archive of my own

List of part 2s:

Stepdad!Toji & his friends

Priest!Geto

Brahms!Choso

Stepcousin!Naoya

Mean!Kento

Audience Choice!

Audience Choice!

Because Choso doesn’t fight back.

He just nods. Says yes sir or I’ll fix it or nothing at all, and then he stays late, and now it’s nine at night and the rain is apocalyptic and Choso is standing by the door with his coat held over his head like it’s going to do anything against the deluge outside, and Toji remembers.

He remembers being twenty-two with a kid to feed. Remembers working three jobs and coming home to a daughter and a son who asked for nothing and got even less. Remembers the particular weight of being the only thing between someone you love and the ground giving out.

So that’s how it happens. That’s how Choso wiggles his way into the one soft spot Toji has, which isn’t soft at all, really, it’s just not actively trying to destroy something, and Toji says, gruff, not looking at him, “You don’t have a car.”

It’s not a question. Choso shakes his head.

“Train’s gonna be fucked in this.” Toji stands, grabs his keys. “Come on. You can wait it out at my place.”

Something flashes across Choso’s face. Relief, maybe, or surprise, and he tucks his chin. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate—”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t.”

But Gojo Satoru has the hearing of a fucking bloodhound when it comes to other people’s business. He materializes in the doorway like he’s been summoned by the mere possibility of inconvenience.

White hair damp at the edges, blue eyes bright with malice.

“Your place?” Gojo asks. The way he says it makes Toji want to put his fist through the wall. “In this weather? We should come too.”

“We,” Geto clarifies from behind him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t want to be here. Toji can see it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes do that thing where they go flat and resigned.

But where Gojo goes, Geto follows. It’s the law of the universe.

“There is no we,” Toji says. “There’s me taking my intern home because he’s got the survival instincts of a moist tissue, and then there’s you two finding your own way to—”

“It’s pouring,” Gojo interrupts, with the slow, careful enunciation of someone speaking to a child. “And my car is in the shop. And Geto’s being weird about driving in the rain because of that time with the hydroplaning and the ditch, which he refuses to talk about but I’m happy to elaborate—”

“Don’t,” Geto says.

“—so really, you’d be doing us a favor.” Gojo smiles. It’s the kind of smile that gets people to do things they shouldn’t.

Toji looks at Choso. Choso looks at the floor.

Fine. Fucking fine.

So that’s how Toji ends up herding three grown men into his car like they’re kindergarteners on a field trip, with Gojo in the passenger seat manspreading like he owns the place and Geto and Choso in the back. Geto is radiating disapproval and Choso is pressed against the door like he’s trying to fuse with the window on a molecular level.

The drive is fifteen minutes of Gojo’s running commentary on Toji’s driving, the radio, the state of Toji’s cup holders (“grim”), and one pointed observation about the air freshener (“is that vanilla? Really?”) that Toji ignores even if he considered homicide and found it took too much paperwork.

They arrive. They’re all soaked. Toji’s umbrella, a singular, because who the fuck brings four umbrellas to work, did approximately nothing for anyone except Toji’s left shoulder, which is marginally less wet than the rest of him.

“Dryer,” Toji says, pointing to the hallway like he’s directing traffic. “Bathroom’s there. Towels under the sink. Try not to flood my house.”

He starts the dryer. Listens to the thunk and whir of it, the sound of domestic normalcy that feels suddenly, absurdly out of place with three men dripping on his hardwood floors.

Gojo’s already making himself at home, flopping onto the couch with his wet clothes leaving dark patches on the fabric. Geto stands by the window, arms crossed, watching the rain. Choso hovers near the entryway, dripping quietly, looking like he’s about to dip whenever the opportunity arises.

Toji disappears into his bedroom, comes back with an armful of clothes. His clothes. Too big for everyone except maybe Geto, who’s built like he could deadlift a sedan.

“Here.” He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt at each of them. “Change. Or don’t. I don’t care if you catch pneumonia, but my daughter’ll bitch about it for weeks and I’m not in the mood.”

They change. Or they start to. Gojo’s already got his shirt off, all lean muscle and those scars, the ones from fighting Toji, years back, when they were enemies instead of whatever the fuck this is, mapping his torso like topography.

Geto’s more discreet, turning toward the wall.

Choso looks like he’s performing surgery on himself, every movement precise and embarrassed.

And then Gojo opens his mouth.

“So,” he says, pulling Toji’s t-shirt over his head, his voice muffled and then clear. “Is this where the magic happens?”

Silence.

Toji stares at him. “The what.”

Gojo grins. The grin that says I know something you don’t know and I’m going to enjoy telling you about it.

“You know.” He makes a gesture. Vague. Obscene. “The bedroom’s right there. Living room couch looks comfortable. Plenty of floor space. I’m just wondering about the logistics. Where you like to—” Another gesture. More specific. Involving hip movement.

Geto closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Toji can see the calculation happening behind his eyelids. The distance to Gojo’s face, the angle of his fist, the probable damage to the drywall.

“Gojo,” Geto says, and it’s the kind of warning that usually works on anyone with a working sense of self-preservation.

Gojo, famously, does not have one.

“I’m just asking a question,” he says, all false innocence. “Isn’t this where you make your daughter squirt?”

The room goes very, very still.

Choso makes a sound. A small one. Something between a gasp and a choke. His eyes wide, his whole body going rigid like he’s been hit with a taser.

Geto’s sigh is the sound of a man who has accepted that his life is a series of increasingly elaborate punishments.

And Toji…

Toji’s face does something complicated. The scar at the corner of his mouth twitches. His green eyes narrow to razors.

“Where,” he says, very carefully, each word measured and cold, “did you hear that?”

The rain hammers the roof. The dryer thumps in the hallway.

Nobody answers.

The door to the hallway swings open, and you walk in like the tension in the room is nothing but background noise. Your entrance makes four grown men turn their heads in unison, like plants turning toward light.

And you are the light.

Or something like that. You’re wearing shorts that ride high on your thighs and a tank top that does considerably less than it should. You move with the sway of someone who’s entirely unaware of their effect.

“Daddy,” You say, and your voice is sweet, syrupy. You cross the room to Toji, rising on your toes, and press a kiss to his cheek. Toji realizes with horror that his cheek is still burning from whatever the fuck Gojo just said.

His daughter. His step-daughter, technically, but the step dropped off somewhere around the time you started calling him daddy in that voice and he stopped correcting you.

“Hi daddy,” you say, pulling back, your hands on his chest. “Who’s everyone?”

The question hangs in the air for approximately half a second before Gojo is there. He takes your hand, did not ask for it by the way, and brings it to his mouth.

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says against your knuckles, his voice all sugar and razor blades. “And you are absolutely not what I expected.”

Then he’s kissing up your wrist. Slow. Each press of his lips moving higher and higher. Forearm, elbow, the soft underside of your bicep. His blue eyes never leaving your face, watching for the exact moment your breath catches.

It catches. It does.

“Gojo,” You say, like you’re testing his name on your tongue. “That’s a pretty name for someone with such grabby hands.”

He grins. “I’ve been told my hands are my best feature. Among other things.”

Behind him, Geto rolls his eyes so hard it’s practically audible.

“Geto Suguru,” Geto says, stepping forward, and the contrast is almost comical. Where Gojo is all flash and spark, Geto moves with predatory grace.

He takes your hand next, but differently. Only a single, firm press of his lips to your knuckles, his eyes dark and level. The piercings in his eyebrow catch the light. His tongue piercing makes a faint metallic sound when he speaks. “Don’t mind him. He wasn’t raised with manners.”

“I was raised with excellent manners,” Gojo protests. “They just don’t apply to pretty girls.”

“Ignore him,” Geto says, and his voice drops half an octave, the way it does when he’s actually trying to be charming instead of just terrifying. “He’s having a competition he can’t win.”

You laugh. The sound is bright and warm and does something to the room. It loosens the knots in the air and pulls the temperature up by degrees.

“And you?” You ask, turning.

Choso.

Choso is still by the doorway. Still dripping, though less now.

His shaggy hair is pulled up in those pigtails, the tattoo across his nose making him look like he’s been cracked open and hastily put back together. His tired eyes are wide. Very wide. Like his brain has short-circuited and is currently emitting a high-pitched whine audible only to dogs.

“He’s the intern,” Toji says, before Choso can find his voice. “The one who keeps fucking up my reports and drinking all my coffee and generally making my life harder than it needs to be.”

“Daddy.” your head whips around, and the sweetness in your voice crystallizes into something sharper. “That’s so mean.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s mean.” You stalk over to Choso and loop your arm through his. His whole body goes stiff, like you’ve touched him with a live wire. “Don’t mind that old man. I’m sure you try your best.”

Something about the way you say it, with the little squeeze of your arm against his, makes it sound like you’re offering something. It makes Choso’s ears go pink.

You drag him to the couch. Choso goes where you pull him, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, his expression caught between terror and a dazed wonder.

The thing about Choso, and this isn’t something anyone says out loud, is that he’s the kind of person who makes you want to fix him.

Or break him further.

Or both, in quick succession.

There’s something in those tired eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, that makes you want to put your hands on him and see what happens.

You seem to have reached the conclusion, because you’re sitting closer to him than the couch strictly requires, your thigh pressed against his, your body angled toward him like he’s the most interesting thing in the room.

Which, to be fair, he might be. The rest of the room is currently a minefield.

Toji’s face is the one you’d make if you’d just swallowed something bitter and were trying not to let it show.

“The rain,” he says, by way of explanation. His voice is gruff, roughened by something that might be embarrassment or might be the lingering heat from Gojo’s earlier question. “It’s bad. They needed a ride. They’re staying until it lets up.”

“Which could be hours,” Gojo adds cheerfully. “Maybe all night. Who knows? Weather’s unpredictable.”

No one says anything. The dryer thumps. Rain ticks against the windows.

And then Gojo, because the universe hates Toji Fushiguro, leans forward.

“So,” he says, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial and bright. “Is this where your daddy makes you cum?”

The question lands like a grenade with the pin already pulled.

Geto closes his eyes. Choso makes a sound like he’s been gut-punched and jumps from the couch. Toji’s jaw does something that involves several distinct stages of clenching.

And you don’t blush. You don’t even stammer.

You smile. Sweet and dangerous.

“Yes,” You say, and the word comes out clear and unashamed, like you’re confirming the time or the weather. “Do you want to see?”

The room stops. Completely. The air goes still. The dryer could be on another planet.

The frozen moment lasts exactly three seconds.

Then Gojo is on the couch. His long body sprawls across the cushions like he’s staking territory, one arm draped along the back, his blue eyes bright.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Yes. Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

Geto is slower. More deliberate.

He lowers himself onto the couch beside Gojo, his movements controlled, his dark eyes tracking every shift of your body.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The way he settles into the cushion like he’s preparing to witness something he plans to remember in detail says enough.

Choso does not move. He stays exactly where he is, behind the couch, his back against the wall, his hands flat at his sides.

His breathing is shallow. His tattoo seems darker against his pale skin. He looks like a man who’s been handed the thing he’s spent years pretending he didn’t want.

“Baby...” Toji’s voice. Low. Rough. The kind of rough that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You’re already moving.

The ridiculous thing, that makes Toji’s jaw tighten and something hot and helpless curl in his stomach, is that you don’t hesitate.

You climb onto the couch. On your knees. Between Gojo and Geto, your body slotting into the space between them like it was designed for it. Your thighs press against theirs. The heat of you radiate through the thin fabric of your shorts.

Then you’re pulling them down.

Not slow. Not teasing. Just efficient. Hooking your thumbs into the waistband and dragging them over your hips, down your thighs, until they’re bunched around your knees and then kicked off entirely.

No underwear. Of course there’s no underwear, because why would there be, why would this woman — his stepdaughter, his babygirl, his fucking ruin, ever make anything easy?

You lean forward. Over the back of the couch. Your ass in the air, your pussy exposed to the room, to Toji, specifically. Because you've angled herself toward him, your head tipped back to look at him over your shoulder. Your cunt is already glistening, and the sight of it does something to Toji’s brain that feels like having a circuit blown.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, very quietly.

Gojo and Geto lean forward in unison. Like synchronized predators. Their faces close to your ass, close enough that Toji can see Gojo’s breath fog the skin of your thigh.

“Fuck,” Gojo murmurs. “She’s wet already.”

“She’s always wet,” Toji says, and the pride in it is unconscious and unavoidable.

Your hand reaches forwards. You find Choso’s shirt. He’s close enough now, drawn by some gravity he doesn’t understand and your fingers curl into the fabric. You pull. Not hard. Just enough.

Choso makes a sound. A small, punched-out gasp.

“Come here,” You says, not looking at him. Can’t look at him, your face turned toward Toji, but your voice finds him anyway. “I can’t reach you.”

He lets your pull him. One step. Another. Until he’s close enough that your free hand can find the front of his pants, and then —

Gojo’s hands are on your ass. Both of them. One each, spreading your cheeks, his long fingers digging into the soft flesh with too much enthusiasm.

Geto’s hands join his, and the two of them work in tandem, spreading your wider, exposing you completely, your pussy and your asshole both on display, both slick and pulsating and waiting.

Your mouth finds Choso’s stomach. Through his shirt at first, a warm press of lips against the fabric, and then your hand is working at his belt, his button, his zipper, and Choso is making sounds that aren’t words. It’s the sounds that live in the space between want and fear. All of a sudden, his cock is in your hand.

It’s big. Hung, even. Thick and hard and straining against your palm, the head already wet at the tip.

You kiss his abs. Open-mouthed, warm, your tongue tracing the lines of muscle through the thin cotton of Toji’s borrowed shirt. your hand strokes him. Slow and experimental. Learning the weight of him, the way his pulse jumps under your fingers.

Behind you, Gojo’s fingers find your pussy. One finger, sliding through your slick, gathering it, his touch appreciative.

“She’s dripping,” he says, and his voice sounds amused and hungry at the same time. His finger circles your clit, once, lightly, and you jerks against his hand, a gasp catching in your throat.

Geto’s finger finds your ass. His touch is different. Slower and more deliberate, the pad of his finger pressing against your hole without pushing in. Just feeling the give of it, the way your body yields under his touch.

Then they’re both kissing you. Gojo’s mouth on one ass cheek, Geto’s on the other, their lips and tongues hot against your skin. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room alongside the rain.

“Fuck her already,” Gojo says against your flesh, his voice muffled. “Before I do.”

“Before we do,” Geto corrects, and his teeth scrape the curve of your ass, almost promising a bite.

Choso’s cock jumps in your hand. Your thumb swipes over the head, collecting the bead of precum there. Then your mouth is on him. Not taking him, not yet, just kitten licks along the underside, from base to tip, your tongue flat and warm against his skin.

Choso gasps. His hands hover near your head, not touching, not yet, like he’s afraid his fingers might crush you if he lets them land.

“Go on,” You murmur against his cock, your breath hot. “You can touch me.”

His hands settle in your hair. Gentle. So gentle it almost hurts to watch.

And Toji is just standing there. Still watching. His cock hard in his pants, his green eyes dark, his scar pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Eventually, Toji takes the bait.

It happens the way avalanches happen. Just a shift, a slide, and then everything is moving too fast to stop. His hand goes to his belt. His zipper. His cock springs free, already hard and leaking. He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes fixed on the way you've been grinding back against Gojo and Geto’s fingers.

Your hips move in small, desperate circles. Riding their hands. Gojo’s finger inside you now, crooking against your front wall, and Geto’s thumb pressing against your asshole, not entering, just applying pressure. The sounds you make, those little punched-out whimpers against Choso’s cock, short-circuit something behind Toji’s eyes.

He angles into you. One hand on your hip, steadying, and then he’s pushing. The head of his cock catches on your entrance, slick with your own wetness from Gojo’s fingers, and then he’s in. One smooth, relentless push until he’s seated to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass. You make a muffled, wrecked sound.

You don't stop. That’s the thing. Even with Toji inside you, stretching you open, his cock thick and relentless, you're still working Choso with your mouth.

Still licking, sucking, your tongue flat against his shaft, your lips wrapped around the head, and Toji sees the way Choso’s thighs tremble.

“Babygirl,” Toji says, and his voice is rough and wrecked. His hand finds the back of your head. Not gentle. Not even close. His fingers tangle in your hair, and he pulls, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to control. At the same moment, he drives his hips forward, burying himself deeper, and pushes your head down onto Choso’s cock.

All the way down. Your nose against his stomach, your throat working around the thickness of him.

“Fuck — wait — You can’t —” Choso tries to bargain.

“Come on, babygirl,” Toji says, his voice dropping. “That’s not how I teach you to suck cock, right? Take it. All of it.”

Your throat works. Your eyes water. But you take it. You take Choso to the base, your lips stretched around the bottom of his shaft.

Gojo’s hand leaves your clit. His fingers are slick and glistening with your wetness, strands of it connecting his skin to yours.

Gojo doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think about it. He reaches around, finds Choso’s mouth, and shoves his fingers in.

Two fingers. Pressed against Choso’s tongue, wet with your juices, and the taste of you, sweet and musky, hits Choso’s system like a drug.

Something changes. Something fundamental. Choso’s eyes roll back, the whites showing for a second, and then his hands are in your hair. He’s not scared anymore. He’s grabbing. His fingers tighten and he pushes his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into your throat than should be physically possible, and cums.

He cums hard. Toji can feel it. Toji feels the way your throat convulses around Choso’s cock. He can feel the pulses against his palm where he’s still gripping your head, and Choso groans, a raw, broken noise of a man coming apart.

When he pulls out, there’s a streak. A messy, glistening line of cum and saliva connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock. You swallow and look up at him with eyes that are wet and dark and utterly satisfied.

Geto moves before anyone can blink. His tongue, that’s pierced btw, darts out and cuts the streak.

He licks along Choso’s cock, from base to tip, collecting the mess. His mouth working with hunger. Then he’s on you. His mouth finds yours, messy and urgent, and he kisses you with your own wetness and Choso’s cum on his tongue.

His fingers find your clit. Not gentle. Geto is never gentle, not really, not when he doesn’t have to be.

His fingers are rough, calloused, and he works you with urgency. Trust me, he knows what he’s doing.

Circling. Pressing. His thumb rolling over your clit while his fingers dip inside of your already filled cunt, gathering more wetness, spreading it. You're bucking against his hand, your hips grinding back onto Toji’s cock and forward into Geto’s fingers, caught between them, overwhelmed.

Toji is not helping. His cock is hitting your cervix with every thrust, the head of it pressing against that tender, aching spot deep inside you. There’s a building pressure against your bladder. You know what’s coming. You know your body well enough to recognize the warning signs, but knowing doesn’t help, doesn’t stop it at all.

You cum.

Hard.

Your pussy clenches around Toji’s cock in rhythmic pulses, and at the same moment, you squirt. A gush of clear fluid soaking Geto’s hand, dripping between his fingers, splattering against his wrist and the couch cushions below. The sound is obscene. Wet. Loud. Your body shaking, your thighs trembling, and Geto’s fingers keep working your through it, drawing out every last pulse and every last drop.

Toji pulls out. His cock slick and glistening, your cum and his precum mixing on his shaft, and he strokes himself once, twice, his hand tight around the base. Then, he’s cumming. Thick ropes of cum painting your asshole, hot and white against your skin, using it as lube, marking you.

Geto slides off the couch. He sits on the floor between your spread knees, right in the puddle of your squirt. Right in the clear, slick evidence of what his fingers just did to you and he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t even glance down. His pierced tongue runs along his lower lip, collecting a drop of something that might be you, might be Choso, might be both.

Choso collapses onto the couch. His legs splayed, his borrowed sweatpants back on (thought haphazardly), his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. He looks beautifully, completely wrecked. His tattoo stark against his flushed skin, his tired eyes dazed and dark.

Gojo is already moving. Has been moving, really, his body thrumming with the restless energy.

“Out of my way, old man,” he says, and his hand lands on Toji’s chest, shoving him away. Toji, still catching his breath, still half-hard and dripping, steps aside.

Gojo rearranges you. His hands on your hips, lifting, shifting, until you're on your knees on the couch with your ass in the air and your pussy hovering directly over Geto’s mouth.

Geto doesn’t wait. Doesn’t need to be told. His tongue is on your before you've fully settled, flat and hot against your clit, licking through the mess of cum and squirt and your own slick.

Gojo’s cock finds your pussy from behind. The head of it nudges against your entrance, still stretched from Toji, and he slides in. One smooth, effortless push that has you gasping, your back arching, your hands scrambling for purchase on the couch cushions.

His fingers find your ass. One finger, then two, working into the hole that Toji just painted with cum, using it as lube. The obscene wet sound of his fingers pushing into your ass while his cock drives into your pussy fills the room alongside your moans.

He fucks you like that for a while. Deep, measured strokes, his hips meeting your ass with each thrust, his fingers crooking inside you. And then, because Gojo has never done anything the simple way, he pulls out. His cock, slick and hard, emerges from your pussy, and he angles it down.

Toward Geto’s mouth.

Geto takes him without hesitation. His lips wrap around Gojo’s cock, his tongue working along the underside, and Gojo’s head tips back, a groan escaping him. He fucks Geto’s mouth for three strokes, maybe four, his hand tangled in Geto’s long hair, and then he’s pulling back from Geto’s lips with a wet pop and plunging back into you.

Deep. Deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting that same spot Toji found, and you cry out, the sound muffled againstv Toji’s cock.

Because Toji has circled around, has positioned himself in front of you, and his cock, half-hard again, thickening rapidly, is at your lips. You take him without being asked. Your mouth opens and he pushes in, not deep, just enough to rest against your tongue, warming himself, and his hand settles on the back of your head with that familiar, proprietary weight.

Choso is there too. Or rather, Toji has put him there earlier, one hand on the back of Choso’s neck, guiding him forward until Choso’s mouth is on your breast. Choso doesn’t need much guidance after that. His lips close around your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue is working in desperate, hungry circles, and the sound he makes, a muffled, needy whimper, vibrates through your breast and into your chest.

He looks up at you. Those tired eyes gone wide and wet, his lips glistening with saliva, your nipple red and swollen from his mouth, and the word comes out broken and desperate.

“Mommy...”

Just that. Mommy.

And something in you clenches. Your pussy or your heart, we may never know. And your hand finds Choso’s hair, holding him there.

He’s stroking himself. One hand between his legs, working his cock through the fabric of the sweatpants, his hips pushing into his own fist, and he’s slobbering on your tits. Like actually slobbering, drool running down the curve of your breast, his mouth messy and hungry. It’s like he was never breast-fed before.

Your hand finds Geto’s hair. Pulling and tangling in his long strands. You yank on it hard, and the sound Geto makes against your clit is a groan. It’s low and pleased, and then his teeth are on you.

He bites. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to sting, his teeth closing around your clit with precise, deliberate pressure, and ou gush. Your pussy convulses and a flood of clear fluid soaks Geto’s face, his mouth, his nose, his chin. It’s all dripping down his neck and onto his chest.

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t even try. He opens his mouth wider and lets your squirt directly into it. His tongue working against your clit through the pulses, and you're making sounds now that aren’t anything recognizable. Just raw, broken noises of a woman coming completely apart.

Gojo is not helping. His hips are driving into your with increasing force, each thrust spreading your squirt further. It’s on his thighs, on the couch, soaking the cushions beneath them and his fingers are STILL hooked inside your ass, crooking forward, finding that spot that makes your see white behind your eyelids.

He cums inside you without warning.

Without pulling out. (Toji is gonna be pissed asf.)

His cock pulses deep in your pussy, flooding you with heat, and his hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks, his breath coming in ragged, triumphant gasps.

Toji’s glare could cut glass. His hand is still on the back of your head, his cock still resting on your tongue, and the look he gives Gojo is pure, undiluted murder.

Gojo meets his eyes. Grins. That fucking grin, all teeth and absolutely zero regret.

“Problem?” he says, and his voice is light, easy, like he hasn’t just came in another man’s stepdaughter without permission.

Toji’s hands are on your waist before Gojo’s gets to soften inside you. He lifts you, your body coming free of Gojo’s grip with a wet sound that would be embarrassing if anyone in this room still had the capacity for embarrassment.

He sets your down on Choso’s lap. Straddling him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your pussy dripping Gojo’s cum onto his borrowed sweatpants.

Choso’s breath hitches. A sharp, broken inhale, like he’s just been struck. His fingers twitch against your thigh, nails biting in just enough to sting, His lips part, wet and trembling, before sealing shut again, as if the sound escaped before he could stop it.

“Get it out,” Toji says. His voice is rough, edged with possessiveness. “All of it. I want to see it.”

Choso’s fingers are trembling. His hand is shaking as he brings it to your pussy. He’s not pushing in, just resting against your swollen lips, feeling the wet heat of your cunt. And then, with a gentleness that seems obscene in this context, he pushes one finger inside.

Slow. So slow it aches to watch. His finger slides into you, through the mess of cum and your own slick, and when he pulls back, there’s a thick, white strand connecting his fingertip to your entrance.

He does it again. Two fingers now, working deeper, curling, and the cum comes out in rivulets, hot and white against his pale fingers, dripping between his knuckles, pooling in the crease of his palm.

“Here,” Geto says, and his voice comes from behind you, low and certain. Before you can process what “here” means, you feel it. The head of his cock pressing against your asshole, still slick with Toji’s cum, and then he’s pushing in.

He’s not slow or gentle. Geto doesn’t do gentle.

His cock drives into your ass in one firm, relentless stroke, and the sudden fullness and stretch drives you down onto Choso’s fingers. Deeper than before, his knuckles pressing against your clit from the inside, and the thick and warm cum floods out of you.

There’s so much of it. A gush of white spilling over Choso’s hand, soaking his wrist, dripping onto his thigh.

“Feed her,” Toji instructs.

Choso’s hand lifts. His fingers glistening, dripping, coated in another man’s cum, and he brings them to your mouth.

He hesitates for half a second. His eyes find yours, questioning and uncertain, until you open.

You take his fingers. You wrap your lips around them and suck, your tongue working between his knuckles, cleaning the cum from his skin with thoroughness. Your cheeks are hollowing as you suck, your eyes locked on his. Choso’s breathing goes ragged, his free hand gripping your thigh harder.

Gojo’s hand finds your jaw. His fingers dig into the hinge of your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he spits a thick, deliberate glob of saliva. It lands on your tongue and then he’s kissing you messy, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the cum on your tongue.

You whine into his mouth, a high, desperate sound, and your hips grind back onto Geto’s cock, forward onto Choso’s thigh, caught between them.

Toji’s hand wraps around Choso’s cock and guides it. He angles the head against your pussy that’s still leaking and pushes.

“My baby girl can take him in, right?”

You take him. Or rather, Toji pushes you onto him, his hand firm on your hip, and Choso’s cock slides into you. He’s thick, so thick, stretching you wider than Gojo did, and the tightness is too much.

The fullness is overwhelming, your pussy clenching around him in involuntary pulses, and you bite Gojo’s lower lip hard enough to taste copper, to feel the skin break under your teeth. Gojo hisses against your mouth, not in pain but in something hungrier.

His teeth find your neck. A bite, sharp and intentional, his mouth hot against your pulse. You cry out and Toji’s hand is in your hair, pulling, his voice a growl against your ear.

“Be a good girl. Answer me when I talk to you.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer, your mouth full of Gojo’s blood and spit, your body full of Choso’s cock and Geto’s cock, and Toji’s hand leaves your hair.

Toji slaps your tit, open-palmed, firm, the sound sharp in the room. Your nipple goes red, the mark of his hand blooming across your breast.

“Answer.”

“Yes,” You gasp, the word tearing out of you. “Yes, daddy, I’m — I’m trying —”

Gojo’s mouth is on your breast. Biting, sucking, leaving dark marks across the skin, his teeth marking you in a pattern that will last for days.

Geto’s hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in, holding your steady as his cock drives into your ass with deep, measured strokes.

Choso’s hand finds your clit. His fingers are still wet cum, with your slick, with everything, and he circles your clit with a gentleness that feels tender. Gathering the cum that leaks from you around his cock, rubbing it into your skin, marking you with it.

Toji’s hand is back in your hair. Pulling. His other hand slaps your other tit, harder this time, the sound cracking through the room. Your pussy clenches around Choso so tight he gasps, his hips jerking upward.

Gojo’s mouth finds one nipple. Choso’s finds the other. They suck in unison, their tongues working against your sensitive flesh.

Geto’s rhythm falters, his hips stuttering, his breath catching and then he’s cumming deep in your ass. His cock pulses, flooding you with heat, and his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still as he empties himself inside you.

Toji kisses you. Messy and desperate. It’s like he’s trying to consume you, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting blood and cum and spit.

You squirt again. A gush, hot and clear, soaking Choso’s hand, his thighs, the couch beneath them. Your body convulses, back arching, thighs trembling, a gasp tearing from your throat that turns into a whine, high and broken and utterly spent.

Everyone stops. Gojo’s mouth frozen on your nipple. Geto’s cock still buried in your ass. Toji’s hand still tangled in your hair. Choso’s fingers still on your clit.

They hold you there, letting you use their bodies, their hands, their mouths, their cocks, as anchors while you come apart.

Choso’s voice, when it comes, is wrecked. Raw. Barely recognizable.

“Can I —” He swallows. Tries again. “Please. Can I cum inside you? Please, daddy, please let me —”

Toji looks at him. “Go on,” he says. Quiet. Almost gentle. “Be a good boy and cum inside my girl.”

Choso’s hips drive up, his cock pulsing deep inside you, flooding your womb with heat. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you against him as he empties himself inside you, his face pressed against your chest, his whole body shaking.

Your breath comes back in stages. First the gasping, ragged, desperate pulls of air into lungs that feel scorched. Your chest rising and falling against Choso’s, your heartbeat gradually finding a rhythm that isn’t panic.

Choso doesn’t let go.

That’s the thing, though. Everyone else is moving, shifting, trying to extract themselves from the tangle of limbs and fluids.

But Choso’s arms stay around you. Wrapped tight. His face buried against your neck, his breathing warm and uneven against your skin. His hands, those careful, trembling hands, start to move.

Not sexually.

His palms slide along your back, finding the knots in your muscles, working them loose. His thumbs press into the base of your spine, easing the ache there, and his lips find your shoulder, just resting against your skin, warm and soft.

He kisses you. Again. And again.

Each press of his mouth against your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw, is tender.

Like finding a flower growing in a battlefield. His lips are chapped. His breath smells like you. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you against him like he’s afraid you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

“Okay,” he murmurs against your skin. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You hum, maybe, or a sigh. You melt into him. Your body going boneless, your head dropping onto his shoulder and for a moment, just a moment, the room narrows to this.

His arms, his warmth, the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

Geto extracts himself first. His cock slides from your ass with a wet sound and he stands, his legs unsteady, his long hair sticking to his neck with sweat, and reaches for his clothes.

He doesn’t put them on. He just holds them. Looks at them. Looks at the state of them. Cum-stained, wrinkled, unsalvageable. Something like resignation crosses his face.

Gojo is already moving. Has been moving, actually, his body thrumming with that post-orgasm restlessness that never leaves him.

He pulls away from you, his cock slick and softening, and stands, stretching, his scars catching the light. He looks wrecked. His white hair sticking up in damp tufts, bite marks on his neck that definitely weren’t there before.

“Shower,” Toji orders.

Not a suggestion.

“Now. Both of you. And for fuck’s sake, try not to flood the bathroom.”

“Want to join us?” Gojo asks, his voice is light and teasing, like he's genuinely offering.

He hooks an arm around Geto’s waist, pulling him close, and makes a gesture, explicit and obscene, involving his hand and Geto’s hip and a motion that leaves very little to the imagination.

Geto doesn’t smile. Doesn’t need to. The look he gives Toji is flat, level, and somehow more suggestive than anything Gojo could conjure with his entire vocabulary.

“Plenty of room,” Geto says. His pierced tongue makes that faint metallic sound. “For all of us.”

Toji flips them off.

“Out,” he says. “Before I throw you out. Clothes are in the hallway. Don’t steal my shit.”

They go. Gojo leading, Geto following, the two of them moving with synchronicity of men who have been fucking each other for long enough to develop a shared gait. The bathroom door closes. The shower starts. The sound of water hitting tile fills the hallway.

Toji turns and looks at the couch. The cushions are soaked through, the fabric dark with various fluids, the whole thing radiating sex and porn aura.

He looks at Choso. Choso, who is still holding onto you. Still wrapped around you like you're something precious he found in the wreckage.

“Let her go,” Toji says. His voice is softer than it has any right to be. “I need to clean her up.”

Choso’s arms tighten. His fingers digging into the small of your back, and he shakes his head once, firm, decisive.

“No.”

The word hangs in the air. Simple. Final.

Not defiant since there’s no challenge in it. No provocation, either. Just a flat refusal from a man who has reached the limit of what he’s willing to share.

Toji stares at him. His green eyes narrow. The scar at the corner of his mouth pulls.

“Kid —”

“Uncle Kuna was right about you,” Choso whispers to you. “I'm gonna keep you forever.”

The words are so quiet they’re almost not there.

Almost swallowed by the sound of the shower, the distant ticking of rain against the windows.

But Toji hears them.

Of course he hears them.

Toji Fushiguro has the hearing of a man who has spent his life listening for things he wasn’t supposed to hear.

His body goes still.

“The fuck did you say?”

not proofread, written by my pussy.

List of part 2s:

Stepdad!Toji & his friends

Priest!Geto

Brahms!Choso

Stepcousin!Naoya

Mean!Kento

Audience Choice!

Audience Choice!

You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that haven’t quite forgiven you for the condom extravaganza three days ago. Your pussy gives a sympathetic throb at the memory, Caleb pounding into you with that ultra-thin condom stretched tight over his cock, your legs locked behind your head, his cum contained in that sad little latex balloon you had to keep in your mouth.

The guy came three times and still had the audacity to ask if you could handle more. You’re going to need to start doing pelvic floor exercises just to keep up.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen, and there he is.

Shirtless, because the kitchen is approximately the temperature of the sun’s core and Caleb runs hot anyway. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, that delicious V-cut leading your eyes down to where the fabric tents slightly. He hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on flipping a pancake.

“You know most people let other people cook for them on their birthday,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.

Caleb doesn’t jump. He never jumps. He just turns, spatula in hand, and his face does that thing where his eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth pulls into a smile that’s half amusement.

“Most people aren’t dating someone who puts hot sauce in scrambled eggs,” he says. “Happy birthday to me.”

You cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. His skin is warm and smells like vanilla soap and apples. “Happy birthday, ge ge.”

He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. One of his hands covers yours where they rest on his stomach, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knuckles. “You’re up early.”

“Your pancakes are loud. They woke me up with their screaming.”

“My pancakes are perfectly behaved,” he says, and flips another one with a flourish that sends a drop of batter sailing onto the stovetop. “Unlike certain people.”

You bite the curve of his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make him hiss. “I’m a delight and you know it.”

“You’re a nuisance,” he corrects, but he’s smiling, you can hear it in his voice. He plates the pancakes, a stack of three, golden brown and suspiciously perfect, and slides scrambled eggs beside them. The eggs are fluffy and yellow and dotted with what looks like chives. Show-off.

“Sit,” you command, pulling out a chair.

“I was going to—”

“Sit. It’s your birthday. I’m feeding you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“For realsies.” You push him into the chair and straddle his lap before he can protest, because that’s how you eat breakfast now, apparently.

Caleb’s hands settle on your hips like they belong there, which they do, and his cock stirs against your ass in a way that’s becoming as familiar as his smile.

You cut a piece of pancake, spearing it with your fork, and hold it up to his mouth. “Open.”

“Pips, I can feed myself—”

“Open or I’ll shove it up your nose.”

He opens. You slide the fork between his lips, and his eyes flutter closed as he chews. Something about watching Caleb eat is unfairly hot. The way his jaw works, the slight parting of his lips, the tiny appreciative noise he makes in the back of his throat. You’re staring, and you know it, and you don’t care.

“Your turn,” he says, and cuts a piece of egg. He holds it up, and you lean forward to take it from the fork, deliberately letting your lips brush his fingers.

“Mmm,” you say around the mouthful. “Good eggs.”

“Good chef.”

“Arrogant chef.”

He grins, that infuriating, beautiful grin, and feeds you another bite. This time his thumb traces your lower lip as the fork pulls away, and your tongue darts out to catch the tip of it. His eyes darken.

“Behave,” he murmurs.

“Make me.”

His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you more firmly against his lap. You can feel him hardening beneath you, the ridge of his cock pressing against your ass through two layers of fabric. You rock forward, just slightly, and he inhales sharply.

“Pips.”

“Caleb.”

“If you keep doing that, breakfast is going to get cold.”

You consider this. “Worth it.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich and so fucking Caleb it makes your chest hurt. His forehead drops to rest against yours, and for a moment you just breathe together, sharing the same air, his pancakes and your eggs forgotten on the table beside you.

“I have presents for you,” you say, pulling back slightly.

Caleb’s expression shifts, that little furrow appearing between his brows. “Pips, you didn’t have to—”

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” You press a finger to his lips. “Stay. Right here. Eyes closed. Don’t peek.”

“Pips—”

“Eyes. Closed.”

He sighs, but his mouth is twitching. “Yes, ma’am.”

You slide off his lap, and his hands linger on your waist like he’s reluctant to let you go. You plant a quick kiss on his forehead and then you’re skipping down the hallway to your room, your heart doing something stupid and fluttery in your chest.

Behind you, you hear Caleb’s voice, soft and fond. “She’s going to be the death of me.”

You come back with the letter clutched in one hand and the box balanced carefully in the other. The box is nothing fancy. Just a cardboard thing you covered in wrapping paper that has tiny airplanes on it, because you are nothing if not committed to the bit. You spent approximately three hours folding paper stars and cranes until your fingers ached, sprinkling them into the box like confetti made of hope and mild carpal tunnel.

Caleb is still sitting exactly where you left him, eyes closed, hands resting on the table. His face is calm, but there’s a slight upward curve to his mouth that says he’s been smiling the whole time you were gone.

“Okay,” you say. “Open your eyes, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

His eyes open. They find you immediately, warm and amused, and then drop to the letter you’re holding out.

“For me?” he asks, like an idiot.

“No, it’s for the other hot guy with purple eyes who cooks me pancakes. Yes, for you, dumbass.”

He takes the letter. His fingers brush yours, and even that tiny contact sends a spark up your arm. You set the box on the table in front of him and perch on the edge of your chair, knees bouncing, watching his face.

The letter is… well. It’s a letter.

You wrote it at 2 AM after three glasses of wine, which explains the passages about his ass (“like two planets colliding in slow motion”) and the paragraph where you compared his dick to the Space Needle (“tall, impressive, and I want to climb it”).

But there are other parts too.

The parts about how he made you feel safe when you were eight and had chicken pox. Or even when you were sixteen and crying over a boy who didn’t deserve your tears. The parts about his hands, always steady, always there. The parts about how you fell in love with him slowly, then all at once, like a plane taking off, hesitant at first, then suddenly, gloriously airborne.

Caleb reads it all. You watch his face move through the emotions like weather. There was a snort of laughter at the Space Needle bit, his cheeks flushing slightly at the ass planets. Then his expression softens, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper where you’d signed it with a heart and your initials. His eyes flick up to yours, and the look in them is so raw, so unbearably tender, that you have to glance away.

“Pips,” he says, and his voice is rough.

“Don’t you dare make me cry,” you warn. “I don’t want puffy eyes today.”

He sets the letter down carefully, like it’s made of something fragile, and then his arms are around you and he’s pulling you into his lap and kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands frame your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and when he finally breaks the kiss he doesn’t go far. He just rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“You haven’t even seen the box yet.”

“I don’t need to. The letter is—”

“Open the fucking box, Caleb.”

He laughs, that rich, warm sound that does things to your insides, and reaches for the box. The lid comes off, and the paper stars spill out a little, drifting across the table like tiny origami meteors. Caleb’s expression shifts. Surprise, then something softer, his fingers sifting through the trinkets you’ve collected.

There’s a keychain from that terrible roadside attraction you stopped at last summer, the one with the world’s largest ball of twine. A dried flower pressed between two pieces of clear tape—a daisy he gave you once, for no reason, just because. A small wooden airplane, hand-carved and slightly lopsided, that you found at a flea market and knew he would love.

And then his fingers hit fabric.

He pulls out the boxers slowly.

They’re black, cotton, completely ordinary except for the fact that your face is printed directly on the crotch. Not a tasteful, artsy photo, no. You went full unhinged. It’s a close-up of your face, mouth open mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, slightly out of focus because Gideon took the photo while you were trying to swat the phone out of his hand.

Caleb holds the boxers up. Stares at them. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.

Then he fucking loses it. He throws his head back and laughs, loud and genuine, the sound filling the kitchen and bouncing off the walls. His shoulders shake, his free hand braced on the table, and you’re laughing too, helplessly, because his reaction is everything you hoped for and somehow better.

“You’re crazy,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Completely, certifiably insane.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do. God help me, I do.” He turns the boxers around, examining your face on the crotch. “I’m never taking these off.”

“Please wash them occasionally.”

“No promises.”

Beneath the boxers are the vouchers. You made them on cardstock, little tickets decorated with airplane stickers. One for a kiss (“Redeemable anytime, anywhere, no questions asked”). One for a hug (“Minimum thirty seconds, Caleb, I know you’ll try to cheat”). One for a back rub, one for breakfast in bed, one that just says “SEX?” in glitter pen.

Caleb flips through them, his smile growing with each one. “These are very… specific.”

“I know what I’m about.”

Next, the bottles. Three glass ones, corked, filled with tiny scrolls. You labeled them simply: OPEN WHEN YOU MISS ME. OPEN WHEN YOU’RE STRESSED. OPEN WHEN YOU NEED TO LAUGH.

“For the fleet,” you explain, suddenly shy. “When I can’t answer your calls. So you know I’m thinking about you, even when I’m not there.”

Caleb picks up one of the bottles, holding it to the light. The scrolls inside are colored, blue, green, orange. Each one containing something you wrote. A joke. A memory. A promise. His thumb traces the glass, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Pips,” he says, and there’s that roughness in his voice again.

“Don’t start,” you warn. “There’s more.”

At the bottom of the box, beneath a layer of paper cranes, are the tickets. Two of them, printed on heavy cardstock, embossed with the logo of the Pacific Northwest Aviation Museum.

T-93 EXPERIENCE: FLY THE LAST AIRWORTHY T-93 JET. 60 MINUTES. PILOT AND CO-PILOT.

Caleb goes very, very still.

The T-93.

The jet he’s been talking about since he was twelve years old, building model versions of it that hung from his bedroom ceiling. The jet that started his obsession with flying, that led him to the DAA, that made him the man he is.

The last flyable T-93 in existence, and you got tickets for two.

“I called in every favor,” you say quietly. “Gideon knows a guy who knows a guy who volunteers at the museum. It took three months and I had to promise Gideon I’d find him a girlfriend, but…” You shrug, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Happy birthday.”

Caleb picks up one of the tickets. His fingers are trembling, just slightly. He reads it once, twice, like he’s making sure it’s real.

“The other ticket is for Gideon,” you explain. “I thought you two could—”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, decisive. Caleb sets the ticket down and looks at you, his expression fierce. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I thought—”

“I don’t care what you thought.” His hand finds yours across the table, squeezing. “Gideon can come. He can stand on the ground and hold our bags and take pictures. But the person in that co-pilot seat is going to be you.”

Something warm and liquid fills your chest, spreading outward until your fingertips tingle with it. “Caleb…”

“You gave me this,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You. So you’re going to be there when I fly it. That’s not negotiable.”

You look at him, really look at him, and the force of what you feel hits you like a physical thing, a pressure behind your ribs that makes it hard to breathe.

“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll be your co-pilot.”

His smile could power a small city. “Good. Because we leave in three hours, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The Pacific Northwest Aviation Museum is, frankly, a fucking dump.

It’s a Quonset hut with delusions of grandeur, perched on the edge of an airfield that’s seen better decades. The T-93 sits on the tarmac like a relic from another time.

Sleek, silver, its fuselage scarred with the patina of age but its lines still sharp enough to cut glass. You stand beside it with your neck craned back, trying not to look as intimidated as you feel, while Gideon takes your overnight bag with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a dead fish.

“I cannot believe,” he says, very slowly, like he’s speaking to a child, “that I am standing here holding your underwear while you two go joyriding in a museum piece.”

“It’s not joyriding if we have tickets,” you point out.

“It’s joyriding if Colonel Smiles-a-Lot over there looks like he’s about to have a religious experience.” Gideon nods toward Caleb, who is currently having what can only be described as a moment with the T-93. He’s running his hand along the wing with the reverence of a man touching his firstborn, his eyes bright, his mouth curved in a smile so genuine it makes your chest ache.

“Let him have this,” you say quietly.

Gideon sighs. “I am. That’s why I’m standing here with your bag instead of making snide comments about the structural integrity of a jet that was built when my grandfather was in diapers.” He shoves the bag at you. “There’s a change of clothes in there. And condoms. Because I know you two, and I am not cleaning cum out of a historic aircraft.”

You take the bag. “You’re a good friend, Gideon.”

“I’m a saint. Now go before Colonel Dreamy over there spontaneously combusts.”

The cockpit of the T-93 is smaller than you expected. Two seats, side by side, a console of dials and switches that look like they belong in a steampunk novel.

Caleb helps you into the co-pilot seat, his hand steady on your elbow, his voice low and patient as he explains which things you are absolutely NOT allowed to touch, and then he’s in the pilot’s seat, running through pre-flight checks.

“Ready?” he asks, and his eyes are alive with something you’ve never seen before. Pure, unfiltered joy of a pilot.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The engines roar to life beneath you. The vibration travels up through the seat, into your spine, into your teeth. Caleb taxis onto the runway with the easy confidence of someone born to do this, and then he’s pushing the throttle forward and the world drops away.

The g-force hits you like a wall. Your body is suddenly twice its weight, pressed into the seat as the T-93 climbs at an angle that feels physically impossible. Your stomach lurches, your vision narrows, and your hand flies out to grip Caleb’s thigh hard enough to leave marks.

He laughs. The bastard actually laughs, the sound bright and exhilarated above the scream of the engines.

“First time?” he shouts.

“Fuck you!” you shout back, but you’re grinning, because the fear is already transforming into something else. A wild, giddy euphoria as the ground falls away and the sky opens up around you. The T-93 banks sharply, and the horizon tilts, the world becoming a blue-and-green smear outside the canopy.

Caleb takes you through a loop. A real, honest-to-god loop, the kind where the sky becomes the ground and the ground becomes the sky and for one glorious, disorienting second you are weightless, suspended between earth and heaven with nothing but Caleb’s steady hands on the controls.

You scream. It’s not a scared scream. It’s the kind of scream that comes from somewhere deep in your chest, raw and unfiltered, the sound of pure joy being forcibly expelled from your lungs. Caleb’s laugh mixes with it, and for a moment you’re just two people making noise in a metal tube hurtling through the air, and it’s perfect.

Then Caleb’s expression changes.

You see it happen. The shift from playful to intense, his eyes narrowing, his jaw setting. He’s looking past you, out the canopy, and you follow his gaze to see two other jets cutting across the sky maybe half a mile away. Military trainers, by the look of them, their pilots running drills in formation.

Something possessive flashes across Caleb’s face. Something that says mine.

“Hold on,” he says, and it’s not the playful warning from before. It’s Colonel Xia Yi Zhou, and he means business.

The T-93 surges forward. The acceleration pins you to your seat, the g-force returning with a vengeance as Caleb pushes the jet to its limits. He climbs, steep, aggressive, the nose pointing toward the sun, and the other jets shrink beneath you, becoming specks against the blue.

“What are you doing?” you gasp, your hand white-knuckled on the armrest.

“Flying,” Caleb says, and there’s a smile in his voice that’s all sharp edges. “They want to show off? I’ll show them what a real pilot looks like.”

He takes you higher. The air thins, the sky darkens from blue to indigo, and then you’re punching through a layer of clouds. White, cotton-thick, the T-93 slicing through them like a knife through foam. For a moment you’re blind, surrounded by whiteness, and then you burst out above the cloud layer and the world opens up.

The sunset.

Holy shit, the sunset.

It’s not like any sunset you’ve ever seen from the ground.

Up here, the clouds are a sea of burning gold, stretching to the horizon in rolling waves of orange and pink and deep, bloody red. The sun hangs low and enormous, a disc of fire painting everything in its light.

The T-93 seems to hover at the edge of it all, suspended between earth and heaven, and the silence is absolute. Jjust the faint hum of the engines and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Caleb,” you whisper, because speaking at full volume feels wrong, like you’ll break the spell.

He’s already looking at you. Not at the sunset, not at the controls. At you, his eyes reflecting the gold of the sky, his expression so tender it makes your throat tight.

“Beautiful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means the sunset or you. (cliche i know)

Probably both. The man has always been an overachiever.

His hands move across the console, flipping switches, adjusting dials. The hum of the engines settles into a steady, constant drone. Autopilot engaged.

Then he unfastens his harness and gestures to his lap. “Come here.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You unbuckle, careful in the confined space, and slide from your seat into his. His thighs are solid beneath you, his arms coming around your waist to hold you secure. The position is awkward. The cockpit wasn’t designed for this, but Caleb makes it work, adjusting until you’re settled against his chest, your back to the sunset, his face lit gold by the dying light.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” he answers, and then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, his hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something precious.

The sunset washes over you both, painting your skin in fire, and Caleb’s mouth is warm and sure against yours, tasting like the coffee he drank before the flight.

You break the kiss, just enough to rest your forehead against his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For this. For you. For knowing exactly what I needed.”

You smile, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. “Happy birthday, ge ge.”

His arms tighten around you, and you sit there in the cockpit of a sixty-year-old jet, above the clouds, watching the sun set on Caleb’s birthday, and you think, “I could stay here forever.”

Forever turns out to be approximately ninety seconds.

Caleb’s hand, which has been resting comfortably on the small of your back, decides to go exploring. It slides down, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.

“What are you—”

“Admitting something,” Caleb says, his voice a low rumble against your chest. His hand continues its journey, palming the swell of your ass through your jeans. “I may have been showing off a little with those loops.”

“You think?”

“The g-force thing.” His thumb hooks into your belt loop, tugging gently. “You grab onto me when you’re scared. I like it when you grab onto me.”

You stare at him. The sunset is painting his face in shades of gold and amber, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight quirk of his mouth that means he’s not even remotely sorry.

“You did aerial acrobatics,” you say slowly, “at several hundred miles per hour, in a sixty-year-old jet, because you wanted me to cling to your thigh?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’ve been told.” His hand slides around to the front, fingers finding the button of your jeans. “Can I?”

You’re about to say something scathing about his priorities and the structural integrity of vintage aircraft, but then his fingertips brush against your clit through the fabric of your panties and whatever clever retort you had prepared dissolves into a stuttered exhale that is absolutely not a moan.

It’s a moan. It’s definitely a moan, and Caleb swallows it with his mouth, kissing you deeply as his fingers circle your clit through the cotton. The pressure is light, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward involuntarily.

“Fuck,” you gasp against his lips.

“That’s the idea.” His free hand finds the lever on the side of the pilot’s seat, adjusting it to recline slightly.

Then he’s lifting you, effortlessly, because the man is built like he bench-presses small cars for fun, and setting you in the chair he just vacated. The leather is warm from his body, and you have approximately half a second to appreciate this fact before Caleb is on his knees between your spread legs, yanking your jeans down your thighs.

The cockpit is not designed for this. Your knees bump against the console, your ass is half off the seat, and Caleb has to duck to avoid hitting his head on the canopy, but none of that seems to deter him. He gets your jeans to your knees and then stops, his eyes dropping to your panties.

And he fucking loses it.

The laughter starts as a snort, then builds into a full-bodied roar that echoes in the confined space of the cockpit. Caleb’s head drops forward, his shoulders shaking, and for a moment you think he might be having some kind of seizure.

“What?” you demand. “What is so funny about my—”

Then you remember. The panties.

They’re plain black cotton, completely ordinary except for the fact that Caleb’s face is printed directly on the crotch. Not a tasteful photo, either. You went with the same unhinged energy as the boxers. It’s a close-up of his face, mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled, his mouth open.

Caleb is still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. “You—you actually—”

“You have my face on your boxers!” you protest. “I’m matching!”

“I know, that’s what’s—” He dissolves into giggles again, the sound so unexpectedly boyish and delighted that you can’t help but join in. He reaches for the waistband of his pants, tugging it down just enough to reveal the boxers beneath, your face staring up at you from his crotch, slightly distorted by the bulge of his cock.

You look down at your panties. His face.

He looks down at his boxers. Your face.

You both burst into laughter at the same time, the sound bouncing off the canopy of the T-93 as the sunset burns gold around you.

Caleb’s forehead drops to rest on your thigh, his shoulders shaking, and you’re clutching the armrests of the pilot’s seat, wheezing with the kind of laughter that hurts your ribs and makes your eyes water.

It takes a full minute for the giggles to subside. They taper off gradually, leaving behind a warm, comfortable silence filled only by the distant hum of the autopilot and the sound of your breathing.

Caleb looks up at you. His eyes are bright, his smile soft at the edges. One of his hands rests on your bare thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles on your skin.

“I want this,” you say quietly. The words come out before you can stop them, unbidden and completely sincere. “Not just—this. The laughing. I want a house full of it. I want to wake up to you making stupid jokes and go to bed with your arms around me and have every day in between be…” You gesture vaguely, unable to find the right word.

“A fucking disaster?” Caleb suggests, but his voice is warm.

“A beautiful disaster,” you correct. “Our disaster. With laughter. And joy. And matching underwear, apparently.”

His hand slides up your thigh, his fingers tracing the waistband of the panties. His face pressed against your cunt, your face pressed against his cock.

“I want that too,” he says simply. “More than anything.”

You reach for him, cupping his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. His stubble is rough against your palms, his skin warm, and you can feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

For a moment, you just look at each other. The sunset is fading now, the gold bleeding into purple at the edges of the sky, and Caleb’s eyes are dark and endless in the dimming light.

Then his expression changes. Something shifts behind his eyes and his hand tightens on your thigh.

“Pips,” he says, and his voice has a new edge to it, low and intent. “Do you have any condoms on you?”

The question hangs in the air between you. Caleb’s eyes are dark, fixed on yours. He has the same look he gets before he does something reckless, something glorious, something that will change everything.

You reach into the inner pocket of your shirt jacket. Your fingers close around foil packets, three of them, because Gideon packed your bag and Gideon knows you two better than you know yourselves. You pull them out, holding them up like evidence.

Caleb takes them. His fingers brush yours, and the contact sends a jolt up your arm. He examines the condoms for a moment. And then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tosses them out the partially open side window of the cockpit.

They disappear into the cloud layer below, three tiny foil meteors burning up on reentry into your former sex life.

You are on your feet before your brain has fully processed what just happened. The cockpit is small, so “on your feet” means mostly upright with your head ducked under the canopy, but the intent is clear. You are standing, and you are shocked, and your mouth is open in a perfect O of disbelief.

“Did you just—” you start.

Caleb doesn’t let you finish. His hand finds your waist and spins you, pushing you forward until your palms hit the console. The controls dig into your hands. Buttons, levers, switches that probably do important aviation things you absolutely should not be pressing with your tits. His hand is between your shoulder blades, pressing you down, and then you feel it.

His gravity evol. Holding you in place.

“Caleb,” you gasp, because you can move, but barely. Every limb feels like it’s filled with lead, your body pinned to the console by a force you can’t fight. “What are you—”

His answer is the sound of your panties being dragged down your thighs. The cotton catches on his face. His own face, printed on the fabric currently being shoved past your knees and he laughs, low and warm against the back of your thigh.

“These are coming home with me,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you.

His tongue drags along your slit from behind, slow and deliberate, and the moan that tears from your throat is embarrassingly loud in the confined space. Caleb works you open with his mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of you, his tongue flat against your cunt before focusing on your clit, circling it with a precision that makes your knees buckle.

Not that they can buckle. The gravity hold has your legs locked, spread, your ass lifted and presented for him like an offering. All you can do is take it, your forehead pressed to the cool plastic of the console, your fingers scrambling for purchase on whatever switches they can reach.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Caleb, your mouth—”

“Shh,” he murmurs against your pussy, the vibration of his voice traveling through your clit and straight up your spine. “Let me taste you. So fucking sweet.” His tongue pushes inside you, curling, and your inner walls clench around nothing, desperate for more. “That’s it. Get wet for me. Soak my tongue.”

He’s talking to your pussy now, his lips pressed against your folds, his words muffled but unmistakable. “You gonna take my cock, pretty girl? You gonna let me fill you up?” His tongue flicks your clit, and you jerk against the gravity hold, a broken sound escaping you. “That’s what I thought. Dripping for me already.”

You are. God, you are.

You can feel it, slick and hot between your thighs, Caleb’s mouth working you into a state of desperate, aching need. His fingers join his tongue, two of them pushing into your cunt while his thumb circles your clit, and the stretch is perfect, exactly what you need but nowhere near enough.

“Ready?” he asks, pulling back. His chin is glistening with your wetness, his eyes black with want.

You nod frantically, beyond words.

The gravity hold releases suddenly, your body lightening so fast you almost pitch forward into the console. Caleb’s hands are on your hips, steadying you, and then you feel the hot, blunt pressure of his cockhead against your entrance.

He teases you. Just the tip, rubbing through your slick folds, catching on your clit with each pass. Your hips rock back, seeking more, and Caleb makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.

“Impatient,” he chides. “You want it? Take it.”

And then he shoves forward, one thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating movement.

Your cunt stretches around him, your inner walls gripping his cock with a tightness that borders on painful, and Caleb makes a noise that doesn’t sound human. A ragged, broken groan that vibrates through both of you. His hips jerk involuntarily, and you feel the pulse of his cock inside you, the warm flood as he cums almost immediately, his release filling you in thick, urgent pulses.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. “Fuck, Pips, I’m—I couldn’t—”

You’re about to tease him. You’re about to turn your head and say something devastating about his stamina, but the words die in your throat because Caleb isn’t stopping. His cock is still hard inside you, still pulsing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he’s already moving, pulling back and thrusting forward again with a rhythm that’s steadier than it has any right to be.

“One load,” he mumbles against your back, his voice wrecked. “One load isn’t enough. Not for what I want.” His hand slides around to your stomach, pressing flat against your lower abdomen. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am? That’s where I want to put a baby. My baby. Our baby.”

Your cunt clenches around him at the words, and Caleb groans, his pace increasing. The console creaks beneath your weight, buttons pressing under your palms with soft, electronic beeps that neither of you pay any attention to.

“Look at you,” he continues, and he’s babbling now, his words coming in a breathless stream as he fucks into you. “Taking my cum like you were made for it. This pretty pussy—” His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit. “—this perfect, greedy pussy—you want more, don’t you? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes,” you gasp, because what else can you say? Your body is singing, every nerve alight, Caleb’s cock hitting spots inside you that make your vision blur. “Yes, please, more, I want—”

“Gonna fill you up,” he promises, his voice rough with want. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll feel me for days. My cum in your pussy, my baby in your belly—fuck, Pips, the way you take me—”

His rhythm falters, his hips stuttering, and you feel the second orgasm hit him deeper this time, his cock swelling inside you as he empties himself again. The wet sounds are obscene, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing in the cockpit, and your own climax crashes through you on the heels of his, your cunt milking his cock for every drop.

Caleb doesn’t stop. He can’t stop, or won’t, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drives into you with a desperation that borders on frenzy. One of his hands finds your thigh, lifting your leg, bending it at the knee and pushing it up onto the console beside your hand.

The new angle is devastating. His cock drives deeper than before, the head catching on your cervix with each thrust, and the sensation walks the line between pleasure and pain so perfectly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Your hands are splayed across the console, fingers pressing buttons at random, lights flicker on the instrument panel, a soft alarm begins to beep somewhere to your left, and Caleb either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His focus is singular, absolute. Your pussy, his cock, the place where your bodies join.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “Take it all. Every fucking drop. I want you dripping with me, Pips. I want you to feel me every time you move tomorrow.”

His pace increases, his cock pistoning into you with a force that rocks the entire seat, and you can feel him building toward a third climax. His breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your thigh, his cock pulsing inside you with each thrust.

“Cum with me,” he demands. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”

Your orgasm rips through you with a violence that steals your breath, your cunt clamping down on his cock in rhythmic pulses, and Caleb follows you over the edge with a groan that sounds like it’s been torn from the depths of him.

His hips slam forward, holding deep, and you feel the warm rush of his cum flooding you for the third time, his release so abundant you can feel it leaking down your thighs almost immediately.

Your forehead is pressed to the console, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Caleb is draped over your back, his chest heaving against your spine, his cock still buried inside you, still pulsing with the occasional aftershock.

Then, very quietly, from somewhere below you: beep beep beep.

Caleb lifts his head. “Did we break something?”

You laugh. You can’t help it. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, slightly hysterical, slightly delirious, and Caleb joins in, his laughter vibrating through both of you where you’re still connected.

“Probably,” you manage. “Gideon’s going to kill us.”

“Worth it,” Caleb murmurs, and presses a kiss to the nape of your neck. His hand slides around to your stomach again, resting there with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “So round 4?”

Meanwhile, down on the ground, Gideon is having a normal day in the control room. Which is to say he is slowly dying of boredom while monitoring a radar screen that shows one blip moving in leisurely circles above the cloud layer.

The control room is, like everything else in this museum, a relic. The equipment dates from approximately the Mesozoic era, the chairs squeak when you breathe wrong, and the coffee tastes like it was brewed in a sock. Gideon is slouched in the least squeaky chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand and sipping the sock-coffee with the other, while the two volunteers manning the other stations discuss the migratory patterns of Canadian geese.

Then the speakers crackle to life.

At first, it’s just static. The white noise of an open comm channel, the faint hum of engines. Gideon doesn’t look up. Probably just Colonel Dreamy checking in, or the autopilot doing whatever autopilots do.

Then he hears it.

A moan. Low, feminine, unmistakable.

Gideon freezes. His coffee cup halts halfway to his mouth.

The moan comes again, louder this time, followed by a gasp that has absolutely no business being broadcast through museum-grade speakers at a volume that makes the goose enthusiasts pause mid-sentence.

“—fuck, Caleb, your mouth—”

Gideon is on his feet so fast his chair rolls backward and slams into a filing cabinet. The coffee sloshes over his hand, burning, but he doesn’t feel it. What he feels is the cold, creeping horror of realization as Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou’s voice comes through the speakers, low and rough and entirely too recognizable.

“—gonna take my cock, pretty girl? You gonna let me fill you up?”

One of the goose enthusiasts, a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and hearing aids, blinks. “Is that…?”

“DRILL!” Gideon shouts, with the desperate belief of a man who has just witnessed the first signs of the apocalypse. “EMERGENCY DRILL! EVERYBODY OUT!”

The volunteers stare at him.

“NOW!” Gideon claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher herding particularly stupid children. “Evacuation procedure! Remember the handbook! Chapter twelve! The part about—about—” His brain, racing at approximately Mach 3, grabs the first plausible excuse it can find. “—RADIOACTIVE GEESE!”

The speakers choose this moment to deliver a particularly obscene wet sound, followed by a moan that would make a porn star blush.

The kind-eyed woman’s hearing aids emit a faint squeal of feedback.

“OUT!” Gideon bellows, physically herding both volunteers toward the door. “GOOSE PROTOCOL! I’LL HANDLE THIS! SAVE YOURSELVES!”

He shoves them into the hallway, slams the door, and lunges for the comm panel. His fingers fumble with the switches, killing the feed with a click that plunges the control room into blessed, merciful silence.

Gideon stands there for a long moment, breathing hard, coffee dripping from his fingertips onto the linoleum. From the hallway, he can hear the confused murmurs of the volunteers.

“—radioactive geese?”

“—I don’t remember chapter twelve—”

Somehow the speakers come to life again.

Gideon presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees stars.

“I am going to murder them,” he says to the empty room. “I am going to murder them both and hide the bodies in the ball of twine.”

Forty minutes later, the T-93 touches down on the tarmac with a grace that belies the fact that its pilot has just had at least five orgasms at eight thousand feet. The landing gear engages with a hydraulic whine, the engines spool down, and the canopy slides open to reveal two people who look, frankly, like they’ve been through something.

Caleb climbs out first, his hair standing in eighteen different directions, his shirt misbuttoned, a suspicious red mark visible on his neck. He turns to help you down, his hand steady on your elbow, and the way you move, slightly stiff, wincing, your thighs pressed together, tells Gideon everything he needs to know and several things he very much does not want to know.

You both look radiant. Disgustingly, obnoxiously radiant, like you’ve been dipped in glitter and sex and the glow of people who have just had multiple earth-shattering orgasms in a historic aircraft.

Gideon meets you at the bottom of the ladder. He is holding your overnight bag in one hand and an expression of profound, bone-deep exhaustion in the other.

“Here,” he says, and shoves the bag at Caleb with enough force to make him stagger. “Your bag. Which contains, among other things, the condoms you clearly did not use.”

Caleb catches the bag. “Gideon—”

“Do not,” Gideon says, very calmly, “speak to me. Do not look at me. Do not breathe in my direction.” He turns to you, his expression doing something complicated that lands somewhere between fond and homicidal. “You. You unbelievable disaster of a human being. There is cum on the console of a sixty-year-old jet. There is cum on the seat. There is cum on approximately seventeen buttons that I am fairly certain control the landing gear.”

You open your mouth.

“Don’t,” Gideon says. “Just—don’t. The control room heard everything. Everything. The moaning. The—the pussy talk. The part where Colonel Overachiever here came in approximately four seconds and then kept going like the fucking Energizer Bunny.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing on end from his earlier panic. “I had to tell them there were radioactive geese.”

Caleb snorts. You bite your lip, hard, but the laugh escapes anyway. A choked, guilty sound that you try to smother behind your hand.

Gideon points a finger at you. “This is not funny. This is an offense. Possibly several federal offenses. The DAA has rules about—about ejaculating in cockpits, I’m sure of it, I just haven’t found the specific statute yet—”

“Gideon,” Caleb says, and his voice is warm, amused, utterly unrepentant. “Thank you.”

Gideon stops. Blinks. “For what?”

“For being here.” Caleb slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You fit there like you were made for it, your head resting on his chest, his hand warm on your waist. “For putting up with us. For the radioactive geese.”

Something in Gideon’s expression softens, just a fraction. He sighs, long and suffering, and shakes his head. “You two are the worst people I have ever met. And I once dated someone who collected toenail clippings.”

“We love you too,” you say, and mean it.

Gideon rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting a smile. “Go shower. Both of you. You smell like jet fuel and pussy juice.” He turns to walk away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “And for the record? Happy birthday, Colonel. I hope it was worth almost getting me arrested.”

Caleb’s arm tightens around you. His lips press against the top of your head, and you can feel his smile against your hair.

“It was,” he says quietly. “The best one yet.”

Refer to Party RSVP

“You’re not ready,” he says, voice strained, sweat beading on his forehead as he holds himself back.

“You’re full of shit,” you tell him, grinding your slick cunt against his cock, the head of him nestled perfectly against your entrance but never pushing in. “I’m so wet it’s dripping down my thighs. How much more ready do I need to be?”

“It’s your first time,” he insists, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. “I’m not taking that from you on a kitchen counter after you’ve had two orgasms.”

“So what, then? When?”

“Patience, Pips.”

You fucking hate that word.

Patience.

Like you’re a child. Like the way you rock your hips against his isn’t driving him as insane as it’s driving you.

It becomes a game. A stupid, infuriating game where you try everything and he gives you everything except the one thing you actually want.

You wake him up with your mouth around his cock. You bend over the coffee table with your ass in the air and your cunt dripping. You suck his fingers clean after he’s had them buried inside you and look him dead in the eye while you do it.

And Caleb, the fucking bastard, just smiles. That smug, condescending smile that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and he’s not falling for it.

“I can see your pussy, you know,” he says one night, his voice low as you ride his thigh, your panties shoved to the side. “All slick and pink and desperate.” His thumb circles your clit, and you whimper, your hips stuttering. “You want my cock that badly?”

“Please,” you gasp, because dignity is a luxury you can’t afford right now. “Please, Caleb, I need it.”

“Mm.” His thumb presses harder, and your vision blurs. “I think you need to come first. Look at you, you’re fucking trembling.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that he can make you cum with one finger, one word, one look, and still leave you wanting more. He watches you fall apart on his thigh, his hand between your legs, and then pulls you into his lap and kisses you like you haven’t just been begging him to ruin you.

“You’re a tease,” you accuse, your voice raw.

“I’m keeping you from doing something you’ll regret,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, something serious under all that smugness that makes your chest ache.

“But I won’t regret it. I want you.”

“I know.” He brushes your hair back, tucks it behind your ear. “But there’s a difference between wanting something and being ready for it.”

You call bullshit. You call it a lot, actually, usually while you’re rubbing your cunt against his cock through his boxers and he’s groaning into your neck like he’s the one being tortured.

Just yesterday, you thought you had him.

You’d gotten him worked up enough that his control was fraying, his kisses turning desperate, his hands rough as they dragged your panties down. He had you bent over the arm of the couch, his cock nudging against your ass, and you reached back and grabbed his cock and dragged it down, down, until the head was pressing against your pussy instead.

He froze. You felt him twitch against your entrance, hot and hard and so fucking close.

“Pips,” he warned, his voice breaking.

“Please,” you whispered, and you meant it. You meant it with every cell in your body. “I want you. I want all of you.”

For one beautiful, terrible second, you thought he’d give in. His hips shifted forward, just a fraction, and you felt the blunt pressure of him starting to push in—

And then he pulled away. Pulled his cock out of your hand, flipped you over, and fucked your ass so hard you couldn’t think straight, his fingers working your clit until you came so violently you saw stars.

Afterward, you lay boneless on the couch, his cum leaking out of your ass, and you wanted to cry. Not because it wasn’t good. It was, it’s always good with Caleb, but because it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into the cushion.

He laughed, low and warm, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t. That’s the problem.

It’s two in the morning, and you’re lying in bed with your hand between your legs, thinking about his cock and how badly you want it inside you.

Not in your mouth, not in your ass. In your pussy, where you were built to take him. You’re so wet your fingers slide easily, and you fuck yourself thinking about him, about how it would feel to have him filling you completely, stretching you open, making you his in every possible way.

You cum with his name on your lips, and it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

That’s when the idea hits you. It’s stupid and petty and exactly the kind of thing that would make Caleb’s eye twitch, which is how you know it’s perfect.

Tomorrow, you’re going grocery shopping with him. And you’re going to buy every single condom in the store.

Grocery shopping with Caleb is usually boring as shit.

He has a list. He follows the list. He compares unit prices. You trail behind him rolling your eyes and sneaking candy bars into the cart when he’s not looking.

Today is different. Today, you have a mission.

“Can you grab the eggs?” Caleb asks, already halfway down the dairy aisle, not bothering to look back because he knows you’re following him. He always knows.

“On it,” you chirp, and wait exactly three seconds after he turns the corner before beelining for the family planning section.

The condom display is glorious. Row after row of colorful boxes, each one promising something new and exciting.

Extra thin. Ribbed for her pleasure. Studded. Glow-in-the-dark, which is objectively hilarious.

You grab one of each. Then you grab two of some, because why the fuck not. Your arms are full of condoms, and you’re grinning like a maniac.

Back to the cart. Caleb is still in dairy, probably agonizing over the difference between 2% and whole milk. You dump the condoms into the cart, burying them under a bag of apples and the box of cereal he always buys. Perfect.

You meet him at the end of the aisle, all innocence. “Got the eggs,” you say, holding up the carton.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t even glance at the cart. You could have put a live chicken in there and he wouldn’t notice.

Three more aisles. Three more chances to add to your collection.

Flavored condoms. Magnum XL, which makes you snort because Caleb is big but he’s not that big. (Maybe if he was a wolf, then maybe…) Ultra-sensitive. The dotted ones that make you bite your lip just thinking about them.

It’s not until you’re in the frozen food section that Caleb finally looks down.

“What the fuck,” he says, very quietly.

You follow his gaze. The condoms are no longer hidden. They’ve shifted, risen to the surface like the world’s most embarrassing iceberg. A rainbow of prophylactics, at least fifteen different varieties, sitting proudly among the broccoli and bread.

“Oops,” you say, not sorry at all.

Caleb’s face does something complicated. His eyebrows try to climb off his forehead. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Pips,” he manages. “What the actual fuck.”

“I’m being proactive,” you inform him. “Birth control is important, Caleb. Gran would be proud of my responsible choices.”

“Gran would have a stroke.”

“Then it’s good she’s not here.” You pat his arm. “Don’t worry, I got the glow-in-the-dark ones. For special occasions.”

He looks like he wants to strangle you. Also like he wants to laugh, which is worse, because if he laughs you’ve won and he knows it. So he doesn’t laugh. He just reaches into the cart and starts grabbing condom boxes, presumably to put them back.

You grab his wrist. “Nope.”

“Pips—“

“Nope.” You hold his gaze, your fingers tight around his wrist. “I want them. We’re buying them.”

“We don’t need fifteen different kinds of—“

“We might.” You lean closer. “I want to try them all. On you. With you. In me.” Your voice drops. “I want to know what every single one of these feels like when you’re fucking me, Caleb. So we’re buying them.”

His breath catches. You see it. The flash in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens.

He wants it too.

He wants it so badly it’s eating him alive, and the fact that he won’t give in just makes you want to break him more.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “Fine. But you’re carrying the bag.”

You beam. “Deal.”

The checkout line is where things get truly beautiful. The cashier is a college-aged kid with a nose ring and the tired expression of someone who’s rung up too many awkward purchases today. Caleb stands behind you, radiating discomfort, while you unload the cart.

First the normal stuff. Eggs, milk, cereal. The cashier scans them mechanically.

Then the condoms start.

The first box gets a raised eyebrow. The second gets a flick of the eyes toward Caleb, then back to you. By the fifth box, the cashier’s face has settled into a mask of professional neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the fact that they are absolutely judging you.

Caleb has gone very still behind you. You can feel the heat of his embarrassment like a physical thing.

“Having a party?” the cashier asks, their voice carefully neutral.

“Something like that,” you reply cheerfully.

The glow-in-the-dark condoms are what break them. The cashier holds the box for a beat too long, their mouth twitching.

“That’ll be one-forty-two,” they say finally, and you hand over Caleb’s card because of course you brought his wallet.

While the cashier is bagging, you turn to Caleb. His face is a masterpiece of controlled humiliation, his ears bright red, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head.

You can’t resist. You really, really can’t.

You grab his face with both hands, pull him down, and kiss him square on the mouth. It’s not a chaste kiss. It’s wet and open and you make sure the cashier gets a full view of your tongue. Then you pull back, beaming, and announce loud enough for the elderly couple in the next lane to hear.

“You’re the best big brother ever!”

The cashier drops your receipt.

Caleb makes a sound like a wounded animal. His hand finds your waist, fingers digging in hard enough that you’ll have bruises tomorrow, and he steers you toward the exit without another word.

The walk to the car is conducted in a silence so thick you could swim in it. Caleb loads the groceries, each bag placed in the trunk with deliberate care. You bounce on your toes beside the passenger door, buzzing with the high of successful chaos.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

The drive home is eleven minutes of pure, exquisite tension. Caleb’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. The radio is off. The windows are up. The only sound is the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

You drum your fingers on your thigh and wait.

He pulls into the driveway, cuts the engine, and sits there for a long moment. You can practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, calculations and restraint and something darker, something that makes your stomach flip.

“Get inside,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “Now.”

You get inside. You’re already running.

The plastic bags hit the kitchen floor with a wet thud. Eggs, probably. You hope they’re eggs. You hope they’re all eggs, and the milk, and everything fragile, because the sound of Caleb’s rage manifesting as grocery destruction is the most beautiful thing you’ve heard all day.

You’re already in your room, door half-closed, heart hammering with the specific thrill of knowing you’re about to get exactly what you want and it’s going to hurt.

He finds you in three strides. The door swings open and Caleb fills the frame, his chest heaving, his eyes that specific shade of dark purple that means you’ve pushed him past the point of pretending.

The plastic bag dangles from his fist. The condom bag, because of course he separated them.

“Having fun?” he asks. His voice is dangerously soft.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Immensely.”

He upends the bag over your head.

Condoms rain down on you. Boxes and foil packets, a colorful avalanche of protection that bounce off your shoulders and scatter across your comforter. You throw your head back and laugh, loud and genuine, because it’s hilarious and you’re high on the power of having finally, finally cracked him.

Caleb is notlaughing.

He stands at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that should scare you but just makes your cunt clench.

His jaw is set. His eyes are narrowed. He looks like he wants to devour you, and the thought makes your mouth go dry.

“You humiliated me,” he says.

“Yep.” You pop the ‘p,’ grinning.

“In public.”

“Very public. There were witnesses.”

“You called me your brother while you fucking tongue-kissed me in front of a cashier.”

“I did.” You pick up a box of ribbed condoms, turning it over in your hands. “And you know what? I’d do it again. I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it every day until you stop being a coward and fuck me like you mean it.”

Something shifts in his face. His expression doesn’t change, not exactly, but the air between you gets thicker.

“You think this is funny,” he says. Not a question.

“I think you’re funny.” You toss the condom box at him. It bounces off his chest. “All that big talk about keeping me safe, and you’re scared of a little pussy.”

That does it. That’s the line.

Caleb moves so fast you don’t have time to react. One second he’s at the foot of the bed, the next his hands are on your waistband, yanking your pants down your legs with a single brutal pull. Your underwear goes with them, caught in the fabric, leaving you bare from the waist down. Cool air hits your cunt and your nipples harden instantly.

“Caleb—“

“Shut up.” His voice is clipped. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

He grabs your ankles. Not gently. His fingers dig into the soft skin above your Achilles tendon as he pushes your legs up, back, until your knees are by your ears and your pussy is on obscene display.

You’re already wet because of course you are. You’ve been wet since the grocery store, and the position stretches you open, your inner lips parting to reveal the slick pink inside.

You try to lower your legs. You really do. You strain against his grip, because that’s what you do, you push and you test and you see how far you can go.

Caleb’s eyes flash. “I told you to stay.”

The gravity in the room shifts. Your legs feel suddenly, impossibly heavy, locked in place by an invisible force that you can’t fight. His evol.

“Fuck you,” you gasp, because you have to say something, and those are the only words your brain can produce when your cunt is exposed and Caleb is looking at you like he’s deciding how to break you.

“Maybe later.” His hand comes down on your inner thigh and a sharp, stinging slap makes you yelp. Then another, on the other thigh, his palm connecting with a crack that echoes in your bedroom.

He works methodically, alternating sides, each slap landing a little higher until his hand is cupping your pussy and the next slap lands directly on your clit.

You scream. The pain is bright and immediate, a white-hot flash that melts instantly into a throbbing heat that radiates through your entire pelvis.

He does it again, and again, his hand coming down on your exposed cunt until you’re writhing against the gravity hold, your thighs flushed red, your pussy swollen and sensitive and so fucking wet it’s dripping down to your ass.

“Still think this is funny?” Caleb asks. His voice is calm now. Controlled. The anger has burned down to something hotter and more focused. This must be what Colonel Caleb’s men experience everyday on the fleet.

You shake your head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your pussy throbs with each heartbeat, the sting of his palm lingering on your oversensitized flesh.

“Good.” He reaches for one of the condom boxes on the bed, the normal ones, the plain blue package. He tears it open with his teeth, the foil ripping, and pulls out a single condom. The latex is pale and almost translucent in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Open your mouth.”

You do. Your lips part, and Caleb places the condom on your tongue. It tastes like nothing, a faint rubbery bitterness, and you keep your mouth open as he works his cock free from his jeans.

He’s hard. Fully, achingly hard, his cock jutting up from a thatch of dark hair, the head flushed and leaking.

He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he’s pushing forward, the tip of his cock pressing against the condom on your lips.

“Keep it there,” he instructs, and then he’s pushing into your mouth, the latex sheathing his cock as he feeds himself between your lips.

The condom tastes strange, slick with the lubricant, and you suck instinctively, your tongue working along the underside as he pushes deeper.

He bottoms out, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you gag slightly. Caleb holds there, his hand fisted in your hair, and you can feel every vein, every ridge of him through the thin latex. He pulls back slowly, the condom catching on your lower lip, and then pushes in again, establishing a rhythm that has your jaw aching and your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Such a good mouth,” he murmurs, and the condescension in his voice pissing you off but it makes you wetter, too. “You take it so well. Always so eager.”

He pulls out completely, the condom glistening with your saliva, and then he’s moving down. His cock, still sheathed, drags along your inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, and then the head of him is pressing against your pussy.

You whimper. The latex is cool against your overheated flesh, the contrast making you shiver. Caleb rubs the tip of his condom-covered cock along your slit, gathering your wetness, teasing your entrance without pushing in.

“Look at you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “So fucking desperate. This what you wanted? All those condoms? This what you had in mind when you made that cashier want to die?”

You nod frantically, beyond words, your hips trying to chase his cock. The gravity hold keeps your legs pinned, but your lower body can still move, and you rock against him, seeking friction, seeking more.

Caleb smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the Colonel’s smile.

“Beg,” he says.

“Please,” you gasp, the word tearing out of you without thought or dignity. “Please, Caleb, please fuck me, I need it, I’ve needed it for so long, please—“

He shoves his cock into your cunt without warning.

The stretch is immediate and blinding. Your body, which has been begging for this for weeks, still isn’t prepared for the reality of him. The thick, insistent pressure of Caleb’s cock pushing into you, stretching you open in a way that’s nothing like his fingers, nothing like anything you’ve felt before. The condom is there, a thin barrier that somehow makes everything more intense, the latex catching on your inner walls as he pushes deeper.

“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his head dropping forward. His hands are shaking where they grip your thighs. “Fuck, Pips, you’re so tight—“

You can’t speak. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out, just a ragged breath that might be a sob or might be the most intense pleasure of your life.

He’s so big, so fucking big, and your cunt is clenching around him in pulses, your body trying to adjust to the invasion. You regret even thinking he wouldn’t fit the XL Magnums.

“Breathe,” Caleb says, his voice strained. “Breathe through it. You’re doing so well.”

You breathe. You focus on the sensation of him inside you, the fullness, the stretch, the way your body is slowly, reluctantly accepting him. He rocks his hips, pushing another inch deeper, and you whimper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise goes straight to your clit. “That’s it. Take it.”

His hand slides up your stomach, pressing flat against your lower abdomen. The pressure is firm and deliberate, and when he pushes down you feel his cock shift inside you, the head rubbing against a spot that makes your vision go white.

“There,” he says, watching your face. “Right there. You feel that?”

You nod frantically, beyond words.

He keeps his hand there, pressing down, and starts to move. Short, careful strokes at first, just enough to make you gasp, and then deeper, each thrust pushing his cock against that spot from the inside while his hand presses from the outside. Your orgasm builds faster than you thought possible, a tight coil of pleasure winding from your cunt up through your belly.

“Caleb,” you gasp. “I’m going to—“

“Cum,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Your cunt clenches around his cock in rhythmic pulses, each one squeezing him tighter, and you’re crying out, your back arching off the bed as pleasure tears through you. The gravity hold on your legs falters for a second. Caleb’s control is slipping and your thighs drop toward his shoulders, changing the angle so his cock drives even deeper.

That’s all it takes for him. You feel him stiffen, his hips jerking forward as he buries himself to the hilt, and then he’s cumming, his release pulsing into the condom deep inside you. You can’t feel the wet heat of it since the latex contains everything. But you can feel the throb of his cock, each pulse matched by the clench of your own orgasm, and it’s enough to drag a second climax from you, smaller but no less intense.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Your legs are trembling. Your cunt is throbbing around his still-hard cock. Caleb’s forehead is pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps that warm your skin.

Then he pulls out carefully, and the emptiness is immediate and aching. The condom is bulging with his cum, and you watch, fascinated, as he ties it off.

“Open,” he says, holding the tied condom in front of your mouth.

You open. He places it on your tongue, warm, heavy, the latex slick with his release. And your mouth fills with the bitter-rubber taste. “Hold it,” he instructs. “Don’t swallow. Don’t spit it out.”

You nod, the condom a strange, weighted presence in your mouth.

Caleb reaches for another box.

The ribbed ones. He tears it open with his teeth again, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolls the new condom down his cock. The ribs are visible through the latex, raised ridges that circle the shaft, and your cunt clenches at the sight.

“Turn over,” he says. “On your hands and knees.”

You scramble to comply, the condom still in your mouth, your body humming with aftershocks. The mattress dips as Caleb kneels behind you, his hands on your hips, and then you feel it again. The weightlessness as your arms are suddenly impossibly heavy. The gravity evol again, locking your hands behind your back, forcing your chest down toward the mattress.

“Arch your back,” Caleb says, and his hand slides down your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your ass is up and your face is nearly in the pillow. “Better.”

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, still slick from your first round, and then he’s pushing in.

The ribbed condom changes everything. Each ridge catches on your inner walls, dragging against your g-spot with every thrust, creating a sensation that’s so intense it borders on painful. You moan around the condom in your mouth, the sound muffled and desperate.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses, his grip on your hips tightening. “Your pussy was made for this. Made for my cock.”

He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the ribs creating a friction that makes you see stars. “Look at you. Taking it like you were born for it. Should have fucked you sooner—would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

His hand finds your hair, yanking your head back. “Spit it out.”

You let the condom fall from your mouth onto the bed, a wet, pathetic little packet, and Caleb shoves two fingers between your lips.

“Suck,” he orders, and you do, your tongue working between his digits, coating them with saliva. He pulls them out dripping, and you watch, dazed, as he brings them to your clit.

The wet fingers circle your oversensitized bud, and you jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat.

“Messy girl,” Caleb murmurs, and the condescension is thick in his voice. “Drooling all over yourself. Can’t even keep your mouth closed.”

He fucks you harder, each thrust driving the ribbed condom against your g-spot, his fingers working your clit in tight circles. Your arms are still locked behind you by his gravity, your body completely at his mercy, and the helplessness of it pushes you toward another peak.

“Caleb,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m so close—“

“Then cum,” he says, and his voice has that edge, that possessiveness that turns your brain to static. “Cum on my cock. Show me what this pretty pussy can do.”

He reaches deeper than before, deeper than should be possible, and the head of his cock rams against your cervix. Your body seizes, your cunt clamping down hard, and then you’re cumming harder than before. Your inner walls are spasming around his cock as something hot and uncontrollable gushes from you.

You’re squirting.

Actually fucking squirting again, the fluid soaking the sheets beneath you, your thighs, Caleb’s hand where it’s pressed against your clit. Your face pressed into the pillow as your body empties itself around Caleb’s pounding cock.

He groans above you, his rhythm faltering as your cunt milks him through his second orgasm. You can feel the pulse of him through the condom, the ribs catching on your sensitive walls with each throb, and it drags another smaller climax from you, your body trembling with the effort.

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, his hips still working gently against your ass. “Look what you did. Soaked the fucking bed.”

You can’t respond. You can’t do anything except lie there, wrecked, as your heartbeat slowly returns to something resembling normal.

Caleb pulls out, and the emptiness is even more acute this time. You hear the soft snap of the condom being removed, tied, discarded. Then his hand is on your hip, turning you.

“On your side,” he says. “Catch your breath.”

You roll onto your side, your legs shaking, your cunt throbbing, and watch as Caleb goes back to the pile of condoms.

He’s not done. Not even close.

Your lungs feel like they’ve been through a war. Each breath comes ragged and shallow, your chest rising and falling against the rumpled sheets. Your cunt is so sensitive that the air against it feels like a touch, and you’re aware, distantly, of the wet spot beneath you.

Caleb stands at the foot of the bed, naked and magnificent, surveying the remaining condoms. His cock is still hard. The bastard could probably go all night. But there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his chest that catches the low light from your bedroom lamp.

He picks up the ultra-thin box. The packaging is sleek, black, promising sensation so close to skin you won’t know the difference.

“We’ll see about that,” Caleb murmurs, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or to the condom.

He tears it open, rolls it down his length with one smooth motion, and then he’s on the bed beside you. His hand finds your hip, turning you fully onto your side, and then he’s lifting your top leg, draping it over his shoulder with a gentleness that feels obscene after the way he just fucked you.

His hand grips your thigh, fingers splaying across the sensitive inner skin, and he leans forward. The head of his cock presses against your entrance. Slick, swollen, still dripping from your previous rounds.

And he pushes in. Slowly. So fucking slowly you want to scream.

The ultra-thin condom lives up to its name. You can feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, the subtle flare of his cockhead as it parts your folds.

Your inner walls grip him like they’re trying to memorize the shape of him, and Caleb watches your face with dark, hungry eyes as he works himself deeper.

“Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough. “Every vein? Every fucking pulse?”

You nod, unable to speak, because he’s right. You can feel his heartbeat through the condom, the steady throb of his cock inside you transmitting sensation so vividly it might as well be skin on skin.

He’s three-quarters of the way in when he pauses. His hand reaches for your face, fingers brushing your lips. “The condom,” he says. “From earlier. Where is it?”

You glance down. The tied condom from your first round is lying on the bed beside your head, a sad, deflated thing. Caleb picks it up, holding it in front of your mouth.

“Open.”

You open. He rips the condom on your tongue, pouring the cum onto your tongue. It’s cold now, and your stomach turns. Before you can react, Caleb spits. Directly into your mouth, a warm glob of saliva landing on the cum and your tongue.

“Swallow it,” he says.

You gag. You try. Your throat works convulsively, and the coagulated cum goes down. Not easily, not gracefully, but it goes, dragging a trail of bitterness down your esophagus. You cough, eyes watering, and Caleb watches with that same infuriating smile.

“Good girl.”

Then he pulls out. Completely.

His cock slides free of your cunt with a wet sound that makes you whine, high and desperate, because the emptiness is unbearable. Your body clenches around nothing, your cunt pulsing with the loss of him.

“No,” you gasp. “Caleb, please—“

“Count,” he interrupts. His voice leaves no room for argument. “Each inch. Starting from one.”

The head of his cock presses against your entrance again. You feel it breach you, that first glorious stretch, and your voice comes out shaky. “One.”

He pushes deeper. Another inch, the condom catching on your inner walls. “Two.”

Your breath hitches. Your cunt is so sensitive that each new inch sends sparks racing up your spine. “Three.”

Caleb’s hand tightens on your thigh. His other hand braces against the headboard, giving him leverage as he works himself deeper. “Four.”

You’re whimpering now, your leg trembling where it’s hooked over his shoulder. The position opens you up completely, and you can feel every millimeter of his cock as it fills you. “Five.”

He’s more than halfway now, the thickest part of him stretching you in a way that borders on too much. Your inner walls flutter around him, trying to accommodate his size. “Six.”

Your voice breaks on “seven,” because that’s when the head of his cock hits your cervix, the pressure so intense your vision blurs.

Caleb holds there, his hips flush against your ass, and you can feel all of him, eight thick inches buried inside you, the condom stretched tight over his cock.

“Eight,” you whisper, and it comes out as a sob.

He rocks forward, just a fraction. The ultra-thin condom creates an illusion. It feels like he’s breaching you, like he’s pushing past your cervix into somewhere deeper. Your body responds as if it’s real, your cunt clenching in rhythmic pulses, your inner walls grasping at his cock like they’re trying to pull him deeper still.

“Fuck,” Caleb groans, his control clearly fraying. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod frantically, beyond words, your hips rolling against his in tiny, desperate movements. It’s the way he’s in you. Like he’s shoving past where he’s even supposed to fit, like that condom’s nothing but a fucking joke.

Your body doesn’t give a shit about rules. It only knows how full you are, how he’s splitting you open, how your cunt’s gripping him like it’s never letting go. The pleasure twists tight in your gut.

Caleb feels it. He always feels it. His hand slides down to your clit, circling once, twice, and that’s all it takes. You cum with a broken cry, your cunt clamping down hard around his cock, and the pulsing of your orgasm drags his release from him.

You can almost feel him cum. The ultra-thin condom transmits the throb of his cock, the way it swells and pulses as he empties himself, but there’s no warmth, no wet flood. Just his orgasm contained behind a barrier that’s thinner than a hair but might as well be a wall.

It’s maddening. It’s perfect.

You’re both panting, sweat-slick and trembling, and Caleb’s forehead drops to rest against your calf where it’s draped over his shoulder.

The only sound is your shared breathing, gradually slowing, and the soft rustle of the condom as Caleb carefully pulls out.

Your cunt feels used, stretched, wonderfully sore, and when you clench experimentally you can feel the residual ache of taking all eight inches of him.

You hope there’s a bruise. You hope you feel this tomorrow.

Caleb discards the condom somewhere off the side of the bed and collapses beside you, his arm thrown across your waist. His skin is hot against yours, his breath warming the back of your neck.

“That’s three,” he murmurs.

You turn your head to look at him. “Three what?”

“Three condoms.” His smile is lazy, satisfied, the anger from earlier completely burned away. “We’ve got what, a dozen left? Plus the glow-in-the-dark.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Think you can handle it?”

You can’t wait.

Refer to Party RSVP

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The small pink box sits on the edge of the sink, its cheerful pastel packaging a mockery of your current situation.

You grab a tampon, ripping the cardboard open with your teeth because your hands are already shaking too much to coordinate a proper tear. The bathroom feels suddenly stifling, the white tiles and harsh fluorescent light amplifying your misery.

This was supposed to be the day. The day Caleb finally stops pretending he doesn’t want to fuck you with his big ass cock.

All morning, you’d been planning.

You’d shaved everywhere, even the places that didn’t need it, and slathered yourself in that vanilla body butter he always compliments. You’d been practicing your speech in the shower, not that you’d need one.

The plan was simple. Clean up, then plant yourself on his lap while he’s watching TV, all innocent-like in just your oversized t-shirt and no underwear. You’d make a joke, then bite your lip. He’d get that look in his eyes, the one he thinks you don’t notice, and then... finally.

But now? Now you’re standing here with blood running down your legs and a tampon that feels like it’s expanding to the size of a football inside you.

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another. You wipe them away angrily, but they keep coming.

“Stupid hormones,” you mutter, but the tears keep falling, hot and insistent. Your chest feels tight, like something’s squeezing your lungs, and your nose is starting to run. God, you’re a mess.

You reach for a tissue to blow your nose, but your hand knocks over the box of tampons, sending them scattering across the bathroom floor. The sound of them bouncing off the tiles is loud in the quiet house. Too loud. You freeze, listening.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

“Pips? You okay in there?”

Caleb’s voice.

Of course it’s Caleb’s voice.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mortification washing over you.

How much did he hear? The crying? The cursing? The tampons falling everywhere? Has he been standing out there the whole time, listening to your meltdown?

“I’m fine!” you call back, your voice cracking on the last word.

You sound anything but fine, even to your own ears. You hastily gather the scattered tampons, shoving them back into the box with shaking hands. “Just... dropped something!”

There’s a pause, and you can picture him out there, head tilted, brow furrowed in that way that makes the little crease appear between his eyes. “You sure? You’ve been in there a while.”

“Yes,” you insist, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Just... period stuff. You know.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back.

Why did you tell him that?

Now he knows. Now he knows you’re bleeding and crying in the bathroom and that the day—and probably the next five days—are completely, utterly ruined.

You brace your hands on the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection again. Your eyes are red-rimmed, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A strand of hair has escaped your ponytail and is sticking to your damp forehead. You look, in a word, pathetic.

Your stomach gives an uncomfortable twist, and you press a hand to it, wincing. The cramps are starting, another lovely feature of this wonderful day. You reach for the bottle of Midol on the shelf, popping two without water. They stick in your throat, and you have to swallow hard to force them down.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not today. You’d checked your period tracker app just yesterday. You weren’t due for three more days.

But your body, apparently, had other plans. Your own body has cockblocked you in the most literal way possible.

Outside the door, you can hear Caleb shifting his weight, the soft creak of the floorboards betraying his presence. He’s still out there, probably wondering what the hell is going on with you.

Part of you wants to fling the door open and throw yourself into his arms, to bury your face in his chest and let him tell you it’s going to be okay, the way he did when you were kids and scraped your knee or had a nightmare.

But you’re not a kid anymore, and the things you want from Caleb now are decidedly not the things a sister should want from her brother.

Another cramp hits, harder this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound. The tampon feels wrong inside you, too big and too small all at once, a constant reminder of what you can’t have today.

You splash cold water on your face, trying to pull yourself together. Your reflection looks marginally better—the cold water has taken some of the redness from your eyes and cheeks.

You take a deep breath, then another. You can do this.

You can walk out of this bathroom, tell Caleb you’re fine, and then go lock yourself in your room with a heating pad and a pint of ice cream until this feeling passes.

But as you reach for the doorknob, there’s a soft knock that makes you jerk back as if burned.

“Pips?” Caleb’s voice is lower now, concerned. “I can hear you crying. Please let me in?”

You press your forehead against the cool wood of the door, another tear slipping free.

Of course he heard. Of course he knows. Of course the one day you were finally going to make your move, your body decided to betray you in the most spectacular way possible.

The day is ruined before it even began.

“You okay in there?” Caleb’s voice comes again, softer this time, tinged with worry.

You press your back against the bathroom door, as if your slight frame could somehow prevent him from coming in if he really wanted to. Your palms are damp against the wood, your heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can hear it through the thin barrier between you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, wiping hastily at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Just...you know. Girl stuff.”

The phrase sounds juvenile even to your ears, but what else are you supposed to say? ‘Sorry, can’t have sex with you today, my uterus is currently evacuating’?

There’s a pause, and you can imagine him out there. Arms crossed, head tilted, that little furrow between his brows that appears when he’s trying to figure you out. The thought makes your chest ache.

“Pips,” he says, his voice gentle. “I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard you cry since you were twelve. Something’s up. Open the door?”

Your throat feels tight. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not sure he can hear it.

The doorknob turns slightly beneath your back, testing. You tense, pushing harder against the wood. “Caleb, stop—“

“Look,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll make you a deal. You open the door, and I’ll make you those chocolate chip pancakes you like. The ones with the extra chips. And I won’t ask any questions you don’t want to answer.”

It’s a low blow. Those pancakes are your kryptonite. Your stomach, traitor that it is, growls softly at the thought.

“That’s not fair,” you mutter.

“I know,” he agrees cheerfully. “Is it working?”

You hesitate, then sigh in defeat. “Yes.”

“So you’ll open the door?”

You close your eyes, steeling yourself. “Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” you snap, finally pushing away from the door. You turn and grab the handle, yanking it open with more force than necessary. “Happy—“

But you don’t get to finish the sentence because suddenly Caleb is there, and his arms are around you, and your face is pressed against his chest, and you can’t breathe.

Not because he’s holding you too tightly, though he is, a little, but because he’s Caleb, and he’s holding you, and it’s everything you’ve wanted and nothing like how you imagined it would be.

“You’re crushing me,” you manage to mumble into his shirt.

He loosens his grip immediately but doesn’t let go. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the top of your head. “I just—when I heard you crying—“ He stops, his arms tightening around you again. “What’s going on, Pips? Talk to me.”

You shake your head against his chest, not trusting yourself to speak.

His shirt is soft beneath your cheek, and he smells like that soap he always uses. Your hands, which have been hanging awkwardly at your sides, slowly come up to clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m being stupid,” you finally say, your voice muffled.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you. “I highly doubt that,” he says, his eyes, those ridiculous purple eyes that have no business being on a human face, searching yours. “Try me.”

You swallow hard. “I just—I had this whole day planned, and now it’s ruined, and it’s all my body’s fault, and I know it’s stupid to be upset about it, but I am, and—“ The words are tumbling out now, tripping over each other in their rush to escape. “And now you probably think I’m a total freak, and—“

“Whoa, whoa,” Caleb interrupts, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brush away the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling again. “Slow down. What day? What are you talking about?”

You take a shuddering breath. “I was going to—I thought today I would finally—“ You stop, hiccuping embarrassingly. “I wanted you to fuck me,” you blurt out, the words hanging in the air between you.

Caleb goes perfectly still, his eyes widening slightly.

For one horrible moment, you think you’ve made a terrible mistake, that you’ve misread every look, every touch, every moment that made your heart race. That he’s going to push you away, disgust written all over his face.

But then his expression softens, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, Pips,” he says, his voice fond. “Is that why you’re crying? Because you got your period?”

You nod miserably. “I had it all planned,” you confess. “I cleaned everything, and I was going to sit on your lap while you were watching TV, and I wasn’t wearing any underwear under my shirt, and then I was going to—“ You stop, your face burning. “But then I went to the bathroom and—“ You gesture vaguely at yourself.

To your surprise, Caleb laughs. This bitch.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Do you know that?”

You blink at him. “I’m not adorable. I’m horny and hormonal and currently bleeding from my vagina.”

His laugh comes again, louder this time. “That too,” he agrees. His eyes, when they meet yours, have darkened slightly. “And you know what? I think we can work with that.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

His hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “I mean,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that always makes your knees weak, “that you look so fucking cute when you cry, and if you want me to fuck you, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

Your mouth goes dry. “But I’m—“

“I know,” he interrupts. “And that’s not going to stop me.” His other hand slides down to your waist, fingers splaying across the small of your back. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

You shake your head frantically. “No. God, no. Please—“

His smile turns predatory. “Then shut up and kiss me, Pips.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

You surge forward, your lips meeting his with a desperation that would be embarrassing if he weren’t kissing you back just as hungrily. His mouth is hot against yours, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours as his hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, then slide up to tangle in his hair. He breaks the kiss with a laugh, grabbing your waist and lifting you effortlessly.

You yelp in surprise, your legs automatically wrapping around his hips. “What are you—“

Caleb carries you straight to the kitchen, setting you down only to push you firmly against the counter. Your back hits the edge with a soft thud, and you gasp as his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength until you’re perched on the cool granite surface.

His eyes never leave yours as he steps between your legs, spreading them wider with his hips.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with want. “Do you know that? For months. Maybe years.”

You shake your head, unable to form words as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your shirt higher. His fingertips brush against the edge of your underwear—or where your underwear should be. Your breath catches as you remember your plan, the lack of barriers between you.

His eyes darken as he realizes it too. “Fuck, Pips,” he breathes. “You really weren’t wearing anything?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy despite the way your body is screaming for his touch. “I told you. I had a plan.”

His laugh is low and hungry. “Well, your plan’s working.” One hand slides between your legs, his fingers finding you with unerring accuracy. “You’re so wet,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “Even with—“ He pauses, his expression shifting as his fingers brush against something.

The tampon string.

“Oh,” you say, your face burning. “I, uh—“

But Caleb is already grinning, that wicked smile that always gets you into trouble. “Let me see,” he says, tugging gently at the string.

You grab his wrist. “Wait—“

He freezes immediately. “Too much?”

You nod, embarrassment washing over you again. “It’s... sensitive. With the tampon in. I don’t—“ You stop, not sure how to explain the strange, oversensitive feeling without sounding completely insane.

But Caleb is already nodding, understanding dawning in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice gentle. “We’ll work around it.” His hand withdraws, but before you can feel disappointed, he’s reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants.

Your mouth goes dry as he pushes them down just enough to free his cock. It stands proudly against his stomach, thick and already leaking at the tip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, watching your face carefully.

Then he spits into his palm, the crude gesture at odds with the tenderness in his eyes as he wraps his hand around himself. He strokes once, twice, spreading the saliva, before guiding himself to your entrance.

The head of his cock presses against you, hot and hard, and you gasp at the contact. “Okay?” he asks, his voice strained.

You nod frantically. “Yes, please—“

He pushes forward slightly, the tip of him catching on your folds, then sliding along your slit.

His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding himself as he rocks against you. That fucking tampon string tickles his fingers with every thrust, a reminder of the messy reality, but fuck if it isn’t getting you even hotter, even needier.

“That’s it,” Caleb murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your breast through your shirt. “You’re taking it so well. So fucking pretty for me.”

You whimper at his words, your hips moving of their own accord to meet his thrusts. The counter is cool beneath your heated skin, a counterpoint to the burning pleasure building between your legs. Caleb’s breath comes faster, his movements becoming less coordinated as he works himself against you.

“Fuck, Pips,” he groans, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder. “I’m not going to last if you keep—“

But you’re beyond words now, teetering on the edge of release. Your inner muscles clench around nothing, your body desperate for more. Caleb seems to sense it, his hand sliding between you to circle your clit with his thumb.

The touch is all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your back arching off the counter as you cry out.

Through the haze of pleasure, you feel Caleb stiffen, then groan as warmth spills across your lower belly—his orgasm triggered by yours.

For a moment, you both just breathe, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. Then Caleb pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he takes in the sight of his cum on your skin.

“Fuck,” he says again, voice rough.

But you’re already moving, sliding off the counter on shaky legs. Your hand reaches between your legs, fingers brushing the tampon string to make sure it’s still in place, then moving lower to gather some of Caleb’s cum. Your heart is pounding, your mind oddly clear as you turn around and bend over the sink, using your free hand to spread your ass cheeks.

“Pips?” Caleb sounds confused, then, as you use your cum-covered finger to circle your asshole, shocked. “What are you—“

“I want more,” you say, your voice steadier than you expected. “I don’t care if it hurts.”

Caleb makes a strangled sound. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You look back at him over your shoulder, meeting his gaze steadily. “Yes, I do. I’ve thought about this. About you. About us.” You wiggle your ass slightly, watching his eyes track the movement. “Please, Caleb. I need you.”

He’s still for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he steps forward, one hand coming to rest on the small of your back. “I’m going to prep you first,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “If you can take two of my fingers without tapping out, we’ll talk.”

You nod, excitement and nervousness warring in your stomach. “Okay.”

His hand slides down, his finger, slick with a mixture of his cum and the saliva he spits into his palm, rubbing gentle circles around your hole.

“Breathe,” he instructs as he begins to push forward. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You bite your lip, focusing on the sensation of him working his finger inside you. It’s strange, not quite painful, but intense in a way you hadn’t expected.

Your body resists at first, then slowly gives way as Caleb crooks his finger, searching.

“There,” he says as you gasp at the new sensation.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Caleb laughs, the sound warm with affection. He adds a second finger beside the first, working them in carefully. “Still good?”

You nod, beyond words now as he scissors his fingers, stretching you. The slight burn is already fading, replaced by a needy, empty feeling that has you pushing back against his hand.

“I think,” Caleb says, his voice strained, “that you’re ready for more. But I need to hear you say it. I need to know you’re sure.”

You turn your head, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. “I’m sure,” you say, each word deliberate. “I want you. All of you. Now.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Desire, possession, maybe a hint of the same desperation you’re feeling.

“Then hold on,” he says, withdrawing his fingers. “Because I’m not going to be gentle.”

Caleb doesn’t give you time to reconsider.

One hand grips your hair, pulling just hard enough to make your scalp tingle as he forces your head down toward the sink. The other wraps around his cock, using it to scoop up the remaining cum on your ass, spreading it as a makeshift lubricant.

The head of him presses against your hole, the blunt pressure both foreign and thrilling as he begins to push forward.

“Breathe,” he reminds you, his voice tight with restraint. “Try to relax.”

You try, you really do, but your body resists the intrusion, the ring of muscle clenching tightly. Caleb pauses, his hand in your hair gentling to stroke soothingly.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “We can stop—“

“No,” you interrupt, pushing back against him despite the burn. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He hesitates a moment longer, then nods. “On three,” he says. “One, two—“

On three, he pushes forward, the head of his cock popping past the tight ring of muscle.

The sensation is overwhelming, an intensity that steals your breath. Your fingers scramble for purchase on the smooth surface of the sink, your knees threatening to buckle.

“Fuck,” Caleb hisses above you, his hand tightening in your hair. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You can’t answer, your world narrowed to the point where your bodies are joined. It burns, yes, but there’s pleasure there too.

From Caleb’s perspective, only the tip is inside you—maybe an inch at most. Your body has accepted that much, but no more, the passage too tight, too unyielding for him to push deeper. He can feel every pulse of your heartbeat around him, every slight shift as you try to adjust to the intrusion.

“Pips,” he says, his voice strained. “I need you to relax. You’re clenching too hard—I can’t—“

But then your body does something unexpected. The burn suddenly transforms, pleasure racing up your spine as your ass is stimulated by Caleb’s presence. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, your inner muscles clamping down hard around the intrusion as you cum with a broken cry, untouched.

The sudden tightness around him makes Caleb groan, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re going to make me—“

You’re beyond coherent thought, riding the waves of your unexpected climax. Your body is both tighter and somehow more yielding now, the ring of muscle around Caleb’s cock relaxing fractionally with each pulse of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. “Just like that. Let me in, Pips. Let me all the way in.”

Something about his words makes your body respond. Each time you unclench, he pushes forward another inch, the burn transforming gradually into a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your forehead pressed to the cool surface of the sink as you focus on relaxing, on taking him deeper.

“Halfway,” Caleb murmurs, his voice thick with want. “You’re doing so well. So good for me.”

His praise sends another thrill through you, your body responding by relaxing further. He slides in another inch, then another, until you can feel the base of his cock pressing against your ass, his hips flush with your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he says, the word barely audible. “You’ve taken all of me.”

The realization that Caleb is inside you completely sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you.

You’re stretched full, every movement sending sparks along your nerve endings. When Caleb shifts slightly, his cock dragging along your sensitive inner walls, you whimper at the sensation.

“I can’t—“ he starts, then stops, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “I’m going to—“

And then he’s cumming, his release triggering another, smaller orgasm for you. You feel each pulse of him inside you, the warmth of his cum filling you as your own muscles milk him for every drop.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. The fullness is strange but not uncomfortable now, your body having adjusted to his presence.

Slowly, carefully, you lift one leg to rest your foot on the counter beside you. The new angle makes Caleb’s cock shift inside you, drawing a gasp from both of you.

“What are you—“ he starts, but you’re already moving, your hips rolling experimentally against his.

The movement sends a jolt of pleasure through you, the cum inside you making everything slicker, easier. You do it again, more confidently this time, watching Caleb’s eyes darken as you take control.

“Pips,” he warns, but there’s no real admonishment in his voice—just a strained desire. “If you keep doing that—“

You grin, rolling your hips again. “What? You’ll what?”

His answer is cut short as his cock suddenly slips free, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. Cum, both his and yours, dribbles down your thighs.

“Shit,” Caleb says, looking down at the mess. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

You pout, turning in his arms to face him fully. Your hands slide up his chest, feeling the rapid thundering of his heart beneath your palms. It’s racing almost as fast as yours. You press closer, your still-sensitive body hyperaware of every point of contact between you.

“I wasn’t finished,” you murmur against his collarbone.

Caleb’s laugh rumbles through his chest. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “You were being very distracting.”

You smile, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin. “Good distracting or bad distracting?”

“Very, very good distracting,” he assures you, his hand coming up to cup your face. “But maybe we should clean up before—“

But you’re already moving, one hand sliding down his stomach to wrap around his cock.

He’s still half-hard, responsive to your touch as you give him a few experimental strokes. Your other hand continues its journey, sliding around to his lower back, then lower still, fingers brushing the curve of his ass.

Caleb goes very still. “Pips,” he says, a warning in his voice. “What are you—“

You cut him off with a kiss, your tongue sweeping into his mouth as your hand squeezes his ass. He makes a muffled sound of surprise, his own hands coming to rest uncertainly on your waist.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “My turn,” against his lips before diving back in.

Your hand continues its exploration, one finger tracing the cleft of his ass, searching for—

There. The small, puckered hole that you’ve wondered about but never dared to touch. You circle it with your fingertip, feeling Caleb tense against you.

“Pips,” he says again, his voice strained. “I don’t think—“

But it’s too late. Your finger, slick with a mixture of your cum and his, pushes forward, the tip breaching the tight ring of muscle. Caleb makes a choked sound against your mouth, his body going rigid.

You pull back slightly, concerned. “Not comfortable?” you ask, ready to withdraw.

He shakes his head, his eyes dark. “No, it’s just—“ He stops, swallowing hard. “No one’s ever—“

Understanding dawns. This is new for him too, maybe even newer than it was for you.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you say, echoing his earlier words. Then, before he can respond, you push your finger in a little deeper, crooking it slightly to search for—

“Fuck!” The word tears from his throat as you brush against his prostate, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “What was—“

You do it again, more deliberately this time, watching his face as pleasure washes over it. “That’s your prostate,” you explain, unable to keep the smugness from your voice. “Feels good, right?”

He nods frantically, beyond words now as you continue to stroke that spot inside him. Your other hand works his cock in counterpoint, establishing a rhythm that has him panting, his forehead dropping to rest on your shoulder.

“That’s it,” you encourage, feeling powerful in a way you never have before. “Let go for me, Caleb. Cum for me.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “Can’t,” he manages. “Too soon, after—“

But his body betrays him, his cock hardening fully in your hand, precum leaking copiously as you continue your assault. You speed up your movements, watching in fascination as Caleb comes completely undone.

This man who’s always been so in control, now trembling in your arms.

“I’m going to—“ he starts, then cuts off with a groan as his release hits him. His cum spills over your hand, warm and plentiful, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop, not when he’s making those delicious broken sounds against your neck.

And then something changes. The warmth on your hand increases, becomes wetter, and you realize with a shock that Caleb is—

“Oh god,” he moans, mortification evident in his voice. “I’m sorry, I’m—“

But it’s too late. The pleasure has overwhelmed him completely, his body responding in the most basic way as he continues to urinate, the warm liquid running down your hand to drip onto the floor between you.

You’re dripping wet, and it’s not just from the mess he’s made. There’s something fucking hot about seeing him like this.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your movements gentling but not stopping. “It’s just your body. It’s just us.”

He makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. “Just us,” he agrees, his voice rough. “Just you reducing me to—fuck—“

You carefully withdraw your finger, sensing he’s reached his limit.

Immediately, his arms tighten around you, holding you close as his breathing slowly returns to normal. You can feel the heat of his blush against your neck, the slight tremble in his muscles as the aftershocks of pleasure, and probably embarrassment, run through him.

After a moment, he pulls back slightly, not quite meeting your eyes. “I should, um. We should probably—“

“Clean up?” you supply helpfully, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He nods, finally looking at you. You lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I think,” you say when you pull back, “that a bath is in order. For both of us.”

“A bath,” he agrees, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Together?”

You nod, suddenly shy as if you weren’t quite literally in him just seconds ago. “Together.”

He smiles before bending to lift you into his arms. You yelp in surprise, your arms automatically winding around his neck.

“What are you doing?” you demand, though you’re already grinning.

“Taking you to the bathroom,” he says matter-of-factly, already carrying you down the hallway. “Since someone decided to make a mess of us both.”

You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder. “I seem to recall you participating quite enthusiastically.”

“That,” he agrees, pushing the bathroom door open with his foot, “I definitely did.” He sets you down carefully beside the tub, his hands lingering on your waist. “Ready for round two?”

Refer to Party RSVP

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