigh flexes every time you rock against it, desperate for any friction to soothe your maddening desire. You pant now, small gasps caught in your throat, mouth half-open, flushed from cheek to chest. You know what you must look like—straddled across your man like a lap dancer mid-shift, tits heaving behind that clinging black dress, eyes glassy with wine and want. Shiu watches you with a laser sighted focus, hand now palming himself slow and steady through his trousers. He murmurs under his breath, low and reverent. Toji ghosts his breath along your neck. He ventures one hand up along your dress, fingers hooking the halter at the base of your throat. With one sharp tug it gives way, the fabric drops and your tits bounce free into the cool evening air.

“Look at that,” he growls. “No bra, huh?”

You whimper, try to cover yourself, but he’s already got both hands full. His thumbs brush your nipples in wide, cruel circles, making them pebble tight and ache for more.

“Already planned on givin’ Shiu a little show tonight, did you?” he croons. His lips right at your ear now, biting it gently. “Wanted both our eyes on you, is that it?”.

“N-no,” you mewl, voice embarrassingly high and breathy.

Toji laughs. That cruel, wicked fucking laugh that says I know better. He rolls one nipple between thick fingers and gives it a tug that makes your back arch and your moan split the air.

"Your body's saying otherwise, sweetheart," Shiu says, voice thick like treacle. His hand is inside his waistband now. With lazy twists his wrist glides in a practiced rhythm, expression taut and hungry, eyes fixed to your face like he’s waiting for permission.

Your needful cunt’s soaked and leaks through the scrap of lace barely passing for panties.

Toji hums deep in his chest behind you, so close you feel it pass through you. “Why don’t you let him get a closer look, angel?”

You start to protest, or maybe ask what he means, but he’s already slid one hand down and tugged your panties aside. The air kisses your bare, slick folds and you gasp, thighs twitching. Your clit throbs at the sudden exposure. You don't know what’s more overwhelming – the cold air, or the heat of their eyes, both locked right there between your legs. Toji’s fingers rub slow little circles on your clit now, the pressure makes you shake and whimper like a goddamn mess. Then—just as you’re about to beg for more—he brings those wet fingers up and taps them at your lips.

"Open," he says. Just one word. Quiet. Expectant.

And you do.

You wrap your lips round his fingers and taste yourself on him, moaning softly as he pushes them past your tongue. You’re flushed, dizzy, and slack jawed as you look up through your lashes – right at Shiu. His breath stutters. His hand doesn’t slow. He’s looking at you like he’s committing the image to memory, and you—helpless and wide-eyed, propped up against Toji like a doll—can’t look away. You moan around Toji’s fingers in your mouth, coated with your own slick and need. His eyes are slitted, sharp with that glint he gets when he’s letting himself enjoy something too much; when the leash on his temper, his pride, his possessiveness slips just a little, just enough to show the fang underneath the smirk.

“The man’s starvin’,” he growls, voice hot against your ear. The words cut through the fog like a knife through butter. “You gonna give him a taste?”

You nod. Dumb, needy. You don’t even try to speak, just whine, eyes fluttering shut.

Toji chuckles deep in his chest. It rumbles through you. “You heard her,” he says, looking past your shoulder at Shiu. “She’s begging for it.”

Shiu’s already moving – no hesitation, no false modesty. He shifts forward like he’s been waiting his turn all night, and settles between your open thighs. His palms are big and hot as he grabs at the meat of your thighs. His fingers dig into the plush softness to spread you wider. He leans in close, the tips of his hair brushing your inner thighs, and the first kiss he lays is maddeningly chaste. Just a soft press of his lips, followed by another, and another—he traces the trembling skin, inching closer to your slick centre where you need him. You cant your hips toward him. Instinctive. Helpless. A wordless please. He nips you. A sharp little bite just above where you’re aching. You cry out, back arched and thighs twitching in his purposeful grip that says he’s taking his time and you’ll wait for it.

Toji’s grip on you tightens. “Watch yourself,” he warns, voice darker now. “I’m letting you taste, but don’t think for a fuckin’ second I’m letting go.”

And that’s the edge of it – Toji doesn’t share, not really. Even now, with Shiu knelt between your legs like he’s praying at some twisted altar, Toji’s got an arm wrapped round your ribs and your hips. His thigh is still pressed up between yours, staking his claim.

Shiu just smirks, lips ghosting over your skin. “Relax, mate,” he says low. A natural negotiator, he is – that much is obvious. “I’m not trying to steal her. Just making her sing for us.”

Then—oh, fuck.

His tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up the centre of you. Broad and flat, he starts low and pushes your slick up along your core until he lands, soft and heavy, at your swollen clit. Your thighs threaten to clamp shut round his head but his hands are already there; keeping you spread. He holds you wide, holds you open.

Toji growls again behind you, but this time it’s a sound of satisfaction. Of possessive pride. “That's it,” he murmurs, voice thick. His fingers creep under your dress to squeeze your waist like he’s grounding you. “Let him see what I get every night.”

You’re gone – your body thrums like a live wire, flushed head to toe. When your eyes flicker open, you lock gazes with Shiu, who looks up at you from between your thighs. Toji’s fingers slide free from your swollen lips with a wet pop, and you gasp in air like you’ve surfaced from underwater. Your whole body is a string pulled tight and vibrates with nerves and need. Shiu’s mouth is on you now in full. No more teasing, featherlight kisses. It’s hot and messy – the kind of focused, filthy hunger that’s more worship than lust; tongue flat and firm, he drags slow through your slick folds then flicks rapid over that aching knot of nerves until your thighs tremble like kicked scaffolding. You pant, keen, writhe obscenely on Toji’s lap. With each exhale a whimper is wrung out of you by the obscene heat between your legs. Your fingers scramble for purchase at Toji’s forearms and grip at whatever you can; desperate for more and less all at once.

Toji watches your head tip back, the way your mouth parts in a soft gasp as Shiu continues to work you with his tongue – and it stokes something hot and primal in his gut. With darkened eyes his jaw tightens, and the muscles in his arms flex with that restless edge that only comes when he feels something slipping too far from his grip. He’s not having it. Toji’s hold at your waist tightens, he grounds you with that brutal kind of tenderness only he has. His other hand snakes down between your legs to slide slick fingers into the wet mess Shiu’s made of you. You gasp again, back arched as they fill you – slow at first, then pumping, deliberate and deep like he’s trying to reel your attention back. You cry out. Your hips jerk helplessly between the two of them, but it’s Toji’s name that slips your lips next; breathy and broken just the way he likes it.

“Fuuuck, listen to you,” he groans. Thick with possession, his voice is hot at your ear. His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your head so he can see the tears that bead over your lashes. “Sound like a little slut begging to break.”

Your hips stutter as his fingers curl just right inside you and press into that place that makes your vision go blank at the edges.

“You feel that?” he growls, pumping faster. “Right there. That’s mine. Say it.”

You can’t say it. You’re too far gone. All you can do is nod and cry out with every stroke, your helpless sobs caught between moans.

His voice cracks into a rasp. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

Shiu doesn’t stop. Not once. His tongue is a weapon, licking and sucking that swollen clit, moaning low like he’s drunk on you.

You shatter.

You break with a cry. Your hips jerk forward then lock still; thighs clenched, body rigid. Then—wetness. A rush you can’t stop, splashing against Shiu’s face. Your cheeks burn as hot tears slip down from the sheer overload of it. It’s ugly and real and fucking raw. Your voice is caught in your throat, choking out sounds that don’t have names. Toji holds you through it. He keeps his fingers inside, keeps whispering filth and praise and mine over and over at your ear. Shiu wipes his chin with the back of his hand, smirking.

Toji laughs, voice low and smug. “You see that?” he says, eyes locked with Shiu’s over your shoulder, his arm tight round your shuddering body. “That’s what it looks like when she breaks.”

###

Toji pulls his fingers out from you, wet with your spit and spend. Your legs tremble like you’ve weathered an earthquake and haven’t quite settled yet. The reek of wine and sex hangs like smoke in the air.

“Feeling good?” Shiu asks, voice slick with amusement. One brow is cocked as he slowly strokes the edge of your jaw with a knuckle. “You fucked out already?”

You try to speak, but your tongue’s heavy, lips parted around a gasp. All you can manage is a quiet, dazed noise; half-laugh, half-broken whine.

They both chuckle. Not cruelly, just knowing. A pair of wolves that know a rabbit’s still got one last sprint in it, barely.

“Not done just yet,” Toji mutters, voice right behind your ear, “it’s our turn now.”

Before you can react, he shifts. His powerful hands grip your waist and lift you as if you weigh nothing at all. You’re hoisted off his lap in one motion, world tilting. The next thing you know your stomach’s pressed over the broad armrest of the couch, dress bunched and riding up. Your back arches naturally under his grip, like your body remembers the posture even if your brain’s gone all haze and static. You feel his palm settle hard on your hip; grounding, commanding. His other hand lowers to wrap around his length and pump it languidly. You feel the slow, deliberate drag of his cock against your folds as he grinds the length along you but doesn’t push in. Yet. In front of you, Shiu kneels. Calm. Collected. The coiled contrast to Toji’s bristling tension. He cups your chin with one hand, thumb rough against your bottom lip.

“C’mon,” he says, pupils blown wide and glimmering. “Show me.”

You open instinctively, eager and obedient before you even know what you're doing. His thumb presses in and you lap at it, tongue slow and wet. You suck it soft and deep, meeting his hungry gaze. He watches you as if he's recording the moment with his eyes.

“Christ…” he mutters, shifting his weight. He runs his free hand through your hair, mussing it like you’re something soft and pretty; a mess he wants to touch more than tidy. “Toji’s got you well trained.”

You melt under his touch and lean into his hand like it anchors you. Heat blooms in your chest, buzzing guiltless and sweet.

Shiu grins, not at you now but over you. “Maybe next time, he’ll let me have a turn with that pussy, hm?” He’s looking past you, the real question not yours to answer. “What do you think?” he coos, teasing – as if he’s testing the waters of the room with a bare foot.

The words slice sharp. You can’t help it – you suck harder on his thumb, your lashes flutter, a moan catching in your throat.

Toji freezes behind you – a low, loaded tension bleeding into his grip. The fingers at your hip flex and dig in. The pressure between your thighs shifts with intention. There’s a heartbeat of silence, thick with power and bloodlust.

“Not fuckin’ likely,” Toji grits out.

Without another word, he thrusts forward. One sudden, brutal snap of his hips. Possessive. Final. A full-body claim. Your breath is punched out of you. Shiu’s thumb slips from between your lips. Your hands claw at the couch edge as your mouth opens in a silent scream.

Shiu just laughs low and slow and pulls back, watching from his knees with something like respect in his smirk. “Didn’t think so,” he muses.

Toji slides a hand up your spine, anchoring you in place. Without a word, his grip says it all:

Mine.

Toji’s hips grind into you with that slow, devastating rhythm that’s worse—far worse—than fast because it drags the pleasure out into something unbearable. Every stroke rolls deep, every inch of him presses into the sore, raw places inside you. It’s enough to make your whole body shake. He’s not just fucking you; he’s owning you, with every deliberate thrust. Your hips jerk forward with each motion, hands clambering for stability against the couch, knees barely holding out under the rhythm and his weight. Your mind’s gone soft around the edges, full of nothing but white noise and the skin-on-skin sound of your body being used, worshipped, and claimed. You can feel every ragged breath, every squeeze of Toji’s fingers on your hips from behind you. And then Shiu moves.

He slides his thumb from your lips, slow, dragging a glistening thread of spit that snaps mid-air like a whip crack.

“I’ve got something better for you,” he murmurs, tone low, like he’s letting you in on a secret.

He’s still knelt in front of you, one hand steady on your chin. His other trails down slowly across the front of his slacks to free his length. His eyes are half-lidded, watching you with a lazy intensity that makes your stomach flutter. Your lips part, already aching to be filled, but the position’s a mess – Toji's rolling deep behind you, and you’re braced awkwardly on the couch arm with your back arched into a crescent of want. You're trying to shift forward, to lean enough to take Shiu in, but every drag of Toji’s hips rocks you forward, then pulls you back.

It's obscene – the friction between one man's rhythm and the other's invitation. Shiu doesn’t seem bothered. No, he likes it. You can see it in the way he licks his teeth, slow and deliberate. His cock brushes your lips as you try to steady yourself enough to take him.He leans in, guiding himself with one hand. He rubs the flushed head slow over your mouth, watching the way you chase the contact with your tongue, with your eyes, desperation carved into every little motion. You try to take him, shifting your weight, mouth stretched open – but Toji’s thrust rocks you and you lose it again, lips only grazing instead of swallowing. A whimper escapes you.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Shiu says with a smirk. He runs his fingers through your hair again, gently now. “You look fucking divine like this.”

And then—finally—you sink your mouth onto him. Lips wide, your tongue drags under the weight of him as your breath stalls. The groan Shiu lets out is ragged, visceral. You feel it ripple down his spine through his fingertips in your hair.

“Fucking hell,” he moans. “Expected nothing less from Toji’s girl.”

Toji grunts behind you in response, a sharp thrust punctuating the sound. Your whole body jolts, every nerve frayed as you’re pinned between them. You don’t know where one of them ends and the other begins; just the overwhelming, beautiful ache of giving in. That feeling crescendos again. Like an ocean roiling up within you – it’s swelling, arching you in a breathless curve of overstimulation. Your whole body is feverish, caught in a rhythm dictated by the two men wrapped around you, in you, over you.

Toji’s thrusts have lost their earlier control. He's not gentle now, not even pretending to be. Each snap of his hips lands heavy, demanding, brutal in its precision. You clench around him involuntarily, every stroke sending shockwaves through you. Your tits sway helplessly beneath you, nipples raw and tingling from the caress of cool air on lingering sweat. Shiu meets Toji’s rhythm – his hand tight in your hair, holding. His expression is raw, wild; something feral simmers behind his blown pupils. His hips roll forward, smooth and relentless, his breath getting shorter by the second. You're stuffed, full. Stretched open and quivering, you’re unable to decide where the pressure’s worst—Toji’s length driving deep behind you or the hot, weighty throb of Shiu against your tongue. You moan, deep and guttural, and it shudders through both of them.

Toji’s hand sneaks round your hip again, quick and sure. He’s heard that sound before, he knows what it means. His thumb rolls circles against your clit, fast and tight, the perfect contrast to the wide, slamming thrusts that rock your whole frame. “That’s it,” he pants, voice all grit and need now. “That’s my girl. Squeeze me like that. You’re close, I fucking know it.”

And you are.

You are.

You nod, jerky and helpless. Tears threaten your vision. The heat is unbearable. White noise roars in your skull.

Like a band pulled taut too long, you snap.

Your body bucks forward, mouth wide in a silent cry. Your cunt pulses hard and rhythmic around Toji’s cock as he moans behind you, lost to the feeling. He thrusts deep once more, staying there. You feel him throb inside you, his jaw clenched as he groans through his finish. Shiu doesn’t miss a beat. His hand tightens in your hair, tilting your face up just enough, just so, that you meet his eyes as your vision swims. He breathes your name like it’s a secret, something private, and his body tenses. His face twists in a soundless snarl of pleasure as he lets go, and you feel it—feel him; the weight, the heat, the act of it. But it’s the look in his eyes that brands you, his gaze dark and reverent.You collapse between them in a shaking heap with parted lips, hair mussed, heart pounding. Like you’ve just been dragged out of a thunderstorm. The silence settles heavy, like smoke after fire.

###

The air is thick with the heat of bodies and the scent of sweat and satisfaction. The couch sags beneath the weight of three spent creatures, wrecked and sweat-slicked under the amber light. You’re in the middle, crushed soft between them. Your skin is flushed and your head still swimming in the infinity of after. Toji’s to your left. His breath has slowed now, though his chest still heaves once in a while like he can’t let the moment go just yet. His jeans are undone, halfway down his thighs; his hair a wild mess you can’t stop staring at. A man-shaped wrecking ball, stewing in the aftermath.

Shiu’s draped to your right, body all slack muscle and smugness. He’s got one leg hooked over the couch arm like he’s lounging in some high-rise penthouse and not in the middle of your crumpled living room with your wetness still drying on his chin. Then—finally—he reaches behind his ear. That damn cigarette. The same one he’s had stowed like a casual afterthought the entire night—he frees it triumphantly it now that the storm has passed. He plucks it out with slow precision, still smirking as he flips open a battered lighter. His thumb flicks with that cocky street magician flair of his. Click. Flame. He takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, and puffs out a little curl of smoke that ghosts above your heads like incense.

“You gonna make good on that promise to share?” you rasp, voice raw and husky, still breathless. You smile when you say it; that crooked, fucked-out grin you’ve never seen in the mirror but can feel when it blooms on your face.

Shiu chuckles, smoke curling from his lips. “Of course,” he says, taking another drag. Then he turns to you, fingers at your chin. His touch is surprisingly soft. “Open up, sweetheart.”

You part your lips and he leans in, hand cupped as he exhales slow into your mouth. The smoke rolls in, heavy and warm, menthol tingling on your tongue like burnt sugar. You hold it, then let it slip past your teeth in an exhale, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Ahem.

Toji’s cough, exaggerated as fuck, slices through the air. You jolt just a little, turning your head. Shiu’s already looking Toji’s way, that shit-eating smirk painted across his face.

“Don’t be mad, big fella,” Shiu drawls, tapping ash into a half-empty wine glass like it’s an ashtray. “It’s ladies first. I’ll shotgun it to you next, yeah?”

Toji gives Shiu a look like he’s two seconds from smashing the wine glass over his head. “Gimme that, smarmy bastard,” he mutters, lunging half-heartedly to snatch the cigarette from Shiu’s grip.

Shiu doesn’t resist. Just grins wider, hands up like he’s surrendering to the fuzz. Toji settles, cigarette now clamped between his fingers, his other arm slung behind your shoulders. His hand ruffles gently at your upper arm. It’s affectionate, idle, like he’s petting something precious but still half-feral. You feel it in your bones, that simple little motion. The way it tethers you right there. He leans his head sideways, nestling the crown of it into your temple, resting there like it’s his favourite spot in the whole damn world. Then he lifts the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long drag.

Silence. The faint scrape of breath through lungs. The way your heart's slowed into something steady but awake, like it’s still listening for the next move. You sit there, tangled in sweat and smoke and pressed between two men who couldn’t be more different – but right now, they feel like matching pieces in the same clandestine puzzle. Your lips still taste like sin, your body still aches with the ghost of their touch, and none of you speak.

And you’ve still got no fucking idea what the pair do for work.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, I actually have a follow-up work drafted for this already haha. In this work I wanted to play around with a fun dynamic between Toji and Shiu, as well as Toji's conflict of wanting both to show off his partner, but also keeping her all to himself. Much love to my dear friend who has dealt with me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure and foaming at the mouth over these men. You know who you are. eaucherry.tumblr.com is being set up if you want to drop a line, vote for what you want to read next, or see where you can

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Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed it, I actually have a follow-up work drafted for this already haha.

In this work I wanted to play around with a fun dynamic between Toji and Shiu, as well as Toji's conflict of wanting both to show off his partner, but also keeping her all to himself.

I have a Ko-Fi if you'd like to support me there ☕❤️