fart🐾

It’s not like TRUCKER!SUKUNA had a hard time getting some. When he needed to wet his dick, he practically soaked it. But he couldn’t find himself getting as hard as he did than when you were in his proximity. Lot lizard’s couldn’t do it for him anymore, his cock flaccid when he tried to fuck literally anyone else.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA began to look forward to his unconventional brunches. No, not for the eggs or hash browns or pancakes. But for the pretty girl waiting for him. It was clear you were attracted to him at least, seeing as your pupils would dilate when he’d walk in and your gaze would fix on his rolled cuff shirt strangling his thick biceps.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA wants to fuck you. He wants to hear all the soft noises you make when his tongue flattens against your throbbing slit, how your tits will jiggle when he gropes you, how you’ll probably cry when he shoves his cock into you.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA is at risk of losing his job. His loads arrive late for drop-off and inspection, because now he lingers after your shift. He’ll sit in the driver’s seat, staring at you through the diner windows, waiting for you to clock out. And when you do, he doesn’t say anything to you, doesn’t even approach you.

No, TRUCKER!SUKUNA follows you home. You must be stupid seeing as you don’t notice the very same red truck with black detailing and flames parking down your block multiple times a week.

You need someone to look after you, TRUCKER!SUKUNA concludes. Someone to make sure you don’t fall into the wrong hands or bed, seeing as you’re too idiotic to sort this out yourself.

So, TRUCKER!SUKUNA spends the next few weeks keeping an eye on you. Making sure you get to work safely, that you receive enough of a tip to stash into your savings, to ensure you get home timely.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA has done so much for you. He scrubs the five o’clock shadow growing on his chin and jaw, certain that he’s due for a reward now. If only you’d known how he’s watched over you, you’d want to thank him, right?

Your doorbell rings in the middle of the night, stirring you from your slumber. You stumble out in a see-through tank that hugs you just right, and skimpy panties.

“Sukuna…?” you rub the sleep from your eyes, which widen when you see he’s clearly been standing in the rain for quite some time now as his pink strands have fallen over his forehead and cling to the skin, his leather jacket glistening with droplets.

TRUCKER!SUKUNAthinks you’re an angel that’s fallen from the heaven’s to bless him.

“Are you okay? I didn’t see you at the diner today,” you grab his wrist, pulling him inside and shutting the door behind you.

God, if TRUCKER!SUKUNA wanted to murder you right now, he could. Because not only have you opened the door for a stranger, you allowed him into your house.

But, no. TRUCKER!SUKUNA has other plans for you.

“Ya live alone, don’t you?”

You squint. “Yes, I do.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA towers over you, gaze dancing across your face. He’s never realized how soft and supple your skin was. “What about your boyfriend?”

“…I don’t have a boyfriend,” you whisper, feeling your voice waver as he corners you.

Your back meets the wall, and TRUCKER!SUKUNA slams a hand down next to your head.

“You’re dim, you know that?” he reckons, the low timbre of his tone sending sparks up your spine.

“E-excuse me?” you gulp, peering into his crimson irises that have thinned into slits. You’ve never been this close to him, but you feel your stomach somersaulting at the close proximity. He smells a little like cigarettes and gasoline.

“Could have my way with you right now. Since ya let anyone into this place,” he finally breaks his gaze from yours and looks around. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“To the left.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA smirks from ear to ear, before lifting you up and tossing you over his shoulder.

You gasp, head nearly knocking into his broad back. “Put me down!”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, bird. I’ll be nice tonight. …Maybe.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA kicks the door to your bedroom open, tossing you onto your sheets and taking in his surroundings. You two are exact opposites—seeing the soft pastels of pink and yellow and purple decorating your space, decorated with plushies and figures.

You land on your back, blood roaring in your ears as TRUCKER!SUKUNA tugs his shirt over his head. Not only is he absolutely fucking shredded, but his skin is littered in scars and thick black ink, the tattoos only making him look all the more terrifying.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA crawls over you, slow and calculated like a predator hunting it’s prey. He slots himself between your thighs and grips your forearms just to pin them beside your head.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA kisses you. Not soft, not nice like he promised. Demanding, bruising. He’s rough as his weight settles atop you, shoving his tongue down your throat and nibbling on your lip just to hear you whimper. Teeth clashing, noses bumping, swapping saliva. He groans repeatedly, enough to tell you he’s enjoying this.

When you squirm, TRUCKER!SUKUNA presses his knee into your sex. You try to run from the mind-numbing bliss, but he doesn’t allow it. Heat settles low, your panties damp with slick and leaving a wet stain across the flimsy fabric.

You can barely breathe—chest heaving up and down, pushing against his bruising grip on your arms, but the man is a reinforced tank that refuses to budge.

When he finally pulls away, all breathless and wrecked with a flushed face and a sleazy grin, you know you’re in for a long night.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA plays with the strap of your tank, before tearing the fabric down the middle. You gasp, but he flicks a pebbled nipple with a click of his tongue. “I’ve given you enough money t’buy a millon of these, brat.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA latches his lips onto your perky tits, leaving bruising love bites across your unmarked skin, groaning as the tent in his jeans only grows suffocating.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA wants to be gentle. But gentle isn’t what you need, no. You need a guiding hand—one that keeps you in place when you fuck up and directs you where you need it. Reprimands you, punishes you. “Don’t fight it,” he groans low and wrecked, dragging his tongue up the shell of your ear. “Let me in.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA slots his head between your thighs, peppering soft kisses against your skin to get you to trust him. Glossy, wide eyes stare back at him. Uncertain, unsure. The first kiss he presses against your clothed clit has you bucking. “Already so wet f’me, hm?”

Your panties are torn down the middle of the gusset, and then you’re devoured like TRUCKER!SUKUNA has been starved for weeks. Suckling, nipping, biting. Spreading, teasing, lavving. You keen, tears biting your waterline as he works you open on a single digit. “S’like you’ve never been fucked… Have you? Been fucked? Can’t help but think a pretty thing like you has already been broken in… but the way you’re, fuck, squeezing n’ sucking me in… got me thinkin’ otherwise.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA works you through an orgasm, stars blotting out behind your eyelids as his tongue flicks your hooded clit and fingers stretch you wide, nestling deep and prodding those sweet spots. You orgasm again soon after the climax. Then another. And another. You start to lose track, thighs burning and core sore.

TRUCKER!SUKUNA barely allows you to catch your breath before he’s kissing you sloppily—your juices slathered all across his lips and chin soaking into your mouth. You taste him, and you taste you. “Gonna fuck you raw now, little bird.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA has a massive cock. After tugging his belt off, the metal clasp hitting your bedroom floor, and freeing himself from his briefs, do you feel your stomach swoon. It springs upwards with a slight curve. There’s a double band of black ink rings at the base, buried in pink pubic hair that looks rough to the touch. Bulging veins that run thick with molten lava dance across the length up to a weeping tip piercing with a horseshoe ring.

“Y-you have a-?”

“Prince Albert,” he smirks, all proud of himself as he strokes his dick. He cocks his head, muscles flexing as he watches you squirm. “You scared?”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you shake your head timidly.

“Good. It doesn’t bite. But, I do.”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA splays his large palms on the backs of your thighs as he spreads you open, his dick rutting forward while he glides himself through your folds. He rests his dick on your abdomen, captivated in the size difference. “Gonna feel me in your lungs like this, woman. So fuckin' cute,” he teases as he runs his hands across your body.

When he’s noticed that you’ve had enough foreplay, he presses his unprotected tip against your entrance. You grip the sheets, your breath catching in your throat. When TRUCKER!SUKUNAnotices your inability to breath properly while he feeds his cock to you, his calloused palm meets your cheek, slapping some sense into you. “Not gonna fuck you if you’re passed out, brat,” he grumbles, leaning down to dig his teeth into your collarbone. “Where’s the fun in that?”

TRUCKER!SUKUNA is a rough fuck. You can barely accommodate to his girthy size, but he continues to push deeper, stretching you out until all you feel is him. His thrusts start off slow, shallow. But when he’s grown impatient, he punctuates each groan with a deep stroke. You cry out, fingernails raking crimson trails to match his eyes down his biceps and shoulder-blades. “Tryna’ milk me for everything I’ve got, woman?”

It doesn’t help that his cock is fucking you senseless, but the cold, metallic feel of his piercing swathed in precum bumping your G-spot has you convulsing and screaming out his name. His grunts, barely contained nor controlled, vibrate through your ears as he pumps in and out and in and out of your drooling hole.

You’re not sure how many times you hit your peak that night seeing as you passed out at some point and woke up to a barely legible note scribbled on a napkin from TRUCKER!SUKUNA, saying he had to get his affairs sorted.

You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.

Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.

And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.

You didn’t care.

She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.

Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.

You rarely crossed paths with him.

Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.

He must have thought she lived alone.

And maybe she wanted it that way.

Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.

“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”

You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.

“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”

You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.

Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.

It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.

After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.

She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.

“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”

She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.

“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”

You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.

“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”

But inside? You were laughing.

Because she had no idea.

You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.

You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.

But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.

You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.

You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.

But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?

She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.

You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not then.

But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.

And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.

You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.

You didn’t say a word.

But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.

Her bedroom door was wide open.

You froze.

The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.

One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.

You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.

None of them noticed you.

Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.

You almost laughed.

So much for good sex.

So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”

You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.

And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”

You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.

And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”

You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”

That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.

She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”

Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”

“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”

And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.

You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.

Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.

But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.

She knew.

And you’d never seen her look more pleased.

It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.

You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.

Then, the door creaked open.

You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.

Kuroo Tetsuro.

Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.

You raised an eyebrow.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”

You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”

Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.

You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”

His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.

“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”

You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”

“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”

The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.

“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”

“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”

Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”

You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”

“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”

There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.

Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.

“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.

Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”

You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.

It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.

And maybe—just maybe—so was he.

Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.

It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.

But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.

Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.

“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”

You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.

“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”

Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”

She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”

You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.

“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”

She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.

And it did hit him.

You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.

“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”

The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.

You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.

And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.

You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.

All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.

After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.

A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.

The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.

You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.

You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.

Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.

“…Tetsu?”

He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.

“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”

He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”

Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.

“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”

“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”

“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”

Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”

You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.

You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.

He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.

It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.

You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.

Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.

And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.

But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.

Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.

Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.

And he did.

The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.

It started with the little things.

He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.

Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise. 

After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.

One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.

You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.

“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.

You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.

Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.

More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.

He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.

“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.

Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”

That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.

Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.

A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.

You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.

“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.

You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.

“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.

That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.

But this time, you didn’t let it end there.

"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.

His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.

His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.

"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.

Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.

“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”

That was all he needed.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”

You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.

When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.

“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.

Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.

“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.

“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”

Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.

Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”

When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.

To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.

It drove him crazy in the best way.

You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.

Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.

Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.

Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.

“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.

You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”

You weren’t lying.

You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.

He’d die a happy man.

You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.

“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And you? You just smirked.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.

Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.

The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He never wanted to let you go anymore.

If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.

But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.

Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.

Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.

You called it simple. He called it everything.

Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.

Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,

"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."

And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"

And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.

You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”

But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.

Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"

You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.

Neither of you would have it any other way.

Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.

It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.

"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."

And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”

That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.

Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.

And truthfully, he liked it that way.

He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.

Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.

But last night, he needed more than domestic.

He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.

And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”

He didn’t go home.

He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.

He took you right there in your bedroom.

On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.

Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.

And last night?

He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.

So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.

He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.

But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.

At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.

And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.

Moaning your name.

Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.

It made her snap.

So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.

“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.

“Define that.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”

You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.

“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”

Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.

“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”

You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.

“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”

She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”

“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”

“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”

“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”

That was the one that hit.

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”

You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.

“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”

She didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

“You’re lying.”

You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.

“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”

Her face twisted.

You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”

“Bitch.”

You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”

She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.

You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.

Toned down? Maybe. But this?

This was your victory lap.

And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.

That story was for another day.

“Fucking hell—” he growls, biting into the pillow to muffle another whimper.

“You’re dripping,” Phainon hums behind you, voice playful—too calm for a man whose cock is buried deep in your ass, rutting lazily as he leans over your shoulder. His tongue drags along your sweat-slick neck, then his teeth nip. “All that cum you shoved into him… leaking back out around you like he was made to be filled.”

You thrust deeper—rougher. The slick sounds are obscene. Mydei shudders as your cock plunges into him again and again, his thighs trembling, the sheets beneath him soaked from the last time he came.

You’re so full of Phainon you can barely breathe, yet all you want is more. You’re pinned between heat and dominance. Phainon rolls his hips and you feel it everywhere—cockhead grinding into your prostate, breath brushing your ear, hands controlling your body like you’re just another pawn on his board.

“You like being in the middle,” he murmurs, sliding a hand around your waist to grip your leaking cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. “So greedy. Fucking him like he’s yours, while your hole’s pulsing on mine like you belong to me.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you rasp—but you’re shaking.

“You say that,” Phainon grins, slow and cruel, “but your body’s honest.”

He thrusts again—hard—and it knocks the breath out of you. You collapse against Mydei, nails digging into his shoulder as you both moan like whores.

“Gods,” Mydei hisses, “you’re both pathetic. You’re letting him fuck you like he owns you while you pound me like a mutt. And you think I’m the mess?”

You pull out for just a second—and then slam back in, making him scream.

“Say that again,” you growl. “Go ahead. Open your mouth.”

He does—and you shove your fingers in, pushing down on his tongue as he glares up at you, drool slipping from the corner of his lips. His cock twitches beneath him, leaking onto the bed.

You twist your fingers against his tongue, slow and deep, and fuck into him harder. Filthy, wet slaps echo with every brutal snap of your hips.

Then you feel Phainon’s cock throb deep inside you—he grunts softly, teeth scraping your neck.

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” he murmurs into your hair. “I want you to milk him first.”

You’re close. Too close. But you obey. You let your body go rigid, hold the orgasm just at the edge, and thrust with brutal control—fast and punishing.

Mydei gasps—then spits your fingers out and snarls, “Fucking fill me, coward.”

And gods, that breaks you.

Your grip slams down on his hips. Your cock pulses and spills inside him in thick, hot bursts—cum shooting deep while you grunt, riding it out, buried to the hilt. You don’t stop. You can’t. You fuck him through your orgasm, rutting into his oversensitive hole while your own is still stuffed with Phainon.

And then he takes over.

Phainon grabs your waist with two hands, hauls your hips back, and fucks into you hard.

You moan—loud, helpless—as he drives his cock deep with relentless rhythm. His cum from earlier is still slick between your thighs, mixing with yours and Mydei’s on the sheets.

Phainon pulls you against him until your back arches and your ass is pressed to his hips—cock buried deep, heat pulsing, grinding against your walls like he’s carving his name inside you.

“Beautiful,” he groans, biting down on your shoulder. “Absolutely ruined between us.”

Mydei shifts under you—cock twitching again. Still hard. Still begging for attention.

“Touch him,” Phainon commands.

You obey.

Your hand wraps around Mydei’s cock, and he growls—“Took you long enough.”

You stroke him fast, mean, almost punishing. He shudders, teeth gritted, jaw tight—and then he explodes, cum shooting up his belly and across the bed in thick, hot pulses. He bites into your wrist—hard—as he convulses beneath you, a final moan dragging from his throat like it’s been ripped out of him.

You let go only when he twitches, panting and dazed.

Phainon gives one final thrust and then groans, hips jerking.

You feel it—feel it—hot ropes of cum flooding your hole, dripping out around him as he stays deep inside, grinding just enough to make you flinch from overstimulation.

Then silence.

Just the sound of breathing, wetness, cum pooling under thighs, and skin against skin.

You collapse across Mydei, your cock still buried in him, Phainon draped over your back like a smug lion.

“You’re heavy,” Mydei mutters, still catching his breath.

“And you’re still full of cum,” you grin.

You’re already soaked in it.

Sweat. Cum. Saliva. Your own, Mydei’s, Phainon’s—indistinguishable at this point. The sheets beneath your knees are ruined, stained with so many loads you’ve lost count. Your thighs ache, your back burns from being bent and fucked open by Phainon over and over, and yet—your cock’s still hard.

Still buried in Mydei’s dripping ass.

He’s not even moaning anymore. Just trembling. Wrung out and twitching, face turned to the side, drool running down his chin as his cock leaks in soft, ruined pulses. He came… twice? Three times? You lost count. So did he. He’s still biting at your wrist where you’d shoved your fingers in his mouth, his teeth marks bruised into your skin like a trophy.

“You’re not done,” Phainon murmurs from behind, voice rich and smooth like warm honey, fingers stroking your spent, overstimulated cock with idle cruelty. “You think you get to stop before I’ve had my fill of you?”

You whimper into Mydei’s neck. “I—I can’t—”

“You will.”

His hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding you still as he pushes his cock back into your raw, abused hole. You both moan. The wet squelch is loud, so fucking loud. He’s already come in you twice—his seed dribbled down your thighs earlier, sticky and white—but now he’s pushing it back in again, like he’s marking his place.

You’re a cocksleeve at this point. A fucked-out, trembling conduit for his control.

“Good boy,” Phainon purrs, kissing your shoulder as he starts thrusting again, slow and deep. “Feel how messy you are? You’re leaking from both ends. My cum in your ass. Yours inside our little prince here.”

He’s not wrong.

Mydei’s hole is sloppy, glistening with seed every time you shift. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bitten red, and his body is limp but needy—hips twitching whenever you move inside him.

You groan, grabbing his hips and thrusting shallowly. “You’re gonna take another one.”

“Fuck you,” Mydei mutters, but his voice is wrecked. You feel him clench around your cock again, body trembling with oversensitivity.

“I already am.”

Phainon laughs low, fingers reaching around to toy with your cock again—soft but aching to stay hard. “Let him sit on you. Hold still.”

You obey.

You pull out of Mydei with a wet, obscene slurp—and immediately, Phainon guides him back, lifting the brat’s spent body and lowering him down onto your lap. Onto your soaked, half-hard cock.

Cockwarming.

He whimpers as your tip presses back in, deeper and deeper until his hole’s plugged again, filled with your cock and the cum you left in him earlier. He squirms, legs weak and trembling, barely able to stay upright.

Phainon pulls you both back against him. You’re sandwiched now—Mydei in your lap, your cock inside him, and Phainon’s cock still stuffed in you from behind. A filthy daisy chain of heat and ruined pride.

“Don’t move,” Phainon breathes, licking sweat off your temple. “Just feel.”

Your hands slip around Mydei’s chest, holding him up as you feel the tremors start again. His cock jerks—still sensitive, still dripping. He bites his lip.

Phainon’s hand reaches between Mydei’s legs. “No more, deliverer.” Mydei mutters.

“Yes, more,” Phainon says smoothly. “We’re not finished until I say so.”

He jerks Mydei’s cock—slow, steady, cruel—and the brat screams, arching in your lap.

You both groan. You feel it—feel him clenching on your cock again, feel him breaking. He’s crying now, shaking in your arms, and you love it. You rock your hips once—just once—and cum leaks down your thighs from how wet he is inside.

Phainon whispers: “Look how good you’ve made him. Completely ruined.”

You bury your face in Mydei’s neck. “He’s perfect.”

Phainon grins. “Praise him more.”

You kiss the shell of his ear. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re taking my cock like you were made for it.”

Mydei moans. Cum pulses from his cock again—dry, weak, but still trying.

Phainon wraps one hand around your jaw and turns your face to him. “Open.”

You do.

He spits into your mouth. Hot. Wet. Tasting of sweat and power. You swallow without flinching.

“My sweet little thing,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’ll stay like this for me, won’t you?”

Your voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

“You’ll let him cockwarm you—full of cum—and let me keep filling you till it’s leaking out all night.”

You nod. You’re shaking. Your thighs are soaked. You don’t even know whose cum is where anymore.

He nips your lower lip. “That’s my boy.”

And then he moves—fast.

Phainon fucks you hard, jostling Mydei in your lap. You both moan, helpless, fucked full and ragged. His hand is on your throat again, not choking—just claiming. His other hand smacks Mydei’s thigh.

“Such good boys,” he moans. “You belong to me now.”

And when he cums—again—it’s brutal. He stays buried in you, hips tight against yours as he pumps another messy load inside, moaning softly like the satisfaction is spiritual. You feel it drip down your legs, mixing with the flood between Mydei’s thighs.

The room smells like sin.

You stay like that—Mydei twitching in your lap, you twitching on Phainon’s cock, the three of you locked together, covered in sweat and cum and shame.

Mydei exhales. “I hate you both.”

You kiss the bite mark on his shoulder.

“No you don’t.”

Your boyfriend was late. 

Like, by a lot. 

So much so, you were debating on calling Gojo to find out where he was, considering you couldn't get so much as a text back. 

Hovering over his name in your contacts before hitting the call button with a sigh, flipping the burner off and resting your hip against the kitchen counter. But even when he answered, there was just static-y silence on the other end. 

“Hello? Gojo?” You were pouting already, annoyed that you had to resort to hearing news about your boyfriend secondhand from quite possibly the least responsible person you knew. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

His voice sounded different. You couldn't put your finger on what it was until you realized he almost sounded serious. Not greeting you with a cheesy nickname or some obnoxious over-the-top pick-up line that he still insisted on using despite the fact you'd been dating his best friend for nearly two years now. 

“Is Suguru with you?” You huffed, the sharp edge of the counter starting to dig through your thin dress. Although, it was probably closer to lingerie than an actual sundress. 

“He’s not home yet?” 

You were expecting some annoying arrogant reply - that Suguru was strong enough to take care of himself blah blah blah or how cute it was that you were worrying about them yada yada. Not an actual response that came close to concern. 

“Is everything okay?” You bluntly asked, frowning while you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder, reaching up to pull down a couple plates from the cabinet. 

“Why wouldn't it be?” Gojo awkwardly coughed, the usual cockiness that marked every word absent. 

“Something you wanna tell me?” You impatiently huffed, foot tapping against the tile. After the shitty day you had at your own job, the last thing you needed was whatever idiotic thing they'd gotten themselves in now. You'd been hoping for a quiet evening in with Suguru, had cooked him a nice dinner, lit a few candles, put on some soft music along with the tiniest thong you owned. 

“No?” 

Yeah, right. 

In the years you'd known Satoru, he'd never answered a question with just a single word. 

The plate pinched between your fingers slipped, hitting the marble with a crash! when it broke into big shards on impact. You winced at the sound, carefully picking it up piece-by-piece and tossing them into the open trash can by the counter. 

“Did something happen? Are you okay?” Gojo's panicked voice called out to you from your phone's precariously cradled position. You couldn't stifle your giggle.

“Oh? Is the great Satoru Gojo worried about me?” You teased. Seriously, what was his deal today? 

His laugh was dangerous, an octave lower than usual when it reverberated through you. It almost sounded like he was there, purring it directly in your ear. 

“You should be more careful,” He warned. Maybe Suguru had finally started wearing off on him. 

“I should, hm?” 

“It almost sounds like you're flirting with me,” He chided with a click of his tongue. 

“You wish,” You laughed. 

A thud by the entryway distracted you, keys jingling as the lock started to turn. Gojo started to say your name, all soft and low, and something pricked at the back of your brain, like an itch you couldn't scratch. 

“Whatever, weirdo,” You sighed. “Just forget about it. Suguru’s here.”

You hung up before he could keep you on the line and longer, sitting your phone on the counter and finding another tiny shattered piece of ceramic to toss out, heavy footsteps echoing on the floor behind you. 

“Sugu-” 

Your greeting was cut off by massive hands on your waist, fingers wrinkling the soft fabric of your dress as his thumbs traced little crescent moons along your back, a head nuzzling against the crook of your collarbone. 

“Did someone miss me?” You teased, trying to crane your neck back to take a peek only for him to squeeze you tighter. His lips grazing against the column of your throat, his breath cool on your skin. 

“Maybe,” He murmured, teeth nipping at your ear while you squealed and twisted away from him. 

A pretty bouquet of white roses was tossed on the counter next to the sink, a few of the petals starting to get crushed from where it was laying. 

“Those for me?” You suppressed your smile, ignoring the way one of his hands was currently sliding underneath the hem of your dress while you picked up the flowers, careful not to get picked by the thorns poking out underneath the thin ribbon they were tied together with. 

“Mhm,” His honeyed hum was soothing, music to your ears while he started to pepper your neck with gentle kisses, brushing the thin strap of your dress off your shoulder. 

“What's the occasion?” You giggled, taking a tiny whiff of them. 

“Can't I just get my pretty girl some flowers?” He practically whined behind you, his firm chest pressed against your back. You were used to him being glued to you after he got home, but usually it was just a hand on your back, a hip brushing against yours, just small expressions of his casual affection. The weight of his presence threatened to swallow you already, his mouth tracing your collarbone like he really might consume you before the night had even started. 

“As long as they're not apology flowers for something stupid you and Gojo did,” You hummed, relaxing back into him. 

He didn't say anything to that. 

“Sugu,” You started disapprovingly, about to scold him before he turned you around, quick to cop a feel while he did, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing hard when he picked you up and sat you down on the counter so you could properly face him. 

“I didn't do anything,” He asserted, dark eyes settling on you and trailing south, savoring each second like he was drinking the image of you in. A sharp canine biting down on his lower lip when his gaze settled on the cleavage spilling out. 

Maybe it was silly. 

But it felt like the first time he'd seen them all over again. How lovestruck he looked the longer his stare lingered, the sharp little exhales he barely seemed to manage, something hanging thick in the narrow space between you. 

“If you say so,” You yielded, delicately pinching a white petal between your fingers appreciatively, admiring his selection. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, faint lines etched into the skin when he pressed another featherlight kiss on your forehead. “Grab the vase for these?”

The curve of his mouth turned down, faltering for a second when he looked down at you. 

“Could you, um, remind me where it is?” He apologetically requested, going to scratch the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair. 

You squinted at him. 

Was he being serious?

“Under the sink?” Unless you were somehow misremembering, he was the one who stuck it there last. 

“Oh, yeah,” He sighed. Reluctantly pulling away to bend down and open the cabinet, moving sponges and the dishwasher detergent over until he found the vase tucked in the back corner. 

You watched him fill it up, his fingers clumsily clasped around the bottled neck of it, shutting off the water and taking the flowers from your hand to plop them inside. 

“You okay?” The hard edge of the counter bit into your palm as you scooted closer to the edge, eyes narrowed as they focused on him. He was quick to return to you, sturdy thighs nudging your own further apart, the tent in his pants only obvious when it suddenly pressed against you. 

“Long day,” Your boyfriend mumbled, looking at your lips like they were the only thing he'd been thinking about. 

“I'm sorry,” You murmured back, leaning in to plant a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

His hand caught your chin though, pulling you in closer, your cheeks almost squished under his firm hold. His thumb digging in on one side while his index finger pressed into the hard line of your jaw, his mouth colliding against yours. Your lips parted automatically for him, his tongue immediately slipping between them, fervently exploring your mouth like you were tonight's meal, brushing against the ridges of your teeth and sliding over your own. It was sloppy, hungry, his lower lip soft and swollen while you sucked on it. Running your fingers through his silky hair, pulling the hair tie out of the messy half-bun he'd thrown it into earlier, brushing back the bangs that framed the sharp planes of his face. 

He didn't pull away until you were almost out of air, tilting your chin up while you both sucked in ragged breaths. 

“Baby,” You softly said, stroking his hair like all the muscles in your thighs weren't pulled tight, like there wasn't a growing damp spot soaking through the lace separating you from him. His eyes were closed, melting into your touch, his head relaxing into the palm of your hand. “Dinner's getting cold.”

“I want something else to eat,” His voice was raspy, a low hum that came from the back of his throat. Going back to kissing you the second the last word left his mouth, his mouth marking what felt like every inch of your neck, the ghost of his lips going from butterfly kisses to hot and heavy sucks that would surely leave bruises by tomorrow, lewd pops! joining the sound of your broken breathing. 

The friction of his erection rubbing slowly against your clit through the barely-there fabric of your thong was tantalizing. One hand hiking higher and higher up your thigh until one sturdy finger slipped under the band of your underwear, toying with it while you tugged on his hair. You could barely think straight, brain addled between his hands and his mouth and even just his cologne, warm and woody and as intoxicating as the rest of him. 

“Oh?” You could hardly choke the syllable out, shakily exhaling when his teeth scraped against the fragile skin of your throat. Instinctively chasing the more, more, more your brain was screaming for, you rolled your hips up trying to soothe the already aching bundle of nerves starving for attention, a desperate moan escaping his throat at how snugly your body was pressed against his. 

“Angel, please.”

You paused, but he was too lost in the moment to notice. Nudging the straps of your dress down further until he freed both your breasts, assuming your flinch was just from the cold air on your nipples, bending down so he could pop one in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around it, teeth graze against the sensitive nub. 

It wasn't Suguru. 

Only one person you knew would call you something like that. Or beg before you'd even so much as touched his dick. 

Those stupid fucking assholes. 

Suguru - or Satoru, you technically supposed - bit down again, sucking a harsh spot on your tit, about to pull your panties down with his other hand just to accidentally tug too hard, the dainty fabric tearing with a loud rip! 

“Oops,” He paused to grin up at you, his smile too wide, eyes too big when they landed on yours. Only further convincing you of the growing suspicion that this was not in fact your boyfriend. 

Weird curse stuff just sorta came with the territory - you knew that when you started dating him. Especially considering some of the, uh, bizarre aftereffects that sometimes came with his technique. You experienced that firsthand when he came home one night a few months ago after swallowing some filthy fucking lust curse. 

But this? 

“Oops?” You echoed, chewing on your bottom lip while he licked a clean stripe back up your neck, kissing your jaw again while he removed the now-useless scrap of fabric between your thighs, not-so-discreetly pocketing it. 

“M’ sorry,” He murmured, hands drifting back down to your ass when he picked you up, not pausing his onslaught of kisses carrying you through the kitchen into the hall until he reached the bedroom, kicking the door open a little too hard, the knob hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud. 

You barely processed your back hitting the mattress, the hem of your dress bunching up past your hips as the familiar weight of his frame climbed on top of you. His mouth made its way south, eager to claim every inch for himself, spreading your thighs with those huge palms and practically panting at how exposed you were. 

If you were right, and this was Satoru, you guessed that meant you must've been talking to your real boyfriend on the phone earlier. You fucking knew something was off. And he didn't say a word. 

You were going to kill both of them. 

They shared almost everything. Were you really that surprised you hadn't turned out to be the exception?

“God, you're so gorgeous,” He wasn't really even talking to you, muttering to himself while he admired you splayed out in his best friend's bed, on his best friend's sheets. 

You'd never taken any of his teasing seriously. It was just in his nature. A player, a flirt. Sure, you’d never actually seen him with any girls. But you just always assumed they existed. 

Maybe it was just because he was in Suguru's body, but he seemed so sincere, your name falling in a dreamy little sigh from his lips. 

Suguru had to know what Satoru would do once he came home. So why let him? Unless you were the pawn or prize in whatever game they were playing. 

If that was the case, you weren't going to settle for anything less than being the winner. 

You reached down, running your fingers through his hair again, playing with the ends between your fingers and humming quietly. 

“Suguru,” You purred, reminding your friend exactly who he was supposed to be imitating as he hesitated between your thighs. 

“Hm?” He didn't, or couldn't, tear his gaze away, his rough thumb absentmindedly tracing figure-eights along your hip, probably not even aware of how much he was fidgeting. 

“I thought you were hungry?” You innocently pouted, batting your lashes at him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Whatever faint restraint he'd been exercising snapped. 

The sharp point of his nose bumping into your clit as he pressed his tongue hard and flat across your entrance, dark glossy eyes fluttering shut while he pushed down your thighs, pressing them into the plush mattress. 

Even if he looked like Suguru, it didn't feel like Suguru. 

He was messy, overeager, his tongue lapping up every ounce, every drop you offered, devoted swirls exploring you. Open-mouthed kisses where his taste buds scraping against the inside of your walls, groaning with every squirm and gasp he elicited. It didn't take him long to figure out where your weak spots were, working them over and over again, ignoring how tightly your thighs were clenched around his head, your fingers pulling at his hair. 

“S-shit,” You whined, clawing at the sheets when his tongue slipped out, feeling yourself throb at the absence until his mouth wrapped around your clit. It almost felt like he tore the next moan out of you, the neglected bud sore, blind need pooling in your gut while his tongue roughly circled it. 

His touch wasn't as practiced, wasn't as steady, but what he lacked in rhythm, he sure as fuck made up for in earnestness. 

Suguru Satoru was clawing at your hips, pulling you into the warmth of his mouth while your back arched off the bed, needy whimpers rolling off your tongue while he dove back in to taste you again. It could've been intentional, how he was constantly readjusting like he was still getting used to Suguru's body, but his nose kept ghosting against your clit, the knot in your stomach getting tighter every time he did, desperation clawing its way to the surface as the heat rose to your face when you remembered who was eating you out like he was fucking starving. 

“S-” You stopped yourself, not entirely convinced whose name was about to leave your mouth. 

“Mm?” 

You covered your mouth with your hand, muffling your moan when his nose edged against you again, all the nerves in your body begging for him to keep going. 

But he caught a glimpse of you, his thin brows scrunching together while he narrowed his eyes at you. Pushing off your thighs until he was hovering back over you, pulling your hand away from your lips. 

“Wanna hear you, pretty girl,” He complained, digging his knee up until it was snugly shoved against your entrance, leaving a damp spot on the baggy fabric of his pants, gradually applying more pressure as if the friction alone wasn't enough to drive you insane. 

“Sugu,” You mewled, pushing your bottom lip out just for him to snag it between his canines, capturing your mouth with another searing kiss. You wondered if Satoru's pride could handle hearing his best friend's name from your lips when he was the one on top of you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbled into your mouth, groaning when you bucked your hips up to meet the slow grind of your boyfriend's cock against your clit. You let your head rest against the soft pillow underneath you, a quiet whimper falling out when he smothered your face with more kisses. 

“Remember what we were talking about a few nights ago?” You asked, knowing he'd be forced to lie either way considering the conversation in question never happened, just something you made up. 

“What about it?” He tested the waters, doing a poor job at mimicking the sultry silk of your boyfriend's typically reserved voice. He pulled away until his nose was brushing against yours, your fingers grazing over his smooth cheek, his marble complexion. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” You drawled, running your thumb over his defined cheekbone, a nervous glint in his eyes he couldn't hide at how you trailed off. 

“And?” He pressed, something damp leaking through his pants onto your thigh. 

“Mm, maybe we should invite Gojo over,” You suggested, leaving the implication hanging in the air, feel the energy shift when it finally struck him. 

“Oh.” 

His cock twitched against you, begging to be set free while his mouth hung open. 

“You change your mind?” You teased, craning your neck up to plant butterfly kisses along his throat, tracing the tendons there the same way you'd done hundreds of times before. 

“N-no,” He stammered, a throaty grunt falling out when your hand trailed down his chest, running two fingers along the band of his pants before slipping them underneath his boxers, collecting the pre-cum that had leaked out and slathering up-and-down his thick shaft. The vein running along its side was bulging, throbbing more with every slow stroke of your fingers wrapped around his girth. “I-I can call him.”

He didn't really look like he wanted to though, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, jaw slack like your hand alone was heaven. 

“Uh-huh?” 

Suguru wasn't normally this sensitive, moaning at every little touch, putty in your palm. 

“Whatever you want,” He ran his tongue along his bottom lip like he was savoring the traces of you left there. It was probably wrong of you, but you sucked hard on his neck, hoping to leave a patchwork of blue and purple hickies by the time you finished, marks Suguru normally would have scolded you for, but Satoru seemed to worship, freely groaning every time your teeth brushed against him. He hissed when your grip tightened, rutting up into your hand. “Fuck, angel.”

Too distracted, too worked up to think of anything except the friction of your palm against his shaft, he didn't notice when your other hand slipped into his left pocket, plucking Suguru's phone out. Unlocking it just to find a message from ‘Gojo’ already there, along with all the unread ones you'd sent earlier. Your boyfriend so kindly informed him to go ahead and try, and what he was implying only irritated you more. 

Your reply was short. 

Come over. 

How long would it take him to show?

Gojo could teleport, and while you had no idea if that meant Suguru would also technically be able to, the idea of your boyfriend popping in to find you jerking him but also not-him off had your blood rushing south. Your frustration fighting the lust clouding your judgment, all the cells in your body currently occupied by the thought that one of them better make you cum soon.

“There,” You mumbled, and he peeked at you through half-lidded eyes, lost in his own sea of desire.  

“What?” He choked out, his voice thick as you continued pumping in your steady rhythm, his breath hitching. 

You dangled the phone in front of him briefly, having to stretch to deposit it on the nightstand by your boyfriend's thin pair of reading glasses he'd left there this morning. Straining to reach over and flick the lamp on, the fading evening sunlight throwing long shadows across your bedroom. His expression twisted for a second, and you couldn't tell what he must've been thinking, but it melted into almost ecstasy when your fingers grazed against his sensitive tip. 

“Toru should be here soon,” You murmured, slowly enunciating the nickname you rarely ever used for him, feeling him twitch at the way it rolled off your tongue. 

“Toru?” You were pretty sure he was trying to sound jealous, but he couldn't hide the hint of pride, his ego inflating just from you mentioning him.

“Mhm,” You purred, probably having more fun than you should at playing with him the same way he always toyed with you. “You know, I think he might have a little crush on me.”

“W-what?” Hearing your boyfriend stutter was delicious, to see his composure crack so easily. 

“You don't think so?” You teased, your hand jerking up and earning a low hiss. 

“I don't know,” He breathlessly murmured, his cheeks flushed pink. 

“Take your clothes off,” You tutted, arching your brows up and pausing there. 

His moan was nothing short of filthy, his cock jerking up when your hand didn't move. 

“You’re not gonna cum just from a little hand job, right honey?” You taunted, finger drifting across the slick slit along the top, another gutteral noise leaving him like he was letting you know he very well might finish before the real Suguru could show. 

“Course not,” He scoffed, but it came out more like a whine. 

“Then. Take. Your. Clothes. Off.” You repeated, punctuating each word with a slow drag of your fingers along the throbbing vein, watching his cheeks hollow while he sucked on his molars. 

“Fine,” He grimaced, pulling away to remove his shirt first, tugging it over his head and quickly working to pull his pants and boxers down in a single fluid movement. His cock was so red it must've hurt, damp and slick as it sprung up to smack into the hard muscle of his abdomen, your eyes lingering when they landed on his dark happy trail. 

When he wasn't talking, his mouth set in the same hard line and eyes fogged with hunger, it would be easy to convince yourself he was Suguru. 

The knock down the hall reminded you who was really the one standing naked in front of you.

“Should I-”

“The door's unlocked,” You shrugged before you could finish, propping yourself up on your elbows while you tilted your head to the side. “Besides, can't he just teleport inside?”

You waited for an excuse, for him to give their little game away, but he didn't. 

“Yeah, you're right,” He murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling you into his lap, taking the hem of your dress between his fingers and lifting it up over your head, discarding it with the rest of his clothes scattered on the floor. 

The door creaked open at the same moment he unclasped your bra, his tip twitching against the hood of your clit at the slow sound of footsteps approaching.

It was funny, they were lighter than Suguru's, a little softer, but they had the same rhythm, one you automatically recognized as his. 

“You nervous, baby?” You whispered, caressing his cheek. 

“No,” Satoru huffed, brows furrowed together tightly.

Liar. 

You were about to turn to face the open doorway, but his mouth landed on yours before you could, kissing you like it might be the last time he’d be able to. Which you guessed could be true, that even if Suguru told him he could try to fuck you, he might actually kill Satoru for it if he discovered just how close he'd already come. 

His lips tearing at yours, a hand on your lower back holding you firmly against his chest while his tongue traced your teeth, slid against your own. 

The actual Suguru cleared his throat.

But Satoru refused to back off, his thumb brushing over the ridges of your spine, canines tugging at your kiss-bruised lips. 

“Started without me, huh?” Gojo's taunting voice called out, the wooden frame of the door creaking like he was resting his weight on it. 

You managed to twist your head, lips pressing messy kisses along your neck while you assessed your new company. 

Intense blue eyes narrowed, white brows scrunched together and his jaw set tight while his gaze slowly scanned over your bare body, probably already littered with hickies and bruises. He reminded you of a big cat, how leisurely he measured you, his stare flitting from you to him and back to you. Hands slung in his pockets, amusement and maybe something darker, more possessive glimmering in his eyes when they locked with yours. The lights flickered for just a second, a small crackle hanging in the open space, the air thick and charged. 

“Sorry,” Satoru apathetically shrugged, unbothered while his other hand groped at your breast. 

Your boyfriend wasn't looking at him(self) though, focused entirely on you. 

“Suguru,” You let out a soft moan, not breaking his stare while Satoru hummed happily, rolling a nipple between his fingers, content to keep the charade up. 

The one you were actually talking to smirked. A little crooked smile smugly curling up to let you know he knew you knew. 

“Mm, what, sweetheart?” Satoru whispered into your skin. 

“You're being a little rude ignoring our guest,” You scolded, grinding against him just enough for him to get his teeth. 

“M’sorry,” He apologized again, warm eyes fluttering open when you climbed off of him, his fingertips grazing against your wrist in an attempt to stop you before you started walking over to where Suguru was leaning against the frame, and his usually passive expressions were even harder to read when they were hidden under a new face. 

You hadn't been nervous before. 

But walking up to Gojo while you were naked, even if you knew it was actually your Suguru was unnerving, anxiety pricking at you when you pressed a finger against his chest, just for nothing to stop you. Heart lurching in your chest, lungs no longer working when you realized infinity was on. But then he let out a small, almost inaudible sigh, and the tip of your finger was suddenly wrinkling the tight white shirt covering his broad frame. 

The dull thrum of blood rushing to your head filled your ears at the way his unnatural eyes seemed to be scrutinizing every inch of your skin, how much they seemed to burn for you the longer he looked. 

“Well?” You cocked your head to the side, hoping to come across as far more confident than you really were when you knew he'd be able to see straight through you. 

“You wanted me here,” Suguru simply said, choosing his words carefully. The game had changed, morphed into something new, trying to make the other break first, come clean, an implicit sort of understanding exchanged in his heavy state. 

“I thought you'd be a little more excited,” You tried to sigh like you were disappointed, starting to turn around just for a hand to snag your waist, his tongue clicking when he pulled you back. 

“Did I say I wasn't?” He muttered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his arm snaking around your back to hold you closer until your tits were practically squished against his chest. 

Your attempt to slip away was futile, his grip only getting tighter when you peered up at him, your stomach twisting when all you found was Gojo's face looking down at you, the messy white hair and the bright blue eyes you’d never seen so close, pretty pink lips pursed together. 

It's not like you'd never realized he was attractive. But it'd always been more like a fact, something you'd never really paid attention to. You realized with abject horror that holy shit, you were attracted to him when your breath hitched in your throat, your thighs pressing together at his sudden proximity. 

“You’re a dick,” You mumbled, squirming under his hold. You weren't positive which one you were talking to - honestly, probably both. 

“Oh yeah?” Suguru chuckled, the sound of Gojo's lighthearted laughter doing nothing to soothe your nerves. 

“Yeah,” You managed a tiny nod, sucking in short inhales, feeling like you were being crushed under his piercing gaze. 

Someone else's hand found your hip, familiar callouses claiming you as a firm chest pressed against your back, Satoru's other one tangling itself in your hair and tugging, your head forced to tilt back to look up at the dark-haired man you were used to waking up with. 

Caught between the two of them, not sure if you were ensnared in their trap or if was the other way around when you craned your neck up to smash a kiss against your not-boyfriend’s mouth, forcing the real one to watch as your tongue slipped between his lips, explored every nook and cranny you’d already committed to memory. 

“Honey,” You whispered when you broke away, studying his jaw, all his familiar features, somehow still stuck reminding yourself that it wasn't Suguru when he looked at you like that. The unspoken affection, the searing adoration in the amber glow when it caught the light from the lamp. 

“What’s my girl want?” Satoru teased, a deep hum in your ear. 

“I want you,” You bit your lip when he gave your hair another tug, swallowing hard. 

“You heard her,” Satoru mockingly addressed Suguru, oblivious to the fact he was really the one left out, unaware that the charade had been up before he’d gotten his first real taste of you. 

“You can watch,” You let your gaze linger on Suguru, while Satoru pulled you free from his grasp and tossed you onto the bed. 

All you heard was one short exhale before Suguru relegated himself to the oversized armchair in the corner of the room. It was supposed to be a small reading nook, tucked between the tall bookcase he built for you over the summer and the tall mirror leaning against the wall. Certainly not meant for this. 

But his expression didn't change. 

Lips pressed together, the muscles in his jaw pulled tight while he watched the bounce of your breasts when you hit the mattress, watched his own hands pry your thighs apart to reveal how wet you were, a few faint red splotches staining your skin to hint at what had happened before he arrived. He didn't miss the way you were watching him either. A small part of you wondered just how much he could see with Gojo's technique, considering he hadn't shown up with any of the blindfolds or bandages or sunglasses the latter usually always had with him. 

But Satoru snapped you back to reality, grabbing both wrists in one huge hand and pinning them above your head, nudging your legs just enough to line himself up properly, his movements still jerky, still adjusting to his new proportions. 

You had one singular moment of clarity. A split second where you realized you were actually about to let Gojo fuck you. Okay, yes, he was in Suguru's body, it was still technically him. 

And the next moment he was sinking into you, and fuck, you nearly forgot everything at how fast he filled you. Whimpers your brain could barely recognize as your own falling out freely when he started fucking you like you really were his girl. 

Dark bangs falling in his face, the first beads of sweat sitting his forehead, hovering over you like he was trying to sear what you looked like underneath him in his brain. 

His thumb digging into the divot of your wrist, the mattress creaking when he found a pace bordering on brutal. Each thrust hard and fast, his hips smacking against your skin while you hooked one leg around his waist, your chest heaving with every shuddered breath. 

“Mine,” He murmured, low enough you suspected he hadn't intended for Suguru to hear, but in the blurred edges of your vision, you caught the way your boyfriend's fist tightened, how white his knuckles were. 

You figured it was a fifty-fifty chance on whether Satoru was saying it purely to piss him off or if he was trying to stay in-character. 

“Mm, all yours,” You whined back, straining under his grip, absolutely hoping to get a reaction out of Suguru. 

You'd never expected Satoru to be so, well, desperate. 

It almost felt like he was trying to brand you, ingrain himself so deeply you'd never be able to root him out. 

“I wanna touch you,” You jutted out your bottom lip, flexing the tendons in your wrist where his hold was starting to ache. His hips stuttered at your request, pausing to recollect himself, his hair hanging down in a thick curtain. Releasing your hands with a heavy breath, cock twitching when you reached up to brush his bangs back. 

It had to be muscle memory. 

But you could've sworn you saw his lips mouthing an ‘I love you’ before they met yours. 

Satoru never really gave your thoughts the time to linger on anything though, hips pounding into you, trying to press the shape of you into the squeaking mattress, the bed’s wooden headboard smacking into the wall in time with every forceful thrust. 

Mumbling mindless compliments into your skin between every kiss, promises of how pretty you looked like this, how much he was yours. 

As much as you loved hearing those words come from Geto's mouth, the shriveled up leftovers of your logic reminded you that just because Satoru never shut up, it didn't mean he actually meant any of it. 

It was just his dick talking. 

Probably. 

He had one hand behind your neck, cradling your head up so it was easier for him to kiss you, distracting you from where his other one was heading until it was already there, his fingers forming a sharp ‘V’ as they skimmed over your clit, teasingly kimming over it just to return to massage rough patterns over it, not very discreetly experimenting with what made you gasp, thighs squeezing around him. Your own fingers tangled in his hair pulling free to scramble for his broad shoulder blades, the nails scratching down his back earning you a heedy moan, his hips suddenly bucking up, and you weren't sure what pushed you over, the tip grinding hard against the spongy little spot at the back or how he rolled the already overworked bundle of nerves between his index and thumb, but you were crying out, tiny stars dotting your vision eyes clenched shut, legs quivering when you came.

“Fuck, you're gonna make me-” His quiet curse was cut short with a raspy moan, stalling out inside you, frozen except for the breaths he managed to suck in and force out, finishing earlier than he'd intended.

The thick warmth of his cum already started to leak down the inside of your thighs, coating his still-throbbing shaft when he reluctantly pulled out.

You kissed him anyway. 

The same way you had when you still thought he was Suguru, just a tender one pressed to the edges of his lips before he untangled himself from you, flipping over next to you to stare at the ceiling fan slowly spinning overhead. 

Suguru laughed. 

“It's my turn, isn't it?” 

The lilt of his voice, the way his mouth quirked up in half a smile stole the breath from your throat. 

You could feel your chin turn up, but you couldn't control it, couldn't move when it felt like all you did was blink and he was standing up, article after article of clothing being peeled off, tossing them over to the half-empty laundry basket in the closet. Satoru was still dazed, blinking lazily next to you, head reclined back on the pillow, Adam's apple bobbing through his ragged breathing. 

“Well?” Suguru mimicked your tone from earlier, padding over to your side of the bed left only in a plain white pair of boxers. Propping yourself up on your elbows, your eyes automatically trailing down his sculpted chest, the defined muscles of his abs down to the trail of white peeking out above the band of his underwear. In a fluid movement, he was shedding those off too, his cock springing up the second it was free. 

And shit, Gojo really had won the fucking generic lottery when he was born, because how the fuck was that fair? Even his dick was pretty. Not quite as thick as Suguru's, but longer, a slight curve to it, the tip a tantalizing pink. 

You had to swallow the spit pooling in your mouth. 

“Forget how to use your words?” He tsk-ed, one knee sinking into the mattress next to you, a soft hand slipping down to the small of your back and pulling into the warmth of his chest. Picking you up, holding you how he always had, cradling you and carrying you in front of the mirror. But he smelled like Satoru, the candied scent of his cologne, the sweetness flooding your nostrils. 

“No,” You choked out, loathing how small it sounded. Staring at the sharp outline of his collarbones so you didn't have to look at his face, brain refusing to reconcile who you were looking at with who it actually was.

Suguru wasn't having it. 

It was hard to tell what happened first when you still felt so dizzy, how fast he sat down, his hand twisting you around so you were on his lap, his chest on your back, his erection pressed against your spine. Forced to meet your own glossy eyes in the mirror, the necklace of hickeys left around your throat, your trembling body perched prettily on Gojo's thighs. His fingers pulling your thighs apart, repositioning you until you were directly above the dripping tip, your mouth dry at the thought of taking all of him like this. 

You didn't think it'd fit. 

For all your teasing and taunting, he was about to give you back everything you gave him tenfold. 

“Su-” You nearly slipped up, blinking too fast. 

But he shoved two fingers in your mouth, muffling your voice before Satoru overheard and spoiled the fun. 

Automatically, you parted your lips for him, swirling your tongue around his knuckles, sucking softly, lashes fluttering closed while he ghosted over your entrance, his free hand tugging your hips down, pushing himself in inch by excruciating inch. 

“C’mere,” He murmured in your ear, forcing past barely-there ring of resistance, all your muscles squeezing hard around him like he was the interloper here. 

“Oh, oh,” You panted, probably incoherent talking with his fingers pressed against your tongue like that. Your thighs quivering with the strain of being spread so open, your sore walls stretching around the delicious length of his shaft, the veins throbbing inside you while he continued to hold you down, slowly filling you up.

“Sweetheart,” He purred, using the same saccharine voice Gojo always did, and you almost jolted, squirming, but he just chuckled dryly, clicking his tongue as he paused, the sound not quite covering your own whimper. Your chin tilted up, head reclining back to rest against his chest, pushing puffs of air out of your nose, clawing for some tiny sliver of control. 

“Fuck,” The sound of Suguru's voice from across the room, Satoru finally noticing what you and your boyfriend were doing with his body. 

Peeking through heavy lashes to find his dark gaze in the mirror, his jaw slack at the sight of you looking so fucked-out on top of him, the needy noises pouring out despite the fingers still stuck in your mouth. 

“Eyes on me,” Your boyfriend muttered, his quiet voice firm when you pulled your attention back to the man behind you in the mirror. 

Cold blue eyes locked onto yours, his pale cheeks making the flush show easier, his lips a pretty shade of pink while they left phantom kisses across the column of your throat. 

“Please,” You whispered against his fingers, his twitch feeling more like torture the longer he refused to move. 

He pulled his fingers out, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip with a pleased sigh, slowly skimming his hand down your front so he could hold your other hip, his touch surprisingly delicate, controlled. 

“You really want me to fuck you while your boyfriend watches?” Suguru mocked, and you guessed it wasn't even incorrect in his assessment even if he was just playing his role. And really, he made a far better Gojo than the cheap imitation Satoru had been giving you of Geto. 

You shakily nodded, your own hands gripping onto his, fingers laced between his much longer ones, the pad of your thumb rubbing tiny circles over his knuckles, a silent reminder that you loved him despite whatever lengths you were both willing to go to win this stupid game. 

“Please,” You repeated. 

He bottomed out before you could breathe, his hips jerking up at the same time as he yanked you down, his tip not grazing, but smashed against your womb, deep enough that you were instinctively falling forward, trying to wiggle away, but he pulled you back before you could hit the mirror. 

Whatever sound came out was strangled, your brain and your guts quite literally being scrambled by his rough thrusts, his hands easing you up just to spear you back down, feeling almost like you were being split open on his intimidating length.

“I-I,” You were stammering, gasping for air when every stroke seemed to slam the breath right out of you. 

“What, baby?” He teased, his left hand drifting up to the bare strip of your midriff below your belly button, pressing down on it as if he could feel himself there. 

“S’ too much,” You practically slurred, drunk on him and the stretch and the burn. He leaned in closer until his canines were teasing at your earlobe, shivering at how much of his body was already connected with yours. 

“My love,” He coo-ed, for your ears only, lost under the filthy smack of his hips against your skin, the sloppy noises of him bucking up into you. “You can take it.”

It was embarrassing how easily he was pushing you back towards the edge, already on the precipice of another orgasm. Knowing your body like the back of his hand, angling himself to hit the same spongy spot as before, tears brimming along your lashes at how wrong right it felt. 

How wrecked he looked in the mirror didn't help. 

The stark white hair glued to his forehead with sweat, the muscles straining in his face, his bicep bulging, his fingers splayed out further to press down harder on your stomach, your body locking up when he drove himself deeper. 

“S-Satoru,” You whined, starting to wonder if his dick was somehow lodged in your throat with how hard it was to manage less than a handful of syllables out. 

“Mm?”

“Yeah?”

Idiots. 

Suguru paused mid-thrust, sighing, stark-white eyebrows furrowed in frustration when he realized Satoru actually responded at the same time as him. 

You both turned, peering over Gojo's shoulder at the real him. 

You didn't think you'd ever seen Geto make that face, the panic that tinged his features, his mouth hanging open like even Satoru couldn't believe he'd given himself away. 

“I-uh, listen,” He started to speak again, until his dark eyes narrowed, belatedly realizing that all your faces reflected was mild annoyance instead of confusion. 

“I think I still won,” You peered up at your boyfriend with a little huff, pouting. 

“Did you now?” He wryly murmured back, and you knew you lost when all it took was a harsh roll of his hips for you to moan his name this time. 

“Shit, Suguru,” You whined, gripping his right hand tight to anchor yourself when you were already fully at his whim. You were throbbing around him, the heat building from within, the swollen bundle of nerves starting to ache from his neglect. 

“Giving up already?” He taunted. 

You stayed silent, lips pressed together tight to hold in what might've been a rebuttal or begging. 

“Oh?” 

He hoisted you up, your whine at how empty you felt without him ringing through the room until he positioned you on the bed, manhandling you into place until you were on your hands and knees in front of his best friend. Satoru was blinking hard,  sitting up and staring at you like he couldn't believe you were real. 

It was something you'd seen before. 

The silky black hair, the bangs stuck to his skin, the veins popping out on his fist when it was wrapped around his cock, a weird sort of comfort reassuring you at the soft sound of your name falling out of his mouth. 

“When did you figure-”

“The kitchen,” You started to shrug, a barely-there smile curling up until Suguru suddenly slid inside, not stopping until he managed to snugly force himself in to the hilt, your lips falling open as you made a strangled yelp. 

The force of it pushing you forward, your hand grabbing one of Geto's sturdy thighs, scrambling for something to hold onto, Gojo's nails clawing at your hips, probably leaving little crescent moons on your skin. You doubted Suguru even realized it, his own usually clipped too-short to ever leave marks. 

Geto's cock was barely inches away, the thick vein running along the side pulsing, Satoru apparently throbbing at the sight of him fucking you like you were on some invisible leash. 

He might as well have been drooling. 

“I think he needs a little help, baby,” Suguru was making fun of him, but you didn't think Satoru had it in him to care about anything other than the need that was surely coiling just as tightly inside him as it was in you. 

“Yeah?” You asked him, trailing your hand higher until it was cupping his balls, just close enough for your fingers to brush against where his own were wrapped so tightly around his dick. “You want my help, Toru?”

His hand jerked up hard when you leaned in to slowly wrap your mouth around his tip, the point of your tongue slowly swirling over it. 

You were content to keep teasing him, but your boyfriend had something else in mind, his next thrust unexpectedly forcing you to take Satoru in, the vein thrumming along your tongue as he hit the back of your throat. You nearly gagged, barely stopping yourself from biting down when you couldn't even breathe. 

“Doin’ so good,” Suguru murmured softly, appreciatively, trailing delicate fingers across your spine to stop right at the nape of your neck, a smooth palm resting against it. You shivered, your shoulders rolling back just for him to push your head down on the last couple inches you hadn't managed to fit in your mouth before. 

“Oh fuck.”

You were inclined to agree with Satoru. 

Actually gagging now, your cheeks hollowed out in your weak attempts to bob your head up-and-down, but he was acting like it was the best head he'd ever received, his groans sticking out over the sound of skin-on-skin and the never-ending whines of the mattress (and you.)

“You okay?” Suguru muttered in your ear, his chest resting on top of your back, planting soft kisses over the sore bruises lining your collarbone. Checking in to make sure it wasn't too much like he didn't already know you just wanted more. Filled-up and fucked-out and somehow still starving for whatever affection either one would offer. 

“Mhm,” You moaned, the sound from your throat practically making the cock in your mouth jump at how needy it sounded. 

Suguru was the kind of man who'd put your needs first. 

Just in his, uh, own way. 

Something almost intangible stretching you further, almost like Suguru had somehow managed to slip a condom on without even slipping out of you. Your mind was too hazy to process what was happening while it expanded in the tiniest of increments, your body reflexively jolting forward with nowhere to go. Whimpering meekly, your fingers digging into Geto's muscled thighs like it'd help any. 

“Oh, that's mean, Suguru,” Satoru chuckled hoarsely, apparently realizing what was happening before you had. 

It wasn't until you noticed that there weren't any nails sinking into your skin, no honeyed kisses tracing your neck that you figured out Suguru was using infinity again. 

“I'm mean?” Suguru wryly scoffed, more amused than annoyed considering he was still buried deep enough inside you he could probably feel your guts. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

He leaned in impossibly close, shuddering at the immense weight of the distance bearing down on you. 

Even if they weren't both stuffing you full, you didn't know if you'd be able to formulate a reply. Stuck dumbly shaking your head no to take Suguru's side, shamelessly grinding your ass back against him, reduced to chasing your most basic instinct. 

This time Satoru laughed, laced with a tight sort of disbelief. But you went back down on him, running your tongue along the vein and feeling the automatic rut of his hips, the laughter turning into a breathy moan of your name. Reaching out to caress your face while he fucked it, clearly close to cumming again.

Probably bruising the walls of your throat with the way he was rutting up into it, the girth forced up against the roof of your mouth. The sweet nothings rolling so easily off his tongue clued you in before the vein pulsing along the swirls of your tongue did, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat, the tension in his muscles all relaxing at the same time while you struggled to swallow all of it. 

“God, I fucking adore you,” Satoru groaned, not making a move to pull out this time even after the last drops leaked out. 

“Watch your mouth, Satoru,” Suguru warned. 

“Well, technically, it's yours,” Satoru reminded him. 

Infinity flickered off. It was hard to tell if it was on purpose or if maybe it was too much to maintain.

But Satoru slipped out of your mouth, watching you through half-lidded eyes, the pupils so wide they almost looked entirely black. Combing his fingers through his long hair, untangling a tiny knot you probably put in it tugging it earlier. 

“Suguru,” You mewled, glancing over your shoulder at the white-haired sorcerer behind you, immediately regretting it at how tightly your stomach knotted at the reminder of whose body was fucking you. 

You hated to admit it, but you were nearing your limit and you wouldn't put it past him to work you well over it if you didn't concede defeat soon. 

“Yeah?” He softened, his harsh pumps easing, his thumb hooked over your hip tracing tiny patterns. 

“You win,” You muttered under your breath, biting down on your lip. 

“I know,” His voice was low, rolling straight through you, only stoking the desperation clawing its way up from your core. 

Losing was still fun when it was with him. 

His hand slipping around, not having to fumble to immediately find your clit, pinching at the sore bud just to make you gasp. 

“Say please,” He teased, your company clearly in mind considering how much he was making you beg for it. 

Satoru wasn't wrong. Suguru could be mean. You just liked it. 

“Please,” Your whisper was more of a rattle, your vocal cords straining to get the noise out. But it was enough. The pressure of his fingers working circles over your clit, massaging the same determined motions against it, damp streaks trailing down your cheeks at the tears brimming over your lashes. 

The crescendo finally cresting, a white-hot wave of pleasure hitting you when pressed down just right. Blinding you to anything else other than the way he burned inside you, the ache in your heart at his proximity. You were only dimly aware of him cumming a handful of seconds later, just a faint inkling of surprise that he hadn't pulled out considering he was in Gojo's body, your already slick thighs pressing together when he pulled out like it'd contain what was dripping down them. 

Your knees buckled, body simply refusing to support your weight and brain doing nothing to stop it. 

Satoru caught you, leaning over to hook a sturdy arm around you and pull you on top of him, his other palm pressing your head down against his broad frame. His skin was still sticky, slick with sweat, every breath he forced in and out of his lungs making his chest move, the steady thrum of his heartbeat reverberating in your ear. 

You didn't have enough strength left to move, letting him stroke your hair softly in silence. 

Even if he wasn't currently stuck in Suguru's body, you suspected you'd still let him. 

"You're okay," You barely processed his smooth murmur, still too lost in the haze of what happened. 

"I would like my girlfriend back now," Suguru dryly remarked, a second set of hands sliding up your hips to grab your waist. 

"Mine."

Did Satoru even realize how much he sounded like a five year old trying to steal someone else's toy on the playground?

Suguru crudely laughed, and your shiver was involuntary, how wrong it sounded to hear Gojo's body sound like that. 

But he tugged you free from his own body's grasp, pulling you into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, a hand on your back to support you while he stood in front of you. 

You didn't know if you could ever get used to this.

Staring at Gojo and knowing it was really Suguru, hearing his voice and feeling his hands, picking up on all the little mannerisms you'd grown attached to over the past couple years, how strange it felt to watch someone else do them. 

"Are you-" You paused, flinching a little at how raw your throat felt. "Um, how long are you guys going to be stuck like this?"

"Dunno," Satoru chirped from the other end of the bed behind you while Suguru sighed, rolling those pretty blue eyes. 

"Shoko said it might be a day or two," Suguru answered slowly, his serious stare focused on you, a deep crease between his brows that you'd never seen on Gojo before. 

"Might?" You questioned, the first icy pinpricks of something close to dread starting to sink in at his careful choice of words. 

"She has no idea," Satoru unhelpfully chimed in again, revealing what you guessed was probably the truth judging by Suguru's strained expression. 

"You shouldn't worry about it, okay?" 

It was pretty hard not to worry when those were the words leaving Gojo's mouth. 

He leaned down to kiss you, softer this time, cupping your cheeks. You peeked, unable to help yourself. His sharp nose brushing against yours, his snowy lashes fluttered shut, the white brows peeking out above them. 

"Kiss her like you mean it," Satoru heckled, the bed creaking while he got up. Suguru scoffed at his snipe, barely breaking the kiss. But he did listen, his teeth grazing against your swollen lower lip to dip his tongue further in. 

“That better?” Suguru sarcastically remarked when he pulled away. 

“Could you do it again so I can get a picture?” Satoru was holding up his own phone, snagged from the pants Suguru had discarded earlier, his camera actually pointed towards where you were currently sitting in front of his actual body. 

You were huffing, everything aching when you scrambled back to grab a pillow from the top of the bed to throw at him, giggling to yourself when you remembered he no longer had infinity to block it, the pillow smacking him straight in the face. 

Suguru laughed at him, a lopsided smile forming when the six eyes landed on you. 

“Don't think you're off the hook either,” You pouted, common sense and reasoning starting to trickle in for the first time since Satoru showed up. 

“You wanna punish me first?” Satoru cheekily volunteered himself, not making a move to put any of his, or you guessed really any of Geto's clothes back on. 

“Shut up,” Your face was still flushed, turning away, not sure how to even keep eye contact with either of them when they were swapped like this. 

“Guess we should all just spend the night here, huh?”

poll on what happens in pt. two here

mini a/n: pls lemme know if you enjoyed hehe!!! this is meant to be a oneshot but honestly I'm so tempted to write literally a prequel a sequel and a spinoff bc I simply cannot help myself lmfao <3