glimmer fics

2. What is a "Turn"?

A: When playing a Glimmer story, you'll notice that you're able to choose how you want the story to progress!

Every time you're given options to move the story along, that is considered a Turn. When you make a choice, it consumes a Turn. As a reader, you're given 100 free Turns daily!

3. How can I mark a story as completed?

A: To mark your fic as completed, ensure that ALL conclusions you've made for the last episode of that story are set to Story type conclusions, instead of Episode type conclusions.

You can find the option to change the conclusion from an Episode to a Story end in the drop down menu at the bottom of the conclusion box.

Once, set to story end, the conclusions will look like this in your visual map:

4. How can I filter specific ships, fandoms, story types, etc?

A: In the Browse tab of Glimmer, you can see a "Filter" button next to the fandom tags at the top:

Once selecting it, you can then filter fics, fandoms, tropes and warnings that you would like to see.

5. What are the rules of what you can/can’t write on Glimmer?

A: We do not have strict content rules on Glimmer, and you are free to write whatever you'd like. However, we may take down stories with: - Sexual content that we consider extreme or excessive, - NSFW stories of minors or NSFW content involving minors in general, - and stories that are meant to harass real life people, including other users. If you would like to know more about our Content Policy in more detail, you can read it here: https://glimmerfics.com/content-policy

6. I want to report a bug/have feedback on the site…

A: Feel free to reach out to us on our socials (such as here on our Tumblr or Reddit) or join our Discord server! We will get to you as soon as we can.

7. How do I private stories?/Can I make stories so that only some people can read it?

A: To private stories, you can simply unpublish them. To unpublish your entire story, go to your Author Portal and click on Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the Unpublish Story button at the bottom.

To unpublish only one or two episodes, click on the Publish Episode toggle, which you can also find in the Author Portal, below the Test button.

If you would like to let only a select amount of people read your fic when it's unpublished, you can add them as Beta Readers. This will allow them to look at your Author Portal (but cannot edit it) and test the fic as if reading the story.

To add Beta Readers, go to the Author Portal > Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the option to add Beta Readers by their email associated with their account or their Glimmer username.

Note: you must be an Approved Author to be able to add Betas.

8. I got this message: “Whoa there, slow down! You have free turns left, but you've played as much as you can for the day. You'll have to wait a bit before you can continue playing. You can wait 24 hours to continue playing. Or, buy Paid Turns to play right now." What does it mean?

A: This is a message you receive when you've reached an IP limit. We have it set to prevent people from getting free turns on multiple accounts. If this is not the case, this might be due to other people in the same household as you who are also using Glimmer.

If it's the latter, we apologize as we currently can't exactly distinguish between the two, but we are working on a solution. Stay tuned!

If neither are the case, do let us know your email associated with the account as you might be experiencing a bug.

9. How do we add fandom tags that aren’t already there? 

A: For now, you can request for new fandom tags via our socials (our Tumblr, Reddit or Discord). We will soon implement a way to do this seamlessly!

10. What’s the threshold for becoming an approved author?/How do you become an approved author?

A: To become an Approved Author, you just have to keep on writing stories and publishing them! You can get the Approved Author title based on the collective engagement of all your fics over time, so you may become an Approved Author even sooner than you think!

11. Can other people/can you read my playthroughs without my permission?

A: No, other Glimmer users nor staff members can read your playthroughs unless you directly send them to us. We might ask you to send these playthroughs when reporting bugs for clarity on why the issue is occurring.

As staff, however, we can look into your Author Portal and see your stories even when they are unpublished (in the same way Beta Readers can view them). We typically do not take a look into your story unless requested, or if there is something in the content of the story that we need to check.

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Again, if you need help/require more clarification, you're always free to DM us or send over an Inbox :)

"I want all of you."

The words hang in the air, simple and honest. I feel them land—Price's breath catching, Soap's hand tightening on my knee, Ghost's thumb pausing mid-stroke.

Price studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then something shifts in his expression—a quiet surrender, a wall coming down.

He stands, offering me his hand. "Then you'll have us."

I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. The room feels different now—smaller, warmer, charged with possibility. Soap rises beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. Gaz pushes himself out of the armchair, stretching casually, but his eyes are dark and focused. Ghost is the last to stand, unfolding himself from the corner of the couch with that quiet grace.

We're all on our feet now, the fairy lights casting long shadows across the walls. The movie still plays, muted and forgotten.

Price steps closer, his hand settling on my hip. "Tell us what you need, love."

Soap presses against my other side, his breath warm against my ear. "Anything you want, hen."

Gaz circles around, leaning against the doorframe, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. Ghost stays back, arms crossed, but his eyes—those brown eyes fixed on me—say everything.

Four of them. Waiting. Mine.

"Bedroom. Now."

My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Price's hand on my hip tightens once, a quick squeeze, before he steps back and gestures toward the hallway with a tilt of his head.

"After you, love."

I move first, my bare feet carrying me across the living room. Past the coffee table. Past the fairy lights strung along the mantelpiece. I can feel them behind me—four sets of footsteps, different rhythms, all following.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the spill of light from the living room. My bedroom door is at the end, slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.

The room is familiar. My bed, unmade from this morning. The lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm orange glow across the sheets. A hoodie thrown over the chair in the corner—Gaz's, probably, from last week.

I turn to face them.

Price fills the doorway first, shoulders broad, eyes dark. Soap slips in beside him, that cocky edge softened into something more serious. Gaz leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. Ghost hangs at the back, skull mask still in place, eyes fixed on me.

The room feels smaller with all of them in it. Warmer.

Price steps forward, closing the distance between us. His hand finds my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

"Last chance to change your mind," he says, low enough that only I can hear.

I meet his eyes. "Not a chance."

"Show me what you've got, all of you."

The words hang in the warm dim light of my bedroom. Price's hand tightens on my waist, a flicker of something dark and approving crossing his face. Behind him, Soap lets out a low breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

"Bold words," Price murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.

Then he moves.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. The fabric slides up over my stomach, my ribs, and I raise my arms to let him pull it over my head. It falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

Soap steps forward, his hands finding my waist from behind, warm and calloused. His mouth brushes my shoulder. "Beautiful," he breathes against my skin.

Gaz pushes off from the doorframe, circling to the foot of the bed. He doesn't touch me yet, but his eyes travel down, then back up, a slow appraisal that makes my skin prickle. "You sure you can handle all of us, sweetheart?"

I meet his gaze. "Try me."

Ghost hasn't moved from the doorway. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place, his eyes fixed on me with that unreadable intensity. But I catch the way his fingers flex against his bicep—the only crack in his composure.

Price's hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. His eyes never leave mine.

"Tell us what you want first," he says, voice low. "Who do you want?"

"Price. Always Price first."

His eyes darken, something primal flickering behind the calm. His hand slides from my waist up my spine, pulling me against him. The kiss this time isn't soft—it's hungry, claiming. His beard scrapes against my chin as his tongue finds mine, tasting of wine and something deeper.

Soap's hands fall away from my waist. A deliberate retreat. I feel him step back, giving us room. Giving Price space to take what I've offered.

Price walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me—really look—before his hand presses against my sternum, guiding me down onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my bare back.

He follows me down, one knee on the bed, hovering over me. The boonie hat is gone now—tossed somewhere across the room. His grey-streaked hair is rumpled, his eyes intent. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Behind him, I catch movement. Soap settling into the armchair by the window, watching openly. Gaz leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across his face. Ghost still in the doorway, arms uncrossed now, hands loose at his sides.

Price's mouth finds my neck, warm and slow. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I arch into him.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against my skin.

I thread my fingers into his hair. "I won't."

I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull. He comes willingly, his weight settling over me, his mouth finding mine again. I arch up into him, my legs parting to make room, and he sinks into the space with a low groan that vibrates through his chest.

His hand slides down my side, over my ribs, my hip, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. He pauses, lips still brushing mine.

"Yeah?" he breathes.

"Yeah."

He makes quick work of the button, the zipper. His fingers hook into the denim and fabric beneath, and I lift my hips to help him tug everything down my legs. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. Price sits back just enough to look at me—hair mussed, eyes dark, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

He takes me in. Slow. Thorough.

"Christ," he mutters, almost to himself.

Behind him, I hear Soap shift in the armchair. The creak of leather. A sharp exhale. Gaz hasn't moved from the dresser, but his arms have dropped to his sides, his hands gripping the edge of the wood.

Price leans down, pressing a kiss to my stomach. Just above my navel. Soft. Reverent.

Then he trails his mouth lower.

Games, he prefers a slow hunt. A building, agonizing pace with little final payoff; I'd asked him how he likes his steak and he said bloody, which tracks with everything, so no surprise here that he's doing this quietly, deliberately.

I thread my fingers through his hair and guide him lower.

He follows without resistance, a soft grunt of approval vibrating against my skin. His mouth trails down—over my ribs, my stomach, the jut of my hipbone. Each kiss deliberate, worshipful. His hands slide under my thighs, parting them, settling between.

I feel his breath warm against me before his mouth finds where I want him most.

The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair. He works slowly, deliberately—a man who knows exactly what he's doing and intends to take his time doing it. My hips shift, and his hands press down, holding me steady.

Somewhere behind me, I hear Soap mutter something low. The creak of the armchair. The soft sound of a belt being adjusted.

I don't open my eyes. I let myself sink into the feeling—Price's mouth, his beard scratching against my inner thigh, the wet heat of his tongue tracing patterns that make my breath hitch. His fingers dig into my skin, grounding me.

"Fuck," I breathe, the word dissolving into a moan.

Price hums against me, and the vibration sends a jolt through my entire body.

I tug at his hair, pulling him back up.

Price follows, a low sound of protest caught in his throat, but the moment my lips find his, that sound turns into something else entirely. He tastes like me—salt and warmth and want. His beard scratches my chin, his mouth wet and hungry against mine. I bite his lower lip, just hard enough to make him groan.

"Fuck," he mutters against my mouth.

I smile, smug and breathless. "Taste good?"

His answer is another kiss—deeper, slower, his tongue sliding against mine. His hand finds my thigh, squeezing, spreading me wider beneath him. I can feel him hard against my hip, still half-dressed, restrained.

Behind us, the room is quiet except for the sound of breathing. Someone shifts. The leather of the armchair creaks.

Price breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His chest heaves against mine.

"You're going to kill me tonight," he says, voice rough.

I tighten my fingers in his hair. "Not yet."

"Soap, get over here."

He doesn't wait. The armchair creaks as he rises, and within seconds he's at the edge of the bed, looking down at me. His eyes roam from Price's hand on my thigh to my flushed chest to the lazy smile curving my lips.

"Finally," he says, his Scottish accent thicker than before.

Price shifts, making room but not leaving me entirely. His hand slides up to my hip, possessive but patient. Soap's fingers find the hem of his shirt—my shirt, actually, one of his I'd stolen weeks ago—and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The tattoos ink across his skin, the lamplight carving shadows over his chest.

He crawls onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. One knee, then the other, bracketing my hips. He hovers above me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"You called, hen?" His grin is sharp, wolfish.

I reach up and hook a finger into his belt loop, pulling him down until his lips are a breath from mine.

"You gonna make it worth my while?"

I reach for Price's hand without looking away from Soap. His fingers find mine immediately—warm, calloused, grounding—and I squeeze once before pulling Soap down by his belt loop.

Our mouths meet, and Soap kisses like he fights—eager, a little reckless, all in. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, tasting, claiming. I feel Price's thumb trace circles on the back of my hand as Soap deepens the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other sliding down my side.

"Christ," Soap mutters against my mouth, half-laughing, half-breathless. "Been wanting to do that all night."

I grin, tugging at his bottom lip with my teeth. "What took you so long?"

His answer is another kiss, hungrier this time, his hand sliding up my ribs until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. Above me, Price's grip tightens—not possessively, but present. Connected.

Soap breaks the kiss first, panting slightly. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He glances to the side, toward Price, then back at me.

"You two gonna share or what?"

I reach up with my free hand and catch the back of Price's neck, pulling him down.

He comes without hesitation, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is slower than Soap's—deeper, more deliberate. Price kisses like he's memorising me, like he's got all the time in the world. His beard scratches my chin, his tongue sliding against mine as Soap watches from above, still straddling my hips.

I feel Soap's weight shift. His hands find my thighs, squeezing, grounding himself as he watches his captain kiss me. His breath is hot against my skin, uneven.

Price breaks the kiss slowly, his lips lingering. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, his composure cracked just enough to see the hunger underneath.

Soap lets out a low breath. "Fucking hell, that's—" He stops, shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't know I'd be into watchin'."

Price's thumb traces my jaw, featherlight. "Neither did I," he says, "until now."

I look between them—Price above me, Soap straddling my hips, both of them watching me like I'm something precious. Something wanted.

My gaze drifts past them, to the doorway.

Ghost hasn't moved. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place. But his eyes—those steady brown eyes—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.

And Gaz, leaning against the wall beside the dresser, his hands in his pockets, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. He catches my eye and smiles, slow and deliberate.

"Both of you. Now."

Ghost moves first.

He uncrosses his arms and steps forward, those long, quiet strides eating up the distance between the doorway and the bed. His eyes never leave mine. The skull mask makes him unreadable, but the way he moves—deliberate, unhurried, purposeful—says everything.

Gaz follows, pushing off from the wall with that easy grace. He stops at the foot of the bed, hands resting on the wooden frame, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene—Price beside me, Soap straddling my hips, me bare and flushed between them.

"Look at you," Gaz says, his voice low, appreciative. "Giving orders from your back."

I meet his gaze. "You got a problem with that?"

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Not even a little."

Ghost reaches the bedside. He stops beside Price, close enough that I can see the faint wear in the fabric of his mask, the tiny imperfections in the skull pattern. His eyes travel down my body, then back up. His hand lifts, hesitates for half a second, then his fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

The touch is surprisingly gentle. Almost reverent.

I catch his wrist before he can pull away, holding him there. His pulse beats steady against my fingers.

"You gonna keep that on?" I ask, nodding toward the mask.

Something flickers in his eyes. A question. An offering.

He reaches up and pulls the mask over his head.

"Come here, all of you."

The words leave my lips, soft and certain, and they move.

Ghost steps closer first, maskless, his face finally bare—sharp jaw, pale skin scattered with scars, a blond brow lifting slightly as he meets my gaze. He's handsome in a way that catches me off guard, even though I should have expected it.

Price shifts, his hand still in mine, his thumb stroking slow circles across my knuckles. Soap slides off my hips, settling beside me, his hand finding my thigh. Gaz rounds the bed and climbs on from the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight.

They arrange themselves around me like they've done it a thousand times—Price at my back, pulling me against his chest. Soap on my right, his fingers tracing patterns on my hip. Gaz on my left, his hand sliding up my arm, warm and steady. Ghost settles at the foot of the bed, his eyes meeting mine, his hand resting on my ankle.

Four of them. Surrounding me. Holding me.

I'm surrounded by warmth, by the weight of their bodies, by the quiet sound of their breathing. Price presses a kiss to my shoulder. Soap's hand tightens on my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Ghost's thumb traces the curve of my ankle bone.

"Happy anniversary," I say, and I feel Price's smile against my skin.

Gas lets out a low chuckle. "Best anniversary I've ever had."

Soap snorts. "Only anniversary you've ever had, mate."

"Still counts."

I laugh, soft and breathless, surrounded by them.

The fairy lights flicker beyond the open door. The house is quiet. The world is quiet.

And I'm exactly where I want to be.

"Your turn, Ghost."

His eyes meet mine from the foot of the bed, that bare face still a little unfamiliar, still a little startling in its quiet handsomeness. His thumb pauses on my ankle bone. For a moment, he doesn't move.

Then he crawls up the bed.

Slow. Deliberate. His body moves with that coiled precision, each movement controlled, measured. He settles over me, one knee on either side of my hips, his hands bracing beside my shoulders. Price shifts behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands resting on my waist.

Ghost looks down at me, his brown eyes searching. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

I reach up and touch his face—my fingers tracing the scar that runs along his jaw, the faint stubble, the shape of his cheekbone. He closes his eyes for half a second, leaning into my touch.

Then his mouth finds mine.

The kiss is soft at first. Testing. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he kisses like he's still deciding whether to let himself have this. I pull him closer, my fingers threading into his blond hair, and he deepens the kiss with a low sound that vibrates through his chest.

Around us, the room is quiet. Soap's hand finds my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Price's breath is warm against the back of my neck.

Ghost breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is uneven, his eyes still closed.

"Happy anniversary," he murmurs, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

I kiss him again, deeper this time.

My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him down as I part my lips against his. He lets out a breath—sharp, surprised—and then his mouth opens under mine, his tongue meeting mine in a slow dance. His hands shift, one sliding up my side, the other burying itself in the sheets beside my head.

Ghost kisses like he operates—controlled, precise, but with an undercurrent of something fierce, something barely leashed. His body presses into mine, warm and solid, and I feel the tension in his shoulders slowly unspool.

Behind me, Price's hands rest on my hips, steady and present. Soap's thumb traces lazy circles on my thigh. Gaz's fingers are still laced with mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.

I break the kiss just enough to breathe, my forehead still pressed to Ghost's. His eyes are darker now, his lips slightly swollen.

"Didn't know you could do that," I murmur.

One corner of his mouth twitches—the barest hint of a smile. "Neither did I."

I pull back just enough to look around the room.

Price behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands steady on my hips. Soap beside me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, his blue eyes dark and patient. Gaz on my other side, his fingers still laced with mine, that sharp smile tugging at his lips. Ghost above me, bare-faced and breathing hard, his eyes searching mine like he's still trying to figure out if this is real.

"Don't stop," I say.

The words come out soft, but they land like a command.

Ghost's mouth finds my neck, his breath hot against my skin. Price's hands slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. Soap shifts, his lips pressing a kiss to my shoulder, his hand sliding higher up my thigh. Gaz releases my hand and cups my jaw, turning my face toward him for a slow kiss.

Four sets of hands. Four mouths. All of them on me, around me, filling every inch of space.

I close my eyes and let myself sink into it—the weight of them, the warmth, the quiet sounds of breath and skin and whispered words. Ghost's teeth graze my collarbone. Price's mouth presses against my spine. Soap's fingers curl into my hip. Gaz's tongue slides against mine, slow and sweet.

The fairy lights flicker in the hallway. The house is still and quiet. And I'm surrounded, claimed, wanted—by all four of them.

I lie back and let them take control.

The shift is immediate. A quiet rebalancing, like they've all been waiting for permission. Price's hands slide up from my hips, slow and deliberate, tracing my ribs, my sternum, until his palms cup my breasts. His thumbs brush across my nipples, featherlight, and I arch into his touch.

Soap takes the cue. His mouth finds my neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive curve where my shoulder meets my throat. His hand slides up my thigh, slow, teasing, stopping just shy of where I want him most.

Gaz leans in from the other side, his fingers tilting my chin toward him. He kisses me—lazy, thorough, like he's got nothing but time. His tongue slides against mine as his hand wraps around my wrist, pinning it gently above my head.

Ghost moves last. He settles between my legs, his eyes meeting mine for confirmation. I give it with a small nod, and he lowers his mouth to my inner thigh. A kiss. A gentle bite. Then his tongue traces a slow path upward.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

They move around me like they've been doing this forever—Price's hands on my breasts, Soap's mouth on my neck, Gaz's lips on mine, Ghost's tongue working me closer to the edge. I'm surrounded, held, taken apart piece by piece.

"You good?" Price murmurs against my ear.

I can barely form words. "Yeah."

His hands tighten on my hips. Ghost's mouth finds the spot that makes me gasp. Soap's teeth graze my earlobe.

I'm not just good.

I'm theirs.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Domestic bliss" by Cyberkitty

You meet his eyes, chin lifted, voice steady despite the heat prickling across your skin.

"You first."

Satoru's eyebrows shoot up. That grin spreads across his face—slow, appreciative. He glances at Suguru, who lets out a low chuckle from the foot of the bed.

"Boss wants a show," Suguru murmurs, reaching for his belt buckle. "Who are we to deny her?"

Satoru's hands move to the button of his jeans. He's deliberate about it—drawing it out, holding your gaze as his fingers work the waistband. The jeans drop. He steps out of them, standing in nothing but his boxers, all lean muscle and pale skin in the dim bedroom light.

"Happy?" he asks, voice teasing.

Suguru's already shirtless, his tattoos sprawling across his torso in dark patterns. His belt clinks as he unfastens it, letting his pants fall loose before pushing them down. He doesn't rush. When he straightens, he's in boxers too, his body a roadmap of ink and lean muscle.

"Your turn, boss." Suguru's voice drops. "Or are you having second thoughts?"

They stand at the foot of the bed, both watching you, waiting.

You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants, but you don't push them down. Just hold them there, fingers teasing the fabric, watching their eyes track the movement.

"Having second thoughts?" You echo Suguru's words back at him, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. "No. Just wondering if you two earned it yet."

Satoru laughs—genuine, surprised. He runs a hand through his white hair, shaking his head. "She's gonna make us work for it, Sugu."

Suguru's eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts. He steps closer to the bed, close enough that his knees brush the edge. "We've been working for it all night, boss. The bar. The drive. The elevator." He pauses. "The dancing."

"You call that working?" You tilt your head, thumbs still hooked, pants still on. "I call that a warm-up."

Satoru steps up beside Suguru, both of them looming at the foot of the bed. They exchange a look—that silent conversation again.

Then Satoru's hand shoots out, catching your ankle. He tugs, pulling you flat on your back across the mattress before you can react. The air whoozes out of you as you land, and suddenly Suguru's there, bracing his hands on either side of your hips, leaning over you.

"Let's try this again," Suguru murmurs, his face inches from yours. "Strip for us, boss."

"Ask me nicely."

The words come out calm. You don't break Suguru's gaze, even as he hovers above you, even as Satoru's hand still rests on your ankle.

Suguru's eyes search yours. A beat of silence stretches between you three.

Then he laughs—low, breathless, genuine. "Boss's got teeth."

"Always did." Satoru's voice comes from somewhere near your feet. "That's the problem."

Suguru doesn't move. His face stays inches from yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head. When he speaks again, his voice drops. "Please, Y/N."

The sound of your name in his mouth hits different.

"Let us see you," he continues, thumb brushing the curve of your hip. "We've been watching you all night. All tour. All fucking year." His jaw tightens. "Please."

Behind you, Satoru's hand slides up your calf, warm and steady. He doesn't speak, but his fingers trace a slow path up and back down, waiting.

You turn your head on the mattress, finding Satoru where he stands at the foot of the bed, his hand still wrapped around your ankle.

"And you?" Your voice carries through the dim room. "Ask nice too."

Satoru's jaw works. He looks at Suguru—who gives him nothing, just a raised eyebrow—then back at you. For a moment, you think he's going to argue. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his mouth opens.

Then he exhales. A laugh, almost.

"Please, Y/N." His voice drops, rough and genuine. "Let me see you. I've been thinking about it all night. All week." He pauses. "All year."

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard. He doesn't joke. Doesn't deflect. Just stands there, barefoot at the end of the bed, white hair disheveled, watching you with something raw in those blue eyes.

Suguru's thumb traces the waistband of your pants, featherlight. "We're both asking nice, boss. Real nice."

The room waits. Three heartbeats, suspended.

You push up onto your elbows, then sit up fully, facing them both. Your hands find the hem of your shirt, and you pull it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind you.

The black lace of your bra catches the dim light.

Your fingers find the waistband of his boxers. You hook them, tugging him forward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress.

He comes willingly, eyes locked on yours, stepping between your legs. His hands find your thighs, sliding up, fingers pressing into the skin just below the hem of your pants.

"See?" His voice is rough. "Not so hard to be nice."

"Don't get used to it."

His thumb traces the inside of your thigh. Behind you, the mattress dips as Suguru shifts, settling behind you, his chest warm against your back. His hands find your shoulders, trailing down your arms.

"She's got you wrapped around her finger, Satoru."

"Shut up." But Satoru's grinning.

Suguru's lips brush your shoulder. "You want us to take off the rest, boss? Or you wanna keep us waiting?"

Satoru's hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the bone. Both of them waiting. Watching. The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thick with anticipation.

Your voice cuts through the thick air between them—command, not request.

"Both of you. Now."

For a heartbeat, neither moves. Then Satoru's hands find the waistband of your pants, fingers hooking into the fabric. He looks up, meeting your eyes, asking permission without words.

You give a single nod.

He pulls. Your pants slide down your legs, and he works them off your ankles, tossing them aside. Suguru's hands find your shoulders, guiding you back against his chest as Satoru straightens, his gaze trailing up your body—lingering on the black lace, the curve of your hips.

"Fuck." Satoru breathes it out.

Suguru's fingers find the clasp of your bra. He works it open with practiced ease, and the straps slide down your shoulders. You shrug it off, letting it fall.

Cool air hits your skin. Their eyes trace every inch of you.

Satoru's hand finds your knee, sliding up your thigh, slow. "You're gorgeous, Y/N."

Suguru's lips press against your bare shoulder, trailing up the side of your neck. "Been thinking about this too long."

Your breath catches as Satoru's fingers reach the hem of your underwear, tracing the edge. His eyes ask again.

You nod.

You turn your head, meeting Suguru's gaze over your shoulder.

"You too."

Something flickers in his violet eyes—approval, maybe hunger—before his hands find your waist. He pulls you back against him, chest to spine, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. His teeth graze your skin, light, testing.

"Was planning on it."

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your thighs with deliberate slowness. You lift your hips to help him, and the fabric slides away, pooling somewhere at your ankles before he tosses it aside.

Satoru's breath catches. His hand, still resting on your knee, slides upward—slow, measured—until his palm cups your thigh. His thumb traces a lazy circle on your inner thigh, close but not close enough.

"Look at you," he says. "Laid out for us."

Behind you, Suguru's hands slide up your ribs, palms warm against your bare skin. His lips find the shell of your ear.

"You're shaking, boss."

You are. Just slightly. A tremor running through you that you can't quite still.

Suguru's hands settle on your hips, pulling you tighter against him. Satoru steps closer, his knees framing yours, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist.

Two sets of hands. Two heartbeats. The room closes in around the three of you.

You arch back into Suguru, spine curving, pressing your bare skin against his chest.

"Show me what you've got."

His hands tighten on your hips. For a moment, nothing moves but his breath against your shoulder—then his teeth graze your skin, a soft bite that sends heat straight through you. His mouth trails up your neck, open and wet, until his lips find the spot just below your ear.

"Gladly."

Satoru doesn't wait. His hands find your waist, pulling you forward just enough that you're caught between them—Suguru's chest at your back, Satoru's body warmth at your front. His thumbs trace the undersides of your breasts, featherlight, before his palms cup them. His fingers find your nipples, rolling them gently, and your breath hitches.

"Like that?" Satoru's voice is low.

You don't answer. Your head falls back against Suguru's shoulder instead, a moan slipping out as Satoru's thumbs circle.

Suguru's hands slide down your stomach, fingers splaying across your lower belly. He kisses the curve of your neck, slow and deliberate.

"Tell us what you want, boss." His voice vibrates against your skin. "We've got all night."

You don't answer with words.

Your hand slides down, palm pressing flat against Satoru through his boxers. He's hard—straining against the fabric—and the sound he makes when you grip him is punched out, raw, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck, Y/N."

You stroke him slowly through the cotton, feeling the heat of him, the twitch under your palm. His hips thrust forward, just slightly, chasing your touch.

Suguru's laugh is warm against your neck. "There she is."

Satoru's hand catches your wrist—not pulling away, just holding. His breath is ragged when he lifts his head, meeting your eyes. "If you keep that up, this is gonna end before it starts."

Suguru's fingers trace down your stomach, lower, parting you gently. His touch is light, exploratory, and your hips shift into it before you can stop yourself.

"Someone's eager," he says against your ear.

Satoru pulls your hand away from him, but doesn't let go. Instead, he brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing them once, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he guides your hand down to his waistband, pressing your palm flat against his hip.

"Take them off me."

Your fingers curl into the waistband of his boxers. You pull them down—slow, dragging the fabric over his hips, his thighs, until he steps out of them.

He stands bare before you. Long. Thick. Already slick at the tip.

Satoru's breath is uneven. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Look at you. On your knees for me."

You're not on your knees. But the way he says it makes heat curl low in your belly anyway.

Behind you, Suguru shifts. His hands find your hips, guiding you back against him, and you feel him pressed against the curve of your ass—still boxer-clad, but straining.

"Don't forget about me, boss."

Satoru drops to his knees in front of you, eye-level now. His hand slides up your thigh, parting you gently, and his thumb finds your clit in one slow, knowing stroke.

You gasp.

He grins. "There she is."

Suguru's fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back. His mouth finds your throat, kissing, biting lightly. "You want him to taste you, boss? Or you wanna taste him first?"

"Both." The word comes out steady, even as Satoru's thumb still presses against your clit. "I want both."

Satoru's grin widens. He pulls his hand back, bringing his thumb to his mouth, tasting you slowly. "Greedy."

Behind you, Suguru's hands tighten on your hips. "Good thing we're generous."

Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your core. His lips brush your inner thigh—teasing, close but not close enough. His eyes find yours. "Tap my shoulder if it's too much."

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue slides through your folds, flat and slow, before circling your clit. Your back arches, head pressing into Suguru's chest. A moan escapes you, loud and unguarded.

Suguru's hand threads through your hair, guiding your face toward him. His lips meet yours—hungry, tasting of soju still—and he kisses you deep as Satoru works you with his tongue. You moan into Suguru's mouth, and he swallows the sound.

Satoru's rhythm quickens. He's relentless, alternating between broad strokes and sharp flicks that make your hips buck. One hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider, while the other finds your entrance, one finger sliding in slowly.

Your breath catches. Your nails dig into Suguru's forearm.

Satoru curls his finger, finding that spot inside you, and your vision whites out for a second. He doesn't let up—adds a second finger, pumps them in rhythm with his tongue.

Suguru breaks the kiss, panting. His forehead rests against yours. "Look at you, boss. Falling apart already."

He's not wrong.

Your hand finds his hair, tugging gently, pulling his mouth away from you.

"Get up."

Satoru rises, slick-lipped, pupils blown wide. You don't give him time to speak—your hand slides from his hair to his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

"I want you inside me."

The words come out low, direct. No room for misunderstanding.

Satoru's breath hitches. He reaches for the nightstand, fumbling until his hand closes around a foil packet. He tears it open with his teeth—a move that should be ridiculous but isn't, not right now.

Behind you, Suguru's hands slide down your hips, guiding you forward onto your hands and knees. The position shift makes your head spin—you're open, exposed, presented to both of them.

Satoru positions himself at your entrance. The head of him presses against you, teasing, wet. He waits, looking to Suguru for confirmation, looking to you.

You nod.

He pushes in.

The stretch is slow—filling you inch by inch until he's seated fully inside you. Your forehead drops to the sheets, a moan punched out of you as he stills, letting you adjust.

"Fuck, Y/N." His voice is wrecked. "You feel—" He cuts himself off, hips twitching.

Suguru's hand strokes your lower back. "Move, Satoru. Don't make her wait."

Satoru pulls out slowly, then thrusts back in—a rhythm that builds, steady and deep. One hand grips your hip; the other finds your clit, circling in time with his movements.

The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, your moans, his ragged breathing. Suguru's hands are on you too—stroking your hair, tracing your spine, grounding you as Satoru takes you apart.

Your hand shoots back, finding Suguru's hip, fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers. You pull—hard—and he comes forward, chest pressing against your spine, his breath hot on your shoulder.

"Someone's impatient," he says, but there's no tease in it. His voice is strained.

You feel him against your ass—hard, thick, still confined. Your fingers find his, guiding his hand from your hip down between your legs, where Satoru's still buried inside you.

Suguru's breath catches. His fingers brush where you're joined, slick and hot, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck, Y/N."

Satoru's pace falters. He watches over your shoulder as Suguru's fingers trace your clit, circling slowly, and a fresh wave of heat rolls through you. Your hips buck back into Satoru, chasing his depth.

Suguru's other hand slides up your spine, pressing you down gently, arching your back deeper. He positions himself behind you, the head of him pressing against your other entrance—teasing, asking without words.

Satoru stills inside you. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together on the sheets.

"Tell us what you want, boss."

The question hangs in the air. Suguru's breath is ragged against your shoulder. Satoru throbs inside you. Both waiting. Both watching.

"Both of you—fill me up."

The words hang in the air, raw and honest. You don't look back. You don't have to.

Suguru's hand tightens on your hip. Satoru lets out a breath he's been holding.

"You sure?" Suguru's voice is low, rough. His thumb traces your hip bone. "We don't have to—not if you're not ready."

"I'm sure."

A pause. Then Satoru pulls out slowly, leaving you empty, aching. The loss is immediate. He reaches for the nightstand, tearing open another foil packet with his teeth. Suguru does the same, the sound of it crisp in the quiet room.

Satoru's hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward him. He kisses you—deep, slow, promising. "Tap twice if it's too much."

Then he's behind you again, lining up. You feel both of them at your entrances—Satoru at your core, Suguru pressing against the other.

Satoru pushes in first, filling you completely. You gasp, nails digging into the sheets. Then Suguru follows, slow and measured, working himself inside alongside Satoru. The stretch is intense—fullness like nothing you've felt before, pressure building from every angle.

You moan, long and broken.

"Breathe, boss." Suguru's voice is strained. "Breathe."

You do. They wait, buried inside you, still as stone, giving you time. Your body adjusts, clenches, relaxes around them. You nod.

They move.

The rhythm is uncoordinated at first—finding it together. Then they find their groove, Satoru thrusting as Suguru pulls back, a wave that rolls through you. Your vision blurs. Sounds fall out of you—moans, whimpers, words you can't form.

Satoru's hand finds yours on the sheets, fingers lacing together. Suguru's lips press against your shoulder blade, open-mouthed, reverent. They move faster, the room narrowing to the heat of their bodies, the slide of skin, the broken rhythm of three breaths.

Your release builds, coiling low and tight. You're close—so close—and they feel it, feel you clenching around them.

"Come for us, Y/N." Suguru's voice is wrecked. "Come."

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🎮interactive fanfic "Between Infinity & Oblivion" by ruby_03

Your fingers find the hem of your shirt and you pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere on the floor behind you.

Toji's eyes drop. They trace down your throat, over your collarbone, lower. His jaw tightens. The hand still tangled in your hair loosens its grip, his fingers dragging down to your shoulder, your arm, coming to rest at your waist.

"You're something else." His voice is rougher now, scraped raw. He pulls you forward, onto his lap, so you're straddling his thighs. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your waist.

He looks up at you through dark lashes, the bruise on his ribs pressing against your thigh, the cut on his lip still slightly red. His hands slide up your sides, dragging slow paths over your ribcage, stopping just below your chest.

His breath comes out uneven. His eyes meet yours.

"Still sure you can handle me?"

"Stop asking and start showing."

The words barely leave your mouth before Toji's hands are on you—one fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he flips you onto your back. The mattress catches you, and he's on top of you in an instant, the full weight of him pressing you down.

His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there before he bites down—hard enough to leave a mark. His hips grind against yours, and you feel exactly how much he's holding back.

"That what you wanted?" His voice is a hot rasp against your neck. His hand slides down your stomach, past your navel, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. "For me to stop thinking?"

His fingers press against you through the fabric, palm grinding down. His mouth hovers over yours, breath ragged.

"Because I've stopped thinking, sweetheart. And now all I can think about is taking you apart."

His fingers hook into your shorts, pulling them down your thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hits your skin before his hand settles between your legs, one thick finger sliding through your slick folds, testing.

He lets out a low sound against your mouth. "Wet already." His eyes meet yours, dark and hungry. "Been wanting this all night, haven't you?"

"Stop talking and fuck me already."

A low sound rumbles from Toji's chest—half growl, half approval. His fingers curl inside you, a deep stretch that makes your back arch off the mattress. "Bossy little thing." But there's no complaint in his voice. Only heat.

He works you open with practiced precision, his thumb circling your clit in lazy strokes while his fingers pump in and out, stretching you, preparing you. His mouth finds your nipple, tongue flicking across the peak before sucking hard, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of your breast.

You're close. Your hips start to buck against his hand, the pressure building tight and hot in your belly. Your breath comes in short gasps, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Then he pulls out.

"Not yet." His voice is rough, almost cruel. He grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, dragging your knees up beneath you. The head of his cock presses against your soaked entrance, teasing, just barely pushing in before pulling back.

He grips your hips hard enough to bruise. Then he slams into you, full and deep, and any air left in your lungs punches out in a sharp cry.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, his fingers digging into your flesh, his breathing ragged and raw above you.

Your hand reaches back, fingers finding the sharp jut of his hipbone, gripping him as he pounds into you. The muscle beneath your palm is tense, corded, slick with a thin sheen of sweat.

Toji's rhythm stutters. Just for a second.

His hand catches yours, pinning it to the small of your back. He leans forward, his chest pressing against your spine, his mouth hot against your ear. "Touching me now?" His voice is wrecked, ragged. "Thought you wanted me to fuck you."

He punctuates the last word with a thrust so deep it steals your breath. His grip on your wrist tightens, holding you in place as he drives into you, each stroke harder than the last. The bedframe creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, frantic rhythm.

His free hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. "Come for me," he growls against your ear, his voice rough and demanding. "Now."

The combination of his fingers and the relentless pound of his cock pushes you over the edge. Your body tenses, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you come undone around him, your walls clenching tight.

Toji groans, low and guttural, and pulls out. His hand grabs your hair, yanking your head back. "On your knees. Open your mouth."

You drop to your knees without hesitation, the carpet rough against your skin. You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted, waiting.

Toji's chest heaves. His cock is slick with you, still hard, the head glistening in the dim light. He takes himself in hand, steps closer, and feeds it into your mouth without a word.

He starts slow—letting you take the length of him inch by inch, your tongue working against the underside. His fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding. His head falls back, a low groan escaping his throat.

"Fuck. Yeah."

His pace quickens. His hips push forward, filling your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You gag, and he groans louder, his grip in your hair tightening.

"Take it," he says, voice broken. "Take all of it."

He fucks your mouth with increasing urgency, his breathing ragged, his thighs tense beneath your palms. You let him use your mouth, let him chase his release, your hands gripping his hips for balance.

His breathing hitches. His thrusts turn sloppy, deeper. Then he stills, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as he comes, hot and thick down your throat. He holds you there, pulsing, riding out the aftershocks.

When he pulls out, he's breathing hard. He looks down at you, pupils blown, chest slick with sweat. Without a word, he bends, scoops you up by the waist, and tosses you onto the bed.

Your hands find his shoulders as he hovers over you, skin slick and hot under your palms. You pull him down, and he comes willingly, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

Toji's mouth finds your collarbone, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, over the curve of your breast. His tongue circles your nipple before he sucks it between his teeth, the sharp scrape of stubble against sensitive skin making you gasp.

He moves lower. His mouth drags down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel before continuing its path. He spreads your legs with his hands, settles himself between them, and looks up at you from beneath dark lashes.

Without breaking eye contact, he licks a slow stripe through your folds.

Your hands fist in the sheets. His tongue circles your clit once, twice, before he dives in properly—lapping at you like a man starved, his grip on your thighs tightening as you writhe beneath him. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.

His tongue flicks faster, harder, and he slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right. Your hips buck against his mouth, a moan tearing from your throat as the pressure builds, builds, and shatters.

He doesn't stop until you've ridden out every last wave, your body trembling beneath him. Only then does he crawl up beside you, one arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Unbound & Undone" by Unforgettwble_miaa