Cheshire

The floor beneath you hums. Very softly.

You open your eyes.

Dim red light bleeds down in thin veins from the ceiling, as if filtered through flesh. There are no windows, no doors, only curved stone walls, dark and almost wet-looking, glistening with a sheen that refracts the red into soft bruised purple where it pools in the corners.

You sit up, slowly. Every muscle in your back screams. The last place you remember being is a holding cell—white walls, observation slit, that bastard with the needle telling you, “Just hold still. You’re lucky they picked you.”

You thought it was bluff.

Or euthanasia.

Now you’re here.

“Fuck,” you rasp, voice breaking against your own throat.

The walls don’t echo. They don’t need to. You can already feel the space listening.

So you stand, wearing nothing but a thin medical gown, ties open in the back. Nothing underneath. Bare feet on warm stone.

The floor is too clean.

Your skin prickles. Something in your blood is beginning to wake.

The first sign is the stillness through absence.

It's the way your breath stops coming out as vapor. The way your heartbeat starts to sound louder than it should in your ears. Because the air’s being replaced. Something denser taking its place. Something watching you from inside the space between molecules.

You walk.

You don’t know why. There’s nowhere to go. But standing still feels worse. Every step is slow, your calves aching, your knees still unsteady. There are no markings on the walls, just that same dark luminous stone, etched so faintly in some places it almost looks like a scar beneath skin.

Then—

You feel it.

The room notices you back.

Your gut twists, a cold shiver spidering up your spine. Something presses against the inside of your skull. Your mouth goes dry.

You’re not alone.

You were never alone.

“Who the fuck is there?” you call, sharper this time, pushing past the thick drag in your throat.

No answer. But the air changes again.

Heavier. Sweeter.

Blood baked into stone.

Your stomach flips. The heat that rises next isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, sick and deep, the kind of wrong that feels good right before it hurts.

You back toward the center of the room. Your breath’s coming faster now.

There’s a pressure behind your eyes.

Your skin itches, too tight.

Something is watching. Right now. You can feel its attention on your ribcage. On your mouth. On your spine. Not a ghost. Not a god. Something much, much hungrier.

You grind your teeth.

They left you here on purpose. You’re not a guest. You’re not a prisoner.

You’re bait.

You curl your fingers into fists.

“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” you say, teeth flashing, voice shaking just enough to piss you off. “You want to look? Then come out. I’m right here.”

A pause.

No sound.

Then laughter.

Fucking amusement.

Rolling through the air like it’s always been waiting.

You twist toward it, throat tight, hands already tensed into a fighting stance—but there’s nothing to see. Just a dark corner of the room thickening at the edges, heat lines emanating toward you in waves that shouldn't exist without fire. Your skin dampens instantly. A bead of sweat crawls down your spine like a finger tracing the way.

“Come out,” you snap, voice cracking against the quiet. “If you’re gonna stare, grow a fucking spine and show yourself.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“Look at you.”

The voice cuts out of the dark like a blade dragged through velvet.

A slow drawl, edged with mockery and amusement in equal measure.

Masculine without a trace of human.

He’s toying with you, and he wants you to know it.

“Strutting like you’ve got claws,” he purrs. “All teeth and spit and nothing to back it up. Real fuckin' cute.”

You take a step forward, heat roaring beneath your cheeks.

“You think I’m bluffing?”

A scoff.

“Oh, I know you are. But I like it.”

The presence moves again—closer, but not into the light. He stays just out of reach, bastard, the voice circling around you now, slow and easy, like a shark drifting past a bleeding body.

“I get a lot of them in this room, you know,” he goes on, conversational, as if you’re sharing a drink instead of threats. “Most cry. Some pray. A few piss themselves. You?” A pause, deliberate. “You bark. Loud little thing.”

You refuse to let the sweat on your brow shake your expression. You square your shoulders, set your teeth.

“Louder than you, apparently. Hiding in the fucking dark.”

That makes him laugh again—shorter this time, sharper. It punches the air right next to your ear. You flinch before you can stop it. His satisfaction slithers through the space between you like a tongue.

“You flinch nice.”

There’s a grin in his voice now. You don’t see it, but you feel it.

“And your mouth…”

A click of his tongue.

“…I want to see what else it’s good at.”

You lunge toward the voice before you can stop yourself.

Your hand meets nothing—just air thick as syrup, heat spooling in your lungs, and the knowledge that he’s moving, always, always just outside your reach. The air carries his scent now, smoke, rust, something vaguely sweet and utterly foul underneath.

He’s circling you.

Lazily. Predatorily dragging himself around the edge of the space, watching how you spin to follow.

You stop.

You close your eyes. You breathe.

You want to get under his skin.

“Is this how you get off?” you say, quieter this time. Icy. “Breathing on girls in the dark? That’s your whole routine? No wonder they leave you chained up in here like a fuckin' dog.”

Silence.

The heat pulses behind you.

Then—sharp, way too close—right at your back:

“Say that again.”

You turn fast—but you’re not fast enough.

This time, he lets you see him.

The dark peels back just enough to reveal teeth.

Not a smile. Not a mouth.

Teeth.

And behind them—four eyes the color of dried blood, narrowed with something sharp and pleased and hungry.

He’s tall. Taller than you expected. Built like violence. Every inch of him is cut from something that doesn’t heal so much as scar over and grin. His skin is marked—inked, maybe, or branded—with patterns that seem to shift when you try to follow them.

You don’t take a step back.

You should, but you don’t.

“You heard me.”

He leans in.

There’s nothing human in the sound he makes, it's wet with something too old to be anger.

“I like this one,” he mutters to himself. “All bite. Wonder how long you’ll last before you scream.”

You blink hard, chest heaving, he's so close he eclipses the room. All you see are his eyes and ink. The scent in the air is worse now. Richer. The sweetness is cloying and engineered... almost, like it’s being pumped in from the walls. Your legs feel too warm. Your face is flushed.

Something’s changing in the air, and it’s not you.

“You dosing me?” you bite out. “What is this, some kind of fucking… pheromone trap?”

He doesn’t answer.

But behind you—

A second voice stirs.

“Contaminant release is within parameters.”

It’s colder. Measured. Void of emotion.

You turn—

And see him? (It?)

Different from the first. Still huge and unhuman, but his eyes don’t grin. His body doesn’t flex with threat. He’s still, almost serene. His features are uncannily sculpted, too symmetrical, the kind of beauty that implies danger by omission. Alien, almost.

And he’s watching you. With all three eyes.

You feel a chill crawl down your arms.

“Subject is resisting at an above-average threshold,” he says softly. “Elevated hormonal resistance. Visual markers… interesting.”

The first one snarls behind you, actually snarls, like the sound’s caught in his throat.

“Don’t fucking catalog her, freak.”

The cold one turns his head, very slightly.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

---

They back off and move in tandem with you—as if the very act of you standing in the center of the chamber is a gravitational force they orbit. The larger one, the heat-radiating presence with teeth you still haven’t quite seen, paces wide, dragging his gaze over your body like it’s a place he’s been before. He doesn’t hide his enjoyment. His steps are slow, loose, indulgent in a way that infuriates you. He’s taking his time because he can.

The other moves quieter.

Not slinking—there’s no need for stealth—but measured.

His eyes don’t stray to your breasts or hips the way the first one’s do. He watches your face, your breathing, the twitch in your hands when the chamber grows warmer, the involuntary tightening of your thighs. It’s not desire in his gaze—it’s analysis. Invasive analysis. He’s memorizing not just your body, but each and every way it responds to them.

And the chamber—it pulses simultaneously. It reacts to their closeness, the temperature ticking up with every breath you take. The scent—heady, honey-sweet and sharpened with something metallic—coats your tongue even when you try to breathe through your mouth. It makes your teeth ache. It makes your throat flex like you’ve swallowed something thick. You can feel the skin at your neck and shoulders dampening beneath your gown. You clench your jaw and force yourself to stay still.

“Are you going to touch me or just keep walking circles like you’re waiting for me to lie down?”

You hate the breathiness in your voice, but it’s already there. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, again, but this time it's because the pads of your fingers are beginning to tingle. Too sensitive. Too aware of themselves. The air’s getting under your skin.

The hot one pauses.

He doesn’t stop in front of you. He doesn’t reach. He just tilts his head, slowly, like a predator indulging something small that thinks it’s dangerous. His smile is there again, wide and sharp, and it makes something low in your abdomen twist.

“You want us to touch you?” he says, and his voice is thicker now, dragging across your nerves. “That what that mouth’s really saying?”

The cold one is behind you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But you feel him.

A subtle shift in air pressure. A pause in the low, ambient hum of the walls. You know if you turned around now, his face would be just inches from yours. You don’t.

You keep your eyes on the other. The grinning one. The one who’s begun to close the gap between you, step by slow step, dragging heat with him.

“I didn’t say I wanted it,” you mutter, chin tilting higher. “I said if you’re going to do something, stop pretending it’s not already in the air.”

His eyes flash, and something in his wild expression brightens, just a flicker of pleasure, of approval.

“Shit,” he murmurs, almost fondly. “Look at that. You can smell it, can’t you?”

He takes one more step. Now you see him. And feel him. The warmth of his body licks across your skin even without contact. The scent rolls off him in waves, deeper than the room’s, heavier. Biological. It’s meant to seduce.

You hate how your knees flex.

You hate that he notices.

Behind you, the cold one speaks—his voice smooth, perfectly timed, like a reading off a screen.

“Her internal temperature has begun to respond. Neurological resistance is present, but not absolute. Stimulation has only reached phase one.”

“I don’t give a fuck what phase you’re in,” you snap, spinning on him.

He’s there. Exactly as you feared. Closer than he should be. His eyes are alien and reflective, wet-looking, too steady. And he doesn’t blink.

You don’t step back.

“You think you can catalog me like I’m a fucking lab rat? Try touching me without permission, see how fast I put something through your throat.”

There’s a pause. His head cants slightly.

Then, very softly:

“You are not refusing.”

The words settle into your stomach like hot stones. You’re too warm. Too flushed. You can taste the truth of them, bitter and slick. But admit nothing.

Behind you, the heat flares again.

Before you can turn, he speaks—right beside your ear.

“You’re trembling,” he breathes.

He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t.

He waits.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

---

Your heart beats harder. More noticeable to say the least. Each pulse a little tighter in your ribs. Your body’s too aware of itself now—too aware of them. Your nipples ache from the air. Your thighs are damp. You curse under your breath and try to center yourself.

But the scent is everywhere now.

Not quite flowers. Not quite rot. Something manufactured by the chamber itself—it feels like the walls know what makes you soft, and they’re feeding it to you inhale by inhale.

You don’t melt. But you feel the shape of it forming inside you.

The hot one speaks again, closer now.

“That little tremor in your knees?” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. That’s your body waking up.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your voice is thin. You swallow. “I’m not some thing to dissect.”

“Mm. You’re not,” the colder one says. He’s bending over behind you now. His breath cools the back of your neck. “You’re a threshold.”

You don’t know what that means. You hate how much you want to ask.

The hot one steps even closer. You feel the air flex around him, rich with his musk. He lifts a hand, slow, exaggerated, like he’s trying to make sure you see it coming.

“Gonna touch you,” he says simply.

And he does.

Just two fingers under your chin, lifting your face so that you have to meet his gaze again.

That smile.

Those eyes.

“You gonna keep pretending,” he murmurs, “or are you ready to see what happens when you stop?”

Your lips part—just enough for a breath to slip free. You feel his heat roll over your mouth as he speaks, but you don’t flinch. You don’t drop your gaze.

You let your tongue wet your lips.

Let your breath drag through your teeth like a blade sliding free of a sheath.

And then you smile something filthy.

“You want me to stop pretending?” you murmur, voice like silk dragged across something sharp. “Fine. But you won’t like what that looks like.”

A flicker of interest coils in his eyes, darker than amusement, more ancient than lust. You lean in just a fraction, forcing him to feel your breath ghosting over his own lips, your throat bare beneath his hand.

“You think I’m scared of you,” you continue, lower now, almost lazy. “But I’m wet, not trembling. There’s a difference. And if I wanted your fingers inside me—” You tilt your head, mouth curling into a slow, mean grin. “I’d be using them.”

His smile wavers.

It doesn’t fade—he’s not that fragile—but it shifts. Something behind his eyes flares hotter than pleasure, sharper than surprise. For one perfect moment, you see him recalibrate—like a knife bending under pressure and realizing it liked the strain.

And then, just behind you, the air shifts again.

Even colder now.

“Elevated neural resistance,” Dabura says softly. “Limbic override response. Self-directed arousal—volitional. That’s… rare.”

You don’t turn to him.

You feel him.

Closer now, impossibly so. And cataloguing, measuring the flick of your pulse beneath your skin, the damp at your inner thighs, the way your muscles tighten with every breath you try to control.

The warm one hasn’t moved.

But his thumb is still at your lip.

He presses it in. Just a little.

Testing.

Playful.

So you open your mouth wider.

But not to take it in. Oh no.

To speak.

To destroy.

“I’ve had worse between my legs,” you murmur around his touch. “Demons who didn’t just talk about hunger. They fed.”

Behind you—stillness.

Then the soft, wet sound of breath catching in a throat that shouldn’t need to breathe.

Sukuna laughs.

But it’s not amusement now—it’s darker.

His hand drops from your face like it burns him.

And it might.

The heat in the chamber—artificial or not—coils through your blood like an invocation. Your skin slicks, yes. Your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of whatever this rag is. Your cunt pulses, aching and empty. But your spine holds.

You look between them now. Sukuna to your front, breathing a little faster, jaw tight. Dabura at your back, his presence cold, steady, watching the heat between you like it’s data he’ll savor later.

You bare your teeth.

“Stop talking like you’re in control,” you say to the space between them. “I’ve felt leashes before. This doesn’t feel like one. This—” You gesture to the room, to your own body, glistening and flushed. “This feels like you’re the ones slipping.”

Silence.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow.

Dabura doesn’t move.

But the walls do.

Just a pulse.

A twitch in the dark arteries running along the ceiling, thicker now, more swollen with luminescent power. The air’s heavier. Wet-sweet.

Your thighs flex.

You feel it. Every beat. Every tremble. You feel them reacting.

You take one step forward.

They don’t.

You lick your lips slowly and drop your voice to a whisper that cuts like silk on skin:

“Come on, then. Show me what happens when monsters stop hiding behind teeth.”

Sukuna’s hand snaps out and he—

He fucking shudders.

Whole body.

And you see it. All of it. The effort he’s putting into not slamming you against the nearest wall simply because you haven’t asked yet.

Behind you, Dabura’s breath ghosts your shoulder, and this time, you swear you feel his mouth hover just shy of your skin.

You speak to him now.

Quiet. Cruel.

“I bet you’ve been hard since I started talking.”

Another silence. Then:

“…incorrect,” Dabura murmurs. “I was hard before you woke up.”

That stops even Sukuna.

Your laugh is slow. Low. Almost breathless.

And wicked.

“You boys really are fucked.”

Sukuna’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. His shoulders continue to twitch like he’s restraining the urge to pounce. The grin that spreads across his face, and stomach, isn’t cocky anymore—it’s something worse. Something darker. A vow.

Behind you, Dabura doesn’t move at all.

Which somehow feels worse.

The silence stretches just long enough for your pulse to make itself known again, loud in your ears, dragging heat through your veins like a slow burn. You’re aware of your body in pieces—your midline exposed, your spine taut, the damp warmth between your thighs that you refuse to acknowledge as anything other than fuel.

Sukuna takes a single step closer.

Claiming distance.

“You think this is about scaring you?” he says quietly. His voice has changed—lost some of its mockery, gained something heavier. “About snapping your spine and seeing how you scream?”

His hand lifts, hovering near your waist without touching. You feel it anyway, the energy cascading along your skin like a threat that knows it doesn’t need to land to hurt.

“I don’t need fear,” he continues. “Fear’s cheap.”

His fingers finally brush you—just the backs of them, grazing your hip like an accident—and your body reacts before you can stop it, a sharp inhale that makes his mouth twitch.

“I want you aware.”

A sound escapes you despite yourself, soft, frustrated, and too close to a moan. You hate that he notices. You hate that Dabura notices too.

The cold presence at your back shifts, subtle as a knife sliding free of a sheath.

“Awareness achieved,” Dabura murmurs. His voice is close now, somehow closer than before, and when you glance sideways you see him watching the place where Sukuna’s fingers brushed you, eyes intent, unreadable. “She’s calibrating.”

Sukuna snorts. “You talk like she’s a machine.”

“And you talk like she’s prey,” Dabura replies calmly. “Neither is accurate.”

That does it.

Sukuna turns on him, heat flaring sharp and sudden, but you move before either of them can. You step forward—right into the space between them—and the shift is immediate. The chamber reacts with a low pulse thrumming through the floor.

Your voice is steady when you speak.

“You both keep talking about me like I’m not standing right here.”

They stop.

Both of them.

Sukuna looks down at you, eyes narrowed, something dark and intent burning behind them. Dabura’s gaze flicks to your face, then your throat, then your mouth— always just tracking, measuring, listening.

You tilt your head, slow, baring your throat in challenge.

“If you want to earn anything,” you say quietly, “start by paying attention.”

The silence that follows is almost reverent.

Sukuna exhales through his nose, a low sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so tight. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re trouble.”

“Confirmed,” Dabura says. “She’s exerting dominance through self-directed vulnerability.”

You roll your eyes, even as heat curls low in your gut. “You ever try just saying what you mean?”

Dabura considers that.

“I mean,” he says, stepping closer behind you, his presence cooling the air along your spine, “that you are inviting pursuit without yielding control. That is… inefficient.”

Sukuna’s grin finally snaps back into place, sharp and wicked. “And I mean,” he adds, leaning in, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for you, “that I really want to see how long you can keep that up.”

His hand slides to your wrist, anchoring you there. Grounding.

You feel the tremor of restraint in his fingers and smile before you can stop yourself.

Dabura notices.

Of course he does.

He steps closer still, until you’re boxed in by heat and cold, by hunger and calculation. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

“You’re enjoying the tension,” he says softly. “The delay. The anticipation.”

You swallow. Slowly.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe I’m seeing which one of you cracks first.”

Sukuna laughs, low and dangerous. “Bold strategy.”

Dabura’s voice lowers. “Ill-advised.”

Neither of them moves to touch you again.

They don’t need to.

The room is alive now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, the air syrup-thick with scent and heat and something unmistakably ritualistic. You’re not bait anymore.

You’re the axis.

And both of them know it.

Sukuna leans down until his mouth is just shy of your ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep this up, and we’re gonna start trying a lot harder.”

Dabura’s hand hovers near your spine.

“Earning,” he corrects.

You close your eyes for half a second.

And smile.

---

You can feel both of them waiting. Holding.

Sukuna’s body is a live wire in front of you—soaked in heat, coiled in want, that ever-present smirk gone soft around the edges with something gritted and feral. He’s been circling, posturing, taunting like a wolf raised on thrones and blood—but now?

Now he’s waiting.

Watching.

You open your eyes and tilt your head slightly, toward him.

“I think you’ve forgotten something,” you murmur. “You don’t get to decide when you’ve earned anything.”

His eyes flicker. The shift is subtle, but it’s there.

That gleam of rage being ground down by restraint.

You pivot slowly to Dabura, who’s still behind you.

“You’re both waiting for me to fall.”

Dabura’s voice slides in, a whisper beneath your ribs.

“Incorrect. I’m waiting to see what you become.”

You almost falter.

Almost.

You turn back to Sukuna.

The air between you is molten now, thick with a tension that doesn’t just hover—it presses. It climbs up your legs, curls into your lungs, slicks your thighs with heat.

“You want this?” you say softly.

He doesn't answer.

But his gaze drops—once—to your mouth.

Then lower.

Lower.

To the damp bare place at the apex of your thighs.

And his hands flex. Empty. Itching.

Behind you, Dabura shifts again. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, mapping the sweat, the tension, the tight line of your spine.

You inhale through your nose. Exhale slow.

And then—

Without looking away from Sukuna—you reach down.

Just a palm.

Flat.

Over the heat between your legs.

Sukuna’s chest rises sharply.

Dabura’s breath hitches—audibly.

And you let your fingers curl just slightly against yourself.

Just to touch the wetness that exists there.

Just to remind them what’s at stake.

Their reactions are instant.

Sukuna’s stance breaks—his knees bending slightly, like the force of watching you ground your own heat in front of him nearly takes him down without a word. His hands twitch at his sides like he's one heartbeat away from losing every shred of performative control. He doesn’t blink. He can’t.

Behind you, Dabura doesn’t speak, but something shifts in the air. You feel it in the drag of his breath, the way it no longer flows smooth and even. You’ve disturbed him. Fractured the perfect order in his chest. He is no longer measuring you.

He is experiencing you.

And that is the final proof.

You lift your chin, palm still pressed between your thighs, and you smile again, deeper this time. You look at both of them, not as opponents, not even as threats, but as creatures waiting.

Waiting for permission to act.

Waiting for a command.

You inhale, slow and steady, and let it linger on the edge of a whisper:

“I shouldn’t have to ask.”

Their silence is answer enough.

And so you speak.

Soft. Certain.

Unshakable.

“Kneel.”

The word lands like gravity shifting. A ripple tears through the chamber’s breath. It hits Sukuna first—he doesn’t resist it, not even for pride. His knees crash to the stone like his body has been dragged there, spine stiff, chest heaving, mouth parted as if he can taste your command still hanging in the air. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even grin. He looks up at you like you’ve ripped something primal out of him.

Dabura follows, steady as ever. His descent is a ritual. Deliberate. He kneels as though it was always going to happen. As though the shape of your voice sealed it long before you ever said the words.

And now—

They are both there.

One seething.

One silent.

Their shoulders bowed. Their eyes lifted.

---

The room exhales.

Or maybe it’s you.

And for the first time since you woke in this hell-chamber pulsing with scent and shadow, something clicks into place beneath your skin.

This was never about escape.

It was about invocation.

You didn’t walk into a trap.

You were summoned.

And now the summoners are on their knees, waiting to be told how to worship.

---

You shift your stance, just slightly, one foot forward, the heat between your thighs damp and throbbing. You’re more than ready, but in no particular rush anymore. It’s nice seeing these massive beasts on their knees. Beasts though they were, they were fucking beautiful.

The warm one looks like he's drowning in the scent of you—because he is. That heat he poured into the room, that chemical musk threaded into the air like a drug—you’ve turned it back on him. You can see it now in his eyes, the flicker of disbelief that he’s the one beneath you. That he’s the one waiting.

The cold one's third eye is glowing faintly, that eerie, wet gleam catching the red-veined light of the chamber, and his expression is impossible to read. He looks... tranquil. And yet, you can feel the pressure rising behind his restraint, the cold precision of him coming undone from the inside out.

You don’t speak.

You don’t touch.

You wait.

The warm one is first to move.

Of course he is.

You feel his gaze climb your body like a hand wrapped in silk and teeth. It drags from your ankles to your knees, your thighs, lingering where the slick has started to drip down from your center. His jaw flexes. His lips part. He leans in just enough to inhale you, to drag the scent of your heat into his lungs like it might choke him, and it nearly does.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, voice low and rough, buried under restraint. “You smell like sin carved into silk.”

You don’t answer. You watch him.

Let him look.

Let him need.

He presses one palm to the ground, then the other, and leans closer—shoulders drawn tight, like a beast crawling toward an offering it hasn’t yet earned. His breath ghosts your inner thigh, and you feel the heat of it there, so close, but he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t dare. He’s seething in place, a growl trapped in a body that obeys your voice more than it obeys its own hunger.

“I could make you sob,” he murmurs, not looking up. “Put my mouth on you and pull those sounds out of you like a curse. One touch, and you’ll forget how to stand.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t soften. You just breathe.

And behind you Dabura shifts again, a cool contrast to Sukuna’s heat, the razor precision to his want.

“I wouldn’t make her sob,” Dabura says quietly. “I’d make her watch. Every breath. Every muscle. Every involuntary twitch of her fingers. I’d show her what it means to know herself from the inside.”

His words land softer, but no less heavy. They slide down your spine like a hand made of ice and intent, curling between your ribs, chilling the heat just enough to make it throb deeper.

You let your other hand drift lazily down your torso.

Sukuna stares. His tongue slides across his lower lip, breath catching when your knuckles brush between your thighs a second time. He moves forward a little too far, forgetting himself—then stops, catches the leash, growls low.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Let me. Just a taste. I’ll prove it.”

Dabura doesn’t move. But you feel his focus lock onto your hand. Onto your heat. Onto your commandment held in that small, merciless gesture. And he speaks like he’s reading scripture from inside your bones.

“She’s testing us. Seeing if we understand the ritual. This isn’t about taking. It’s about showing her why we deserve to give.”

His words make your pulse flutter.

Sukuna mutters something low under his breath, but he doesn’t argue.

You don’t need to tell them to stay where they are. You don’t need to give them more rules. They already know: this is yours to decide.

So you shift your leg forward a little more.

The hem of your garment brushes Sukuna’s cheek as you move, and he groans, pained, desperate to taste but holding, holding, holding. Dabura’s gaze lifts, eyes locked on your face. Waiting.

You look down at them.

Sukuna leans forward—starving.

Dabura’s mouth finally parts.

And you smile.

“Well?”

Your voice is hoarse now, thick with heat and power.

“Show me what kneeling’s good for.”

---

You say it, and the words are still curling off your tongue when they move.

Like dogs loosed from a leash.

Like gods given permission.

Sukuna lunges first.

The heat of his body rolls toward you in a wall, all snarling need and brute grace as he closes the last breath of distance. His hands are on your thighs in an instant, rough and reverent, fingers spreading over your skin like he wants to brand his hands into the flesh. His mouth parts before he reaches you, and his breath, searing hot, spills over the soaked seam at the center of you, making your legs quake.

He growls something guttural. Something worshipful.

“Fuck, you’re—”

But he doesn’t finish.

He drops his mouth.

Tongue first. A broad, sweltering drag up your slit, bottom to top, deliberate as death. It punches the air from your chest in a cry that fractures, your body jerking like your nerves short-circuited. Your hands slam to his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase—and they’re massive. Thick corded muscle shifts under your fingers, tattoos flexing with each movement of his tongue, a beast’s body serving a sacred purpose.

And the man works.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and growls around it like he’s savoring something forbidden, vibrations skimming the bone. His teeth graze, again and again, never breaking skin but threatening to. The way he flicks his tongue—circling, stabbing, flattening—is reckless brilliance. It’s what a virtuoso might do if their instrument was between your legs and the song was obliteration.

It’s messy. Loud. Wet. And so so sloppy.

He makes no attempt to be polite about it. Spit strings, saliva slicks, and your thighs shine with a lewd sheen of his effort. Every sound he rips from you, he devours. He moans into you like your taste is addictive, like it’s breaking something sacred inside him. Like he wants to coat his throat in your slick and let it stain.

He groans with every suck. Slurps as though starving. Grinds his face deeper between your thighs like he wants to choke.

And then—cool air ghosts over your back.

The cold one behind you.

How could you forget.

The shift is magnetic, polar. Sukuna burns below you, devouring—but Dabura arrives like the chill of a night wind, like the final note of a prayer.

He doesn’t rush.

He just places his hands.

One at your lower back. One just beneath your ribs.

Guiding you—forward, gently, onto Sukuna’s mouth. As if you’re the blade and he’s setting you into the whetstone of worship.

And then he moves in closer. Encasing you.

You feel his chest at your back, his breath cool on the nape of your neck, and his voice—so quiet you barely register it as sound—slides into your ear like a thread being pulled through skin.

“Don’t speak,” Dabura murmurs. “Just feel.”

His hand slips beneath your garment. Flat palm against your belly, holding you there. Holding you open. Keeping you steady while Sukuna feasts.

And fuck, does he feast.

He’s beneath you, groaning nonstop now, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you against his face like he wants to drown in your heat. His tongue plunges—thick and relentless—and when your hips jerk, he growls something feral and sucks harder. Your head falls back, and Dabura catches it in the cradle of his palm.

“Let him work,” he says. “He wants you incoherent.”

“Fuckin' right I do,” Sukuna snarls between licks, voice muffled by your cunt, lips glistening with you. “She talks like she’s untouchable—let’s see how long she lasts with my face buried in her pussy.”

Your throat tightens around a retort.

But then his tongue curls just right—pressure precise, rhythm obscene—and what you meant to say breaks apart on a cry.

“A-ah—!”

Your whole body jolts. Lightning forks through your limbs. Dabura’s hand tightens at your stomach, bracing you while Sukuna growls triumph into your core like he felt it too.

“She’s close,” Dabura says, like a medic reading vitals. Except his voice isn’t clinical. It’s proud now. Because now, he’s shepherding your ruin, inch by inch.

And Sukuna—fuck. He groans, eager, almost joyful. He shifts, drags you tighter, buries his face deeper, mouth working faster, tongue and lips and teeth making you pulse, twitch, cry out—

It’s too much.

Too good.

Too—

“Don’t finish yet,” Dabura commands.

“What?” Sukuna snarls, breath hot and frustrated.

“Let her hold it.”

He obeys.

And it’s torture.

The strokes slow. The suction eases. Sukuna’s tongue traces just off the spot that had you ready to collapse, your hips jerking in desperate confusion. The pleasure doesn’t vanish—it simmers. Builds pressure without release. You feel it gathering, gathering, pressure coiling like a spring with nowhere to go.

Your whole body is trembling.

“She’s right on the edge,” Dabura says, hand tightening at your stomach. “Hold her there.”

Sukuna looks up, face soaked, lip curled in irritation—but he’s panting. Eyes black with need. He doesn’t argue.

And that’s how you know:

They’re not just trying to fuck you.

They’re trying to master you together.

Dabura’s lips brush your ear, his voice nothing but breath now.

“When you cum,” he says, “it won’t be by accident.”

And below, Sukuna grins, tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles still just off the spot you need, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to beg.

---

They’re watching you circle the edge.

They think they’ve got you.

Think you're unraveling just the way they planned.

And for a breath, you let them believe it.

You keep your voice quiet. Breath hitching. Your eyelids flutter heavy, lips parted in a trembling pant. Your hips begin those tiny rolls, those subtle, involuntary jerks forward Sukuna's been working for, grinding ever so slightly against the edge of his mouth like you’ve lost the will to resist.

Behind you, Dabura’s hand spreads a little lower over your belly. He steadies you. Or braces you. He thinks you're about to fall.

And then—

You laugh.

Rich and sultry as smoke.

It breaks the rhythm like a whip crack.

Sukuna’s tongue halts mid-flick.

Dabura’s breath catches, sharp.

The whole fucking room stills.

You drop your gaze to Sukuna,down the length of your body, slick and glistening, thighs flexed around his face, and find his eyes staring up, half-lidded. His lips shine. His face is soaked. And for one last heartbeat, you let your hand slide into his hair, gentle, at first. Stroking like praise, petting like you might thank him.

Then you fist it.

Right at the roots.

Hard.

Yanking the pink headed giant towards you as you grind down onto his tongue. Commanding him. Adjusting his angle, forcing his face where you want it. Your thighs flex like a vise, locking him in place. And your voice when it drops is made of pure ruin.

Velvet filth.

“You’re not making me cum,” you breathe, dragging his mouth tighter against you. “I’m using your fucking face to get off.”

The jolt in Sukuna’s shoulders is an instant full-body flinch of arousal and shock that snaps into his spine. He chokes, fucking chokes on your cunt, and the sound it pulls from him is filthy. The guttural noise vibrates against you as he clamps his hands to your hips and begins to fuck his tongue up into you with wild, red-faced fervor.

You feel it: that shift from service to submission.

He moans into your slick with helpless devotion, tongue punching and curling and lapping like he’s no longer trying to win but to survive. Like he knows his role now and has accepted it—your seat. Your toy. Your throne.

And the heat that rises in his cheeks is unmistakable.

A flush.

A blush.

Rage tangled with lust, humiliation braided with adoration.

You’ve rebranded his glory.

Turned his power to utility.

Made him yours.

Behind you, there’s a sound. Quiet. A breath, almost silent, but it betrays him.

You glance back.

Dabura is watching. Eyes sharp, lips still, but there’s tension pulsing through him now like barely bridled violence. His composure isn’t shattered, but there’s a fracture. You see it in the clench of his jaw, in the rigid hold of his spine. But mostly you feel it where his palm still presses low and hot to your stomach, fingers twitching once when he sees the way you ride Sukuna’s mouth now.

You own every twist, every pressure point, every slow push of your clit against the exact shape of his mouth that gets you there. Sukuna moans under you like he’s fucking dying, like the slick drip of your arousal onto his chin is absolution.

And Dabura is studying it all.

Watching you fuck his control out from under him.

He’s flushed a bit too.

A bloom of color creeping up his throat. A pulse flicking under the skin. The beginnings of sweat at his temple—barely there—but you see it.

And grin.

You look at him first flashing teeth and heat and feral triumph, then down again, dragging Sukuna’s hair tighter in your fist as you grind forward once, hard. A stroke that forces a wet, sloppy groan out of him that you ride all the way through.

Your voice cuts through the space between all three of you.

“Earn it,” you murmur. “I want you both red in the face by the time I’m finished.”

And the pink one below does something that shocks you.

He whimpers.

A hoarse, breathless noise that sounds like a man shattered, and eager to be broken more.

You feel the quake start in his fingers, feel the stuttering inhale through his nose as he redoubles his efforts—tongue thrashing, lips sucking, nose nudging just perfectly beneath your clit as if he’s trying to drown in the scent and taste and feel of you.

And behind you, Dabura moves. Finally.

Silently.

He crouches in behind you like a shadow folding in on itself. You feel the cool press of his chest at your back, the steady inhale of his breath as his hands resettle, one pressing lower on your belly, the other gliding between your ass and thighs, where Sukuna’s mouth is already wrecking you.

And then—

He touches.

Fingertips slide into the slick mess where Sukuna laps, parting your folds just slightly, barely intruding, just enough to make every nerve between your legs light up like fire meeting frost. And it's.. perfect. Cool and careful, an echo of precision next to Sukuna’s animal devotion.

Sukuna jerks.

He breaks rhythm. Lashes his tongue once, hard, then snarls into you, voice shredded.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t take her from me—”

“I’m not,” Dabura murmurs, low and patient, like a man correcting a child. His voice drips over your ear like warm wax. “I’m assisting.”

And fuck—is he.

Dabura’s fingers trace slow, devastating circles just outside the point of penetration, never rushing. He gathers slick with measured strokes, dragging it between his knuckles, mapping the folds Sukuna’s mouth is buried in. It’s obscene. It’s methodical. And it works.

Sukuna groans. Long, low, shattered. His hips jerk beneath you, grinding into nothing, cock leaking in time with the moans he’s swallowing from your cunt. You feel him twitch under your thighs like he’s so hard he might split open. And yet—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. His tongue fights to keep pace even as Dabura’s fingers make a new rhythm alongside him.

And you—

You fucking gasp.

Too much attention. Too much heat. Too many skilled hands and mouths all moving together in synchronized worship of you. One tongue dragging filthy, wet circles into your clit, mouth open and moaning into you. One hand tracing wetness with impossible precision, fingers never quite entering but always threatening to.

Your thighs are seizing. Your lungs can’t catch up. Your whole body is drawing tighter, tighter—

You tilt your head back—no control left. It lands on Dabura’s shoulder.

He exhales against your temple.

And speaks:

“Now you’re the altar,” he whispers. “Let us pray.”

His fingers slide in.

Slow.

Two of them, cool and knuckle-deep, curling endlessly with flawless aim, finding that place inside you that’s already desperate. He presses. Sukuna’s tongue flattens against your clit. The combination is unholy.

And you break.

The orgasm hits like lightning—violent and sudden, an electrical surge through your whole nervous system that wipes every thought in your skull. Your back arches, mouth wide in a cry that doesn’t even sound human. A ragged, high-pitched ah-h-hhngghhh!! tears out of you as every muscle clenches, ripples, convulses. Your thighs snap tighter around Sukuna’s head as he groans into your release, devouring it like he was born for this moment. His mouth chases every pulse, every spasm, every drop.

Dabura’s fingers don’t stop. He slows them, yes, but he stays inside. Holding you through it. Stroking you with gentle insistence that turns the crash into a series of violent aftershocks. Each little tremble becomes another high. Another ripple.

Your knees buckle.

And they catch you.

Sukuna stays kneeling, his arms now locked around your thighs, his forehead pressed to your inner thigh, breath ragged against your skin. His face is fucking ruined. Soaked. Shining. And smiling in worshipful hunger.

Dabura is still behind you. Still inside you. Still holding your belly like something sacred, his chest now warm against your spine. You swear his breath is shaky now. He’s not untouched by this.

Neither of them are.

They’re both panting.

They think they’ve done enough.

That they’ve served.

And maybe, for a moment, your body agrees—quaking and damn near electric with aftershocks.

But your mind?

Your will?

Still aching.

And it shows on your face when you lean forward, hand still tangled in sweat-darkened hair, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles.

You grin.

Knowing.

A queen in the moment before she opens her throat to drink what the gods offer her.

And you whisper—voice barely there—

“...more.”

The word lands like a spell.

The one beneath you makes a sound that’s almost pain—half moan, half growl, buried in your cunt like he wants to die there. His fingers dig in tighter. His head moves forward, mouth open and wet, tongue dragging slow and needy against your oversensitive skin.

He groans, mouth flooded with you, and still—he licks.

Still—he begs.

But you don’t fall.

Even as the ache builds again, pressure mounting in your core like a struck bell ready to sing, you hold. Your breath is broken. Your knees threaten to give.

And then—

behind you—

he shifts.

The quiet one. The shadow. The scholar of your body.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t give a cue. Doesn’t ask permission. He just descends.

You feel it before you register it. The sudden absence of his chest at your back. The drag of cool breath over your spine as he sinks lower behind you, hands trailing down your sides, hips, thighs, knees, mapping you again but slower this time. Less like he’s preparing for something. More like he’s claiming territory.

And then—he’s lower still.

His breath hovers.

The first kiss lands where no mouth has ever touched you.

Lower.

Between your ass.

Right there.

Over that place you’ve felt stretched thin with wanting.

Your gasp snaps out of you—l

Because he knew.

The quiet one.

The patient one.

The one who traced every tremble and catalogued every clench and read every pulse like scripture. He knew. Knew what you’d hidden. Knew what you hadn’t voiced. Knew where to place his mouth as if he'd read it on your skin days before you arrived.

His hands part you like pages.

And he licks.

Slowwww.

A broad stroke from his tongue, cool and unrelenting, sliding through your most private heat like it belongs to him.

You gasp again.

Louder.

Your spine arches, your head tips, and your mouth opens, but no words come. Just breath.

The third gasp is a moan—long, rising, too loud, too honest. Your thighs shake.

Below, Sukuna groans.

The sound vibrates against your clit; jealousy and desperation tangled into a single animal snarl. His tongue starts to move faster, harder. Sloppier. It loses rhythm, becomes furious in its hunger, as though he thinks he’s being replaced. He isn’t.

He’s being joined.

But you...

You are split.

One tongue lavishing your clit with the fury of a man wrecked, circling and flicking and sucking like a drowning man grasping for breath.

One tongue pushing between your cheeks with perfect, clinical pressure—like he's building you, like you’re a spell he’s activating one syllable at a time.

You are beyond open now.

Beyond feeling full.

Your body can’t decide what to tense for.

Sukuna’s mouth clamps tighter, lips sliding up and over your clit with abandon, every breath he exhales soaked in you. His moans turn pitiful. He’s trying to reclaim territory, to drag your focus back down with brute force.

But behind—

Dabura moves with precision. Each stroke of his tongue is exact, thorough. Circles, laps, presses, all of it calibrated. He’s tasting you like you’re forbidden. Like you are his. A temple with a door no one else has entered. And the hum that vibrates from his mouth as he sinks his tongue inside—fuck—that shakes you from within.

Your whole body jolts.

Your voice splinters into a sound you don’t recognize, somewhere between a cry and a plea. Your hands shake. Your legs are quaking, barely holding their place over Sukuna’s face.

The man beneath you grunts—a desperate, broken sound. His grip on your thighs tightens until you feel fingernails. He's groaning now, panting, rhythm broken and furious, like he’s hurting with how bad he needs you to cum. But he’s losing himself. You feel it. He’s not close to orgasm.

He’s close to breaking.

You lift your chin.

Your voice cuts through the tension like silk dragged through broken glass.

“Don’t stop.”

And they don’t.

They don’t even hesitate.

The pink beast groans like he’s just been granted. Permission? Purpose? Salvation? It doesn’t matter. He dives. There’s no gentling. No winding down. His tongue plunges back into your folds with the reckless hunger of a man who thinks if he laps hard enough, deep enough, fast enough—he can resurrect the orgasm you just gave him.

He’s wrong.

Because you’re already past resurrection.

You’re on fire.

His lips fasten around your clit again with brutal intent, sucking hard, tongue flicking with slurred abandon through the slick he’s already made a mess of. He’s not licking to please anymore.

He’s licking to conquer.

To break you.

And fuck—your body lets him.

You cry out, sharp and shocked, like it caught you off guard. It did. You weren’t supposed to be ready again, not this fast, not while your lungs still ache from the last quake. But your hips roll anyway. Your cunt pulses. Your clit screams against the pressure. You’re not backing away from the edge. You’re slamming toward it.

And behind you?

The quiet one moves with the same measured silence as before.

But now?

There’s no pretense of patience.

His hands return like ghosts made solid—one spreading your ass wide, the other anchoring you with terrifying calm at your lower back, pressing down like a divine seal. Holding you in place. Holding you open.

Then—

His tongue.

Again.

But not how it started.

This time, he goes deeper.

Not just purposeful, downright invading.

He presses in past where you thought tongues could go, licking with that same unshakable control, that terrifying knowledge of how to unravel you one nerve at a time. There’s no teasing. No fluttering touch. It’s penetration now. Fucking obscene.

And you whimper.

You moan.

It keeps going. Keeps filling you.

You shudder so hard your arms nearly give out, hands scrabbling for anything to hold. Anything to ground you while your body turns to lightning between their mouths.

One mouth is sucking your clit like it’s punishment. Like you dared to come once and now he’s mad about it. His sounds are wet and loud, tongue flicking fast enough to blur, jaw flexing as he chases your pulse. There’s nothing gentle left in him. He’s lashing you with pleasure.

The other—

His tongue fucks you.

That’s what it is now.

Not licking.

Fucking.

Measured, strong strokes that push into you from behind with devastating calm. Dabura’s mouth doesn’t shake. Doesn’t groan. But you feel the control in every second. He’s not trying to bring you over.

He’s trying to own how you fall.

And your body?

Your vicious, sacred, betraying body?

Receives it all.

You rock helplessly between them, thighs burning, ass flexing, back arched in a perfect curve of surrender and power and need. You can’t tell if you’re trying to ride Sukuna’s face or fuck yourself back onto Dabura’s tongue. It doesn’t matter.

You're theirs.

Your hands claw at hair and horns, nails raking, breath a sob caught between pleasure and disbelief.

Because you feel it.

That second orgasm.

Already rising. Already climbing before the first has even faded. This one burns hotter. Hurts more. Your chest tightens. Your lungs seize. Your vision flashes white at the edges.

“F-Fuck—fuck—fucking don’t stop—”

You scream it.

And they dive.

Sukuna growls into your cunt, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as his mouth gets messier—milking the orgasm straight from your soul. You feel spit and slick running down your knees, feel his teeth graze your skin as he moans without shame.

And Dabura?

He moans too.

Low. Intimate. Cold and hot at the same time.

And his massive alien tongue slowly fucks into you with the kind of composure that terrifies. Because he’s not being overwhelmed.

He’s orchestrating this.

He knows exactly what your body is doing.

Exactly how many seconds are left before it detonates.

And it does.

You snap.

Your entire body locks. Ribs heaving, spine arched, hands clawing, thighs convulsing as the second orgasm tears through you like a seizure. You can’t even scream. Your mouth opens but nothing comes. Just air. Just a high, broken gasp as your vision whites out and your hips rock back into Dabura’s mouth, then forward again into Sukuna’s.

You cum so hard you feel it in your teeth.

Your ass shudders. Your cunt pulses. Every muscle twitches. Your limbs go weak.

And you collapse.

But they don’t let you fall.

Sukuna’s hands stay clamped to your thighs, holding you in place as he keeps licking, chasing the aftershocks like a dog gnawing bone. He’s moaning, whining into your clit, slurping every last pulse out of your body.

Dabura’s arms slide around your hips, pulling you back into him. Insistent as hell. You feel his tongue still moving, fucking endless, tracing the very edges of your oversensitivity.

You twitch.

You twitch again.

They don’t stop.

And when your voice finally staggers back up your throat, it’s wrecked.

“Y-you—f-fuck—I can’t—”

But the one behind you finally speaks again.

“You said don’t stop.”

And the one beneath you laughs.

It’s thick. Rasping. Muffled against your dripping cunt.

And then he says:

“Take it. Let’s see what happens when you can’t.”

You try to answer, to say something—anything—but all that escapes is a whimper strangled behind your teeth.

You can’t respond.

Not when your hips keep rolling down into their mouths like they’ve got their own will, not when every nerve in your spine is short-circuiting.

The one below licks you again—slow and obscene, flat tongue dragging from the mess of your hole all the way to your swollen clit, and your entire torso seizes up with a cry.

“Shit,” Sukuna groans, like he just swallowed your name. “Didn’t even touch my cock. You’re doin’ it for me. Just sittin’ up there, cummin’ in my mouth like a fucking altar whore.”

The words hit like fire, vulgar and perfect, and split something in you wide open.

You whimper again.

Not even from embarrassment.

From how wet it makes you.

And he knows.

His grin is audible, even muffled by your cunt, his nose buried in the slick folds, breath hot and ragged.

“Yeah, you like that,” he pants, and then he’s licking again, sloppy circles around your clit, tongue fast and off-rhythm like it’s driving him crazy too. “You want more, don’t you? Wanna get used so hard you forget your name.”

You try to speak. Your mouth opens. Your lips tremble around some broken shape.

And then—

Fingers.

Behind you.

Dabura.

Two fingers slide into your soaked heat without hesitation, parting your folds with mechanical elegance, slipping in with a devastating ease that makes your body jerk. You weren’t ready—,ot for more, not for this, and he doesn’t even press deep.

Not yet.

He curves them. Just slightly. Just enough to find that spot. The one Sukuna’s tongue keeps pummeling from above. The one you didn’t know was even real until they started treating your body like a map they’d studied in silence.

The sound that leaves your throat isn’t human.

A strangled cry cuts from your lungs and echoes through the air, splitting itself in half as your whole body bows.

“Beautiful,” Dabura murmurs behind you, low and clinical, but you hear it. The reverence, as if he’s cataloging divinity. “Her contractions are still peaking. The muscles haven’t released yet. She’s still cumming.”

And you are.

You are.

The wave hasn’t even finished, and your body’s already surrendering again, slick and pulsing and begging without words.

Tears sting your eyes. From capacity. From the sheer magnitude of sensation. You can’t take more.

But you dont get to breathe.

Because then, Sukuna goes feral.

He laughs, unhinged—and that alone is enough to make you twitch again. Then his mouth seals around your clit and sucks. Hard. A violent drag that slams straight through your core like a lightning strike.

At the same time, he pushes his own fingers in—beside Dabura’s.

No warning.

No mercy.

You moan.

The stretch is incomparable.

Your hips snap forward, locked between tongues and fingers and pressure that shouldn’t fit but does, stretched open so wide you forget what it felt like to be empty. Sukuna’s fingers are thick and brutal, knuckles grinding against your front walls while Dabura’s stay curled, and deep, stroking that inner point like he’s tuning you with surgical precision.

They’re both inside you now.

Working together.

“Fucking hell,” Sukuna growls, voice warped with arousal and something else. “She’s squeezing like she wants it—look at that. Ya' feel it? She likes when we fight inside her.”

The one behind groans.

“Pressure is increasing. Depth tolerance rising.”

Sukuna grins.

“Oh, she’s greedy, huh?” he huffs, dragging his mouth to your thigh to bite, the sting so sharp you yelp. “You hear that, baby? You’re not done. Not even close. You just came, and your greedy little cunt is pulling us in.”

“F-fu—” Your voice cracks.

You sob.

You howl.

You don’t even know what you’re trying to say anymore.

But your body does.

Your hips roll again. Your knees buckle. You’re straddling Sukuna’s mouth like it’s your throne, like you’ve lost the ability to do anything else, and you can feel the hands anchoring you: one on each thigh, each wrist, each hip, keeping you spread, shaking, devoted.

And your voice?

It spills. Unstoppable now.

And loud.

“Ah—f-fuck—oh my—don’t—don’t stop—more—there—right there—”

It’s not one word either.

It’s a cascade.

Each syllable cracking at the edges, your breath a wreck between them, every moan stacked over the last until they collapse into full-throated, throat-torn screams.

Every sound you make is an offering.

Every cry, every gasp, every wrecked plea.

And they’re on their knees, mouths open, fingers deep, praying to you.

Still fingering.

Still licking.

Still spreading your thighs wider, grinding their palms into the shaking flesh to keep you steady—

Until your third orgasm slams into you.

And your voice

Breaks.

You don’t scream this time, you sing.

One long, cracked, raw-throated exhale that ends in a sob. Your entire body snaps taut, then collapses, spasming between them. You feel the flood between your legs, the wet heat soaking Sukuna’s face as he groans, tongue still moving.

Fingers keep thrusting.

Dabura’s voice, calm as ever, drifts up your spine:

“She’s still seizing. Hold her.”

And they do.

Hands strong. Tongues relentless.

---

You’re screaming.

And they drink it.

They drink every broken cry like it’s proof of divinity, like the sound alone is enough to keep them kneeling forever.

You don’t just cum this time.

You rupture.

There’s no clean rise and fall, no neat arc of pleasure.

And still—

they’re inside you.

Two pairs of fingers moving with merciless coordination. One set curled just right, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white, dragging the orgasm out of you like silk being pulled from your lungs, long and unending. The other pushes even deeper now, stretching you wider, molding you from the inside out. The pressure almost unbearable, but your body opens anyway, greedy and helpless and aching for it.

Two mouths.

One at your clit—relentless. Sukuna’s laughing now, actually laughing, breathless and wrecked, like he lives for the way your scream changes pitch when he swirls his tongue just a fraction slower, then faster, then mean. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows you’re past mercy. He likes it.

The other mouth roams—your thighs, the outside of your hips, the curve of your waist, your spine. Dabura’s lips brush and press, almost gentle, almost reverent, but never neutral. Every kiss claims. Every touch marks territory, even when it feels like comfort.

You sob.

A ragged, desperate sound clawed up from somewhere deep in your gut, ugly and honest.

And that—that—is when they both groan.

Not in unison, but in answer.

Like you just spoke a sacred word.

“Keep crying,” Sukuna pants against your cunt, fingers fucking you harder now, curling in brutal time with his tongue. The sounds fill the chamber. “Fuck. Let me see what it looks like when you fall apart for real.”

Behind you, Dabura presses closer, his body a solid line of muscle at your back, your spine arching helplessly into his chest. Your head tips back against his shoulder, throat exposed, nowhere to go but down—between their hands, their mouths, their worship.

“She’s shaking,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice calm but thick with something dark. “She can’t stop.”

“I won’t stop,” Sukuna snarls, feral now. “She wanted this—she asked for it. So we give it. All of it.”

And they do.

One hand thrusts into you hard now, soaked and slick, pumping with obscene force, every push rubbing you raw in the best, worst way. The heel of his palm grinds into your clit, merciless, the sound of skin on skin echoing wet and loud between your thighs.

The other hand slides behind you again—cool fingers spreading you wide, exposing every oversensitive nerve—

And then his tongue.

Gods.

That alien tongue again, back there, slower now. Deeper. Almost soothing. Long, deliberate strokes that make your whole body melt even as the front of you is being ravaged. It’s wrong. It’s impossible. It’s like he’s calming your nerves while Sukuna sets them on fire.

You shouldn’t feel anything anymore.

You should be numb.

But instead—

You swell.

Another pressure blooms low in your belly, sharp and sudden, stealing what little breath you have left. There’s no space to recover. No climb. No warning.

They hold you right there.

At the peak.

Suspended.

Like wolves pinning down a kill that just won’t die.

You writhe. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, fucking their fingers and faces without meaning to. Sweat slicks your skin. Your thighs are beyond soaked, shaking so hard they barely hold you up. Your toes curl until your calves cramp. Your mouth hangs open, drool slipping down your chin as you sob and moan and gasp all at once.

Your eyes burn.

Tears spill.

And they see.

Dabura groans softly into your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumb brushing your nipple in slow, deliberate strokes, as he memorizes the way each sob changes the rhythm of your body.

“She’s crying,” he breathes. “She’s not stopping.”

Sukuna looks up.

His face is ruined—glistening, mouth red and swollen, eyes blown wide and obsessed like he’s staring at a miracle.

“Fucking holy.”

He spits into your cunt.

Spits.

Just once.

And then he fucks it in deeper with two relentless fingers.

You scream.

Your third orgasm hasn’t even finished tearing through you and you’re cumming again. Harder. A violent shudder rips up your spine, snapping your voice clean in half. The sound dies in your throat, replaced by a whimper.

You sob.

Your whole body seizes.

And still—

They. Don’t. Stop.

One mouth licks you through it, slow and merciless.

The other fucks you through it, fingers sliding deeper, one curling, one spreading you open wider than you thought possible.

And your voice—

You scream again, but it’s ruined now. Fragmented. The words fall apart as they leave your mouth.

“F-fuck—fuck, it’s too much—I c-can’t—can’t—please, please I’m—I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna take it,” Sukuna growls against your clit, tongue never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking cum again. Right now.”

“Just breathe,” Dabura whispers at your ear, voice smooth, unyielding. “Let it happen. We’re not going to stop until you shake yourself hollow.”

And you do.

You shake.

You break.

You come apart completely—body emptied of anything but sensation, sound, and their hands holding you together while they pull you through it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

---

You expect them to stop.

To slow.

To breathe.

They don’t.

Instead, the one in front groans against your soaked cunt, dragging his tongue up through the mess and laughing, absolutely delighted.

“Fuck—still twitchin’,” he pants, face slick with you, voice wrecked from devotion. “How the fuck are you still—still this tight?”

You try to answer—but you can’t.

You’re keening from the overstimulation.

And they still don’t slow.

Not when your screams shatter into nothing but gasps.

Not when your limbs lock for the fourth time, muscles pulled so tight you shake without moving.

Not even when your throat collapses around the breath you can't catch and your cheeks burn with the heat of salt and tears.

Because this has never been about your limits.

It’s about devotion.

Their devotion.

The sacred, endless kind.

Dabura’s tongue is still drilling into you from behind—longer than any tongue should be, too smooth, too deep, curling inside a place untouched by human mouths. He doesn’t thrust. He spirals. He searches. His grip on your hips is inhumanly steady, as if he’s recording the topography of your ruin. Every twitch. Every clench. Every flutter of overstimulated muscle is measured and used.

In front of you—Sukuna’s mouth is sealed to your cunt like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He’s past rhythm now. There’s no technique. No performance. Just hunger. Just need. He growls into your clit every time your hips twitch, every time your body tries to flinch away from sensation it cannot contain. His teeth graze, just enough to make your breath catch in sobs.

And his fingers—

Still fucking you.

Still absolutely devastating.

Driving home with a rhythm so merciless it becomes scripture, hammering that spot that makes sees stars and your legs seize like they’ve forgotten how to stand.

And still—

They.

Don’t.

Fucking.

Stop.

Even when your body sags, your spine curving downward like a marionette finally letting go.

Even when your voice shatters, first to whispers, then to nothing at all.

Even when your vision fractures white, splitting into pieces, like light breaking against glass.

You’re slipping.

And they want it.

No, they need it.

This is the moment they’ve worked for.

Not your climax.

Your ascension.

“Don’t you fucking go quiet on me,” Sukuna snarls suddenly, voice wrecked, wild, soaked in spit and cunt and purpose. His mouth rips away just long enough to bite your inner thigh—hard—the shock slicing into you like lightning.

You scream.

And behind you—

Dabura moves.

He plunges.

His tongue pushes deeper than it has, a slow, pervasive press that feels like he’s trying to reach through you. Like he heard the signal. Like he was waiting for the final tremble, the final cry, the sacred noise that gives him permission to take you all the way out.

Your entire body seizes.

It isn’t like before though.

This isn’t climax.

It’s fucking apocalypse.

The orgasm that hits is not a wave.

It’s a detonation.

“...She’s slipping,” the one behind murmurs, still deep inside you, still stroking with gentle, sacred precision.

The one in front pauses—then presses a kiss to your trembling inner thigh.

“Let her,” he whispers. “She’s transcending.”

You scream again, but it’s fractured, thin, breaking apart as your whole body locks, writhes, shudders violently. Your jaw drops. Your back arches—cracks—and your thighs clamp tight around Sukuna’s head like a death grip.

And he fucking moans.

Like you’re blessing him.

Like suffocating on your cunt is some kind of holy communion.

But your mind—

Your mind is gone.

Your mouth is still open.

But nothing comes, because the white hits.

Oblivion.

It floods through you like a storm of silence. Every sound, every thought, every breath is stripped from you. You don’t cum. You die and rise again.

Your body arches one final time, held in place by their hands like you're something precious they’re terrified to let go of—and then you drop.

But they don’t.

They don’t pull out.

They don’t move away.

Sukuna’s fingers are still buried inside you, his tongue lazily dragging over your clit like he’s still feeding. Dabura’s tongue is still nestled deep, inhumanly still, like he’s waiting to see if your soul will return to your body or stay wrapped around him.

You’re motionless.

A temple broken by its own god.

And they wait.

Kneeling.

Pressed to you.

Breathing your breath.

Savoring your aftershocks.

Until your eyes open again.

punishes you when he has a bad court day. belt around your throat. black tie secured over your eyes. clamps attached to your pre-pinched, sucked, and bitten nipples. a vibrating device plugging up your ass. the pocket square from his three–piece suit holding your wrists together. curt commands. “deeper. yes, like that. take it, baby, i know you can. make me feel better.” watches you rut your cunt against his brand new shoes, moaning desperately when your clit catches on the textured fabric of his charcoal grey socks. clicks his tongue and even checks his watch cause he knows his nonchalance eggs you on more. nudges your head down a few more inches, until your nose is met with soft tufts of hair. it has your eyes zeroing in on his iliac furrow and the happiest of happy trails. “swallow all of it. make sure you can still taste me when you’re at your book club tomorrow. . . and be a good girl and don’t forget to bring the fruit i pack for you again.”

gives hard, deliberate strokes when he finally gets inside of you. he’s weird in the sense that he loves it when it gets messy in bed. clean and crisp on an everyday basis, but when the clock strikes twelve. . .he’s coming inside and on your face, tits, and stomach. (an orgasm never really softens your husband.) always wants you squirting at least once or twice, and that usually happens in full nelson. he never takes off his accessories, so there’s always a thick patek watch pressed against your right ear, and a silver band pressed against your left. the cool of the metal is welcoming against the overwhelming heat that is your appending pinnacle. knows exactly when you come, too. feels you tighten on him like vice, hands scrambling to hold him and lock him in a spit-inducing make out.

holds your head when he feels you spasming around him. adds an arm around your neck if he’s fucking you from behind. likes to keep you pinned when he’s drilling his cock into you. let’s you bite and suck him everywhere. his arms, his neck, his chest. . . it makes him cum faster and harder when you leave a mark on his throat. (secretly also likes it when you lightly suck on his nipples.)

loves, loves, loves to refer to your pussy as his “sweet, pretty girl” and blatantly ignoring you when he’s mad at you. thinks it’s funny when you’re envious of her. “does my sweet girl miss me? want me to give her the biggest load? maybe leave a kiss on her pretty clit?” he clicks his tongue, “but you haven’t been very good, have you? making me all worried while i’m in court because you’re not eating enough. how can i give you the love you need when you can’t last for more than one round?”

hates it when you shave. prefers to eat that pussy in its rawest form. nuzzles your cute curls with his nose when he’s tongue deep. still inhales deeply with or without hair. leaves bite marks on your inner thighs like a map. is a little obsessed with your tummy, the one that he seems to overfeed (and overbreed) at times. bites and nuzzles when you’re orgasmed-out and he’s kissing back up.

he’s not a feet person, really. he’s just obsessed with all of you, including your feet. likes it when you sit across from him in the tub and tease his cock with your pretty, freshly pedicured feet (thanks to him.) running it down his length and back up. this usually happens during aftercare. watches you with a lazy, heated stare while you play with your nipples at the same time. can cum like that, if he’s particularly exhausted.

above all, he loves the way you latch onto him in your sleep. face stuffed between his pectorals, his hand shoved under your shorts to cup your naked cheek. legs tangled together. drool drying on his chest. sometimes you mumble in your sleep. most of the time the words “i love you” slip out when you’re completely conked out.

and every time he falls asleep it’s with a smile pressed against the crown of your head.

Right here, heels stabbing the stone floor outside his door like you were trying to drill straight through the castle. Breath fogging in the cold corridor, cheeks burning from cheap Firewhisky and the sharper sting of failure. Sexually frustrated didn’t begin to cover it; you were aching, hollowed-out, furious at your own body for its stubborn loyalty.

You knew exactly what you were missing: those stupid, endless brown eyes that always looked half-drunk on you; the low rasp of his voice when he said your name like a prayer and a curse at once; the way his fingers mapped you like he’d memorized every sensitive inch years ago and was only too happy to prove it.

The problem—the infuriating, unsolvable problem—was that you’d walked away. Well. Bolted.

Mattheo Riddle had been in love with you. Not the pretty, polite kind of love, either; the messy, obsessive, can’t-breathe-without-you kind. He would’ve burned the world down if you asked him to, and then handed you the ashes with ghat stupid crooked smile of his. And one night, curled against his chest with his heartbeat thundering under your ear, he’d said it. Three syllables, casual as commenting on the rain against the windowpane. I love you. Like it was nothing. Like he couldn't hold it back anymore.

You’d panicked. Bolted down the corridor so fast your lungs burned. Three months of convincing yourself freedom tasted better than safety, three months of swallowing the loneliness because commitment felt like drowning.

Your body, apparently, had not received the bloody memo.

That poor Ravenclaw was still back in the broom closet, confused and aching, trousers half-down, wondering what he’d done wrong when all he’d done was not be him.

Before your fist could even connect with the wood, the door swung open.

You dragged your gaze up—slow, mortified—and there they were: those ridiculous, warm-brown eyes, molten in the dim light, and a smirk that said he’d been expecting you for hours.

“Starting to think you like the chase more than the finish, baby,” he drawled, voice rolling over you like whiskey and smoke, sinking straight into your bloodstream. The sound alone sent heat licking low in your belly.

He leaned against the doorframe, all lazy confidence, grey sweatpants slung criminal-low on his hips, the faint outline beneath them making your mouth go dry. His hair was a riot of dark curls, like he’d been dragging his hands through it—or waiting for someone else to. The faint scent of cedar, cigarette smoke, and him curled into the air between you, familiar enough to make your knees traitorous.

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Come to punish me again for ruining you for everyone else?”

You wanted to roll your eyes, to turn on your heel and let pride win for once, let the ache between your thighs stay a punishment you actually deserved. But God, those eyes, those same reckless, fever-bright eyes that had sent you running three months ago, were still fixed on you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. Dark, endless, a little dangerous. They always stripped you bare long before his hands ever got the chance.

Every single time you came crawling back, pride crumbled somewhere between the corridor and his doorway, crushed beneath the sharper, stupid need to be wanted, truly wanted, by the one person who’d memorised the exact pitch of your gasp when he curled his fingers just right, who knew the filthy little praise that turned your spine to liquid.

He never made you beg. Never made you say the words. He just opened the door wider, let you tumble into the orbit he’d never stopped keeping warm for you.

Your gaze dragged downward, slow, helpless, past the sharp cut of his hipbones, past the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath soft grey cotton that was rapidly losing the fight against what you did to him by just showing up. The thick, growing ridge straining the fabric made your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.

He knew. Of course he knew.

Mattheo’s tongue touched the corner of his smirk, lazy and wicked. “See something you want, baby?” he murmured, voice rough velvet, close enough now that you could taste mint and smoke on every exhaled breath. “Or are you pretending you’re here for any other reason?”

Your voice slipped out soft, airless, almost a whine. “Don’t make me say it, Matty.”

You let your lower lip tremble, just enough, the little pout you knew turned him inside out. A cheap trick, maybe, but it worked every time. His gaze dropped instantly, always such a fool for you, pupils blowing wide like you’d flicked a switch. He didn’t need the reminder. Those lips haunted him every night he shut his eyes he felt them, plush and slick, sliding down his cock while his own hand tried and failed to match the wet heat he still tasted in his sleep.

He was done waiting.

One second the corridor air was cold on your skin, the next his fist was bunched in the front of your jacket, yanking you over the threshold. The door slammed behind you with a thud that echoed down the empty hall. Before you could draw breath he had you pinned, spine meeting the rough stone wall with just enough force to rattle the air from your lungs.

His body crowded yours, solid and burning hot, the sharp scent of cedar and smoke and him flooding your senses until the whole world narrowed to the places you touched. Thigh sliding between yours, pressing up hard enough to make you gasp. Forearm braced beside your head, caging you in. The other hand still twisted in your jacket like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

Mattheo’s mouth lingered a breath away, every rough exhale ghosting over your lips like warm whiskey.

“Show me what he did wrong, baby,” he growled low, never pretending he didn't know about your pathetic mission to replace him, always fully aware you were incapable. The sound of his voice scraping low, lethal, sinking straight into your bones. “Tell me how fucking useless he was.”

His hands shoved under your shirt, palms hot and calloused, branding your ribs. A broken moan spilled out of you raw, filthy, unstoppable and that slow, vicious smile spread across his face because no one else on earth could drag that noise from your throat and he knew it.

You knew you shouldn’t feed him. Knew you should bite your tongue until it bled. But his fingertips were already moving, reverent and ravenous, mapping the body he’d memorized and mourned for ninety-one sleepless nights. He'd counted, of course.

“He kissed like a slob,” you whispered, cheeks on fire. “All spit and clumsy tongue, like he was trying to lick the taste out of me.”

Mattheo laughed, soft and dark, the sound brushing the shell of your ear and shooting liquid heat down your spine. That laugh, so unguarded and gentle, the one he never gave anyone else, always melted you from the inside out. His hands kept roaming: hard squeezes over your hips that made you sway into him, feather-light trails up your stomach that prickled every inch of skin awake, fingers slipping beneath lace to cradle your breasts until your back bowed hard, begging.

His other palm dragged your skirt to your waist, kneading the curve of your arse, spreading you just enough that cool air kissed the wet heat between your thighs and you whimpered.

“He kept asking if it felt good,” you gasped, “kept rubbing the inside of my thigh like a lost bloody tourist, missing the only thing that mattered.”

“Missing what, sweetheart?” His voice was black velvet and sin. You could feel the hunger pulsing off him as his mouth skimmed the swell of your breast, tongue tracing lace, teeth scraping skin. “Say the words and I’ll give you everything, baby. You know I always do.”

His teeth closed in a gentle bite just above your nipple, waiting, breath scorching.

Your brain was already running dumb, the only signals in it were where his hands and mouth were touching. He didn't have to convince you to tell him anything, as long as he just didn't stop.

“He couldn’t find my clit if I’d spotlighted it and drawn arrows.”

A deep, guttural chuckle vibrated against your skin. He ripped your slutty thong aside, two fingers sliding through slick folds to circle that aching, swollen bundle with merciless, perfect precision.

“There she is,” he rasped, pressing hard, slow, devastating circles that buckled your knees and blurred the world at the edges. “There’s my good girl.”

His knees hit the carpet with a soft thud you felt through the soles of your feet. Those warm, wicked brown eyes tilted up, pinning you in place while his tongue dragged slow across his bottom lip, deliberate, like he could already taste you.

He hooked one of your trembling legs over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft back of your thigh, spreading you open until cool air kissed slick, swollen skin. The heat of his breath ghosted over you first, a teasing promise, then the faint scrape of stubble as he leaned in, nose brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt.

“Twenty-eight days,” he rasped, reminding you of the last time your resolve broke, voice rough with starvation, the words vibrating against your clit. “Twenty-eight fucking nights of my fist and your name and this perfect pussy I could still taste every time I closed my eyes.”

He inhaled, deep and filthy, like a man finally breathing after months underwater, and the low, broken sound that followed made your hips jerk toward his mouth all on their own.

“Yeah?” His voice is pure smoke and gravel, every syllable dragged against your soaked folds so you feel the vibration deep in your belly. “You like hearing how fucking wrecked I was, baby? Knowing you can spread your legs for half the castle and still crawl back here dripping because no one else makes you feel this?”

Heat floods your cheeks, scalding shame and raw want twisted together, but it’s already too late. His tongue flattens, broad and scorching, sliding up the length of your clit in one slow, deliberate lick that rips the air from your lungs. Then his lips seal over you, sucking hard, filthy, the wet sound echoing off stone walls like a claim staked in front of the whole damn castle.

Your knees buckle. Your hands dive into his hair, fingers twisting through thick, unruly curls still damp from an earlier shower, the faint scent of his shampoo rising as you yank him closer. He growls into you, the vibration rolling straight through your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly against his mouth.

He doesn’t ease up. Tongue swirling, flicking, relentless, lapping at you like he’s starving and you’re the first thing he’s tasted in weeks. Every stroke is perfect, merciless, the exact pressure and rhythm that turns your spine molten. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders; your breath comes in sharp, broken sobs.

“Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had on my tongue,” he rasps between obscene licks, breath blistering hot against swollen flesh. “Your stubborn ass is still all mine.”

“Ah, fuck, Matty—” The words fracture into a sob as his tongue lashes your clit again, ruthless, perfect. “S’too good.”

That’s the sound he lives for: your voice cracking open, raw and wrecked, the moment your brain melts out of your ears and drips down his chin. He groans into you, filthy and reverent, the vibration rolling straight through your core. You taste like warm honey and sin, thick and slick, coating his tongue, his lips, running in glossy rivulets down his jaw to soak the pale skin on his chest. He doesn’t care. He wants to drown in it, wants the mess branded on his skin until the next time you pretend you can live without this.

His arms lock tighter around your hips, fingers bruising, dragging you down harder onto his greedy mouth like he could swallow you whole if he tried. Your thigh trembles against his cheek, stubble scraping raw, and he growls again when you tug his curls hard enough to sting.

One hand slips lower. The pad of his finger circles your clenching entrance once, twice, teasing, collecting the slick that’s already dripping down your legs. Then he sinks two fingers deep in a single, brutal thrust, curling them up into that spongy spot that whites out your vision. Your back bows off the wall, a broken cry tearing loose as pleasure detonates behind your eyes in blinding, glittering stars.

Say whatever you want about the Dark Lord’s son, monster, murderer, nightmare dressed in green, but Merlin, the boy can fuck. He plays your body like he wrote the damn manual, every stroke of his tongue and twist of his fingers designed to ruin you for anyone else forever.

Your stomach clenches, a tight, molten coil snapping loose with humiliating speed, a climax that other boys have chased for hours over the past month, fumbling and useless, now crashing over you in mere minutes under the hands of the one you swore you could leave behind. That devastating smirk curls his lips again, sharp and knowing, because he feels it—every tiny, traitorous twitch of your body betraying you. He’s memorized you inside and out, the frantic flutter of your walls pulsing around his fingers, the way your eyes glaze and your mouth falls open in that perfect, fucked-out haze he’ll carry behind his eyelids forever.

His fingers pump faster, relentless, knuckles grazing that sweet, spongy spot with every brutal thrust, slick sounds filling the air as his fingers push in and out. His mouth turns ravenous, sloppy, tongue dragging messy and hot across your folds, lips sucking hard enough to bruise. The scrape of his stubble burns your inner thighs, raw and red, and you smell the faint cedar of his skin, taste the salt of yourself on the air as he groans into you, low and animal, like he’s feasting on the last meal he’ll ever have.

“Oh—m’gonna, oh!” Your voice cracks, a desperate, keening sob, hips jerking wild against his face as the world blurs into heat and static and him.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden loss of heat, then spits, once, deliberate and filthy, right onto your swollen clit. The warm slick lands with a soft sound that punches the air from your lungs; his dark eyes flick up to lock on yours, gleaming with raw possession, daring you to watch what he does to you.

You can’t.

Your head slams back against stone as the orgasm rips through you, violent, blinding waves that start deep in your belly and explode outward. Every muscle seizes, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. His tongue turns soft, languid, lapping slow and gentle through the spasms, coaxing every aftershock until your legs shake like they’ll give out.

He drinks you down like it’s communion. Long, greedy pulls, eyes fluttering shut, lashes casting shadows over sharp cheekbones. Your release slicks his lips, his chin, spills in glistening trails down the column of his throat, catching the low torchlight as it drips over the ridges of his abs and disappears beneath the waistband still clinging low on his hips.

The room smells of sex and expensive perfume and him. Your own heartbeat thunders so loud you barely hear the low, reverent groan he gives when he finally swallows the last of you, like he’s tasting home after months in exile.

You barely have time to suck in a breath before his palm lands in a sharp, wet little smack right against your slick pussy, the sting blooming hot and bright, ripping a breathy, broken yelp from your throat. He’s already rising, towering, mouth crashing over yours in a hungry, claiming kiss that tastes like your own arousal sharp and unmistakable on his tongue. His hands are everywhere at once, frantic, yanking at fabric, buttons popping, zippers rasping down as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.

One gentle shove and you’re on your back, air whooshing out of you; then he’s prowling over you like something feral, forearms caging your head, the heat of his skin searing against yours. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time but deeper, tongue stroking in a rhythm that promises ruin, while his rough hands hook behind your knees and fold you open, pressing your thighs to your chest until you’re bent nearly in half and deliciously exposed.

The heavy, velvet weight of his cock drags through your soaked folds, once, twice, painting himself in your wetness. A low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your lips. Then he fists himself, thick and throbbing, and slaps the swollen head against your clit, once, sharp and electric, twice, harder, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room, each impact sending a jolt after jolt of raw pleasure spiking straight through your core.

“Fuck… missed you too much to be gentle.”

The words scrape out of him, raw and ragged, right before he drives forward in one brutal thrust, burying every thick, unforgiving inch to the root. The stretch is blinding, white-hot, splitting you open so suddenly your toes curl hard enough to cramp, a broken wail tearing from your throat as your mind whites out. Your nails claw at his shoulders, scrabbling for anything to anchor you while your body tries to remember how to take him, how to breathe around him.

“Ah—Matty, s’too deep—” It’s half sob, half plea, tears already stinging at the corners of your eyes, your walls fluttering in frantic protest around the impossible heat of him.

“You can take it, baby,” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint even as his hips snap forward again, sharp, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. “This is what you get for always running from me.”

His hands, God, his hands, slide up your throat so tenderly it hurts, thumbs stroking the fragile skin beneath your jaw, tracing the frantic jump of your pulse like he’s memorizing it. The contrast is dizzying: gentle palms cradling your face while his cock carves you open with merciless, grinding strokes that punch the air from your lungs.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing the salt of your tears, voice cracking with something raw and possessive. “So fucking scared of staying.”

Your glassy, wrecked eyes meet his, dark, blown wide, glittering with unshed tears and desperate want, and the sight drags a shameless, guttural moan from deep in his chest. He bottoms out again, hips flush to yours, grinding slow and filthy so you feel every throb, every vein.

“But this pussy?” He pulls back just to slam home once more, the head of his cock kissing so deep your vision sparks. “This greedy little thing doesn’t want anyone else, does she?”

He punctuates the question with a roll of his hips that drags over that devastating spot inside you, and your answer is nothing but a broken, wet cry as your walls clamp down around him, fluttering, milking, already begging for everything you swore you’d never give him again.

“Say it, baby,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his cock throbs deep inside you, thick and unmoving, keeping you stuffed full. “Tell me no one can fuck you like me.”

Your jaw clenches; pride flares hot behind your ribs once more. You want to bite the words back, want to deny him the satisfaction, but he’s buried so perfectly, stretching you open, pulse hammering against your fluttering walls, and your body is already betraying you.

He drags the pad of his thumb down, finds your clit slick, sensitive and swollen, and starts rubbing slow, cruel, perfect circles. The pleasure is immediate, vicious, a live wire dragged over raw nerves. Your hips jerk without permission; a helpless, wet sound spills from your throat.

“N-no one,” you choke out, hating how wrecked you already sound, “just you, fuck—Mattheo!”

The smirk that carves across his face is pure sin, sharp and filthy and triumphant. He rolls his hips once, deliberate, grinding the thick head of his cock right against that spot that makes your spine bow and your vision spark white. Your breath catches on a silent scream; tears slip hot down your temples into your hair.

“My name again, sweetheart,” he growls, low and dangerous, thumb never stopping its torment, hips starting a slow, grinding rhythm that punches little broken gasps out of you with every drag. “Let me hear how pretty it sounds when you’re falling apart on my cock.”

The instant your walls flutter and clamp down around him, tight and desperate, he knows. Of course he knows—every filthy secret of your body is etched into his muscle memory, every telltale sign branded on his soul. That wicked smirk flashes across his sweat-slick face again, dark eyes gleaming with triumph as he feels you unraveling from the inside out.

His fingers blur over your swollen clit, circling faster, merciless, the rough pads slick with you and pressing just right, every stroke locking in perfect, devastating rhythm with the deep, punishing snap of his hips. The wet sounds of skin on skin fill the room, obscene and echoing, mingling with your broken whimpers and the low, animal grunts rumbling from his chest.

You’re gone—blissfully, utterly fucked stupid. Drool slips from the corner of your parted lips, warm and shameless, trailing down your chin as your head lolls back against the pillow. Your eyes are glassy, heavy-lidded, locked on him. The flex of his abs with every thrust, the sheen of sweat glistening over inked skin, the way his dark curls stick to his forehead, wild and damp. God, he’s beautiful like this—feral, powerful, carved from shadow and sin. Ex or not, the sight of him alone could ruin you all over again.

He leans down, teeth grazing your earlobe, breath scorching hot. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps, voice shredded with restraint. “Come apart on my cock. Show me who you really belong to.”

Your moans shatter into frantic, breathy chants of his name, each syllable spilling from your swollen lips like a plea and a prayer. The sound races down his spine in electric shivers, raw and intoxicating, that pretty voice wrapping around “Matty” until his control frays at the edges.

He’s done being gentle. Your orgasm has barely ebbed when his own hunger surges, brutal and unforgiving. His hips snap faster, harder, pounding into your slick, fluttering heat with a desperation that borders on violence—the slap of skin on skin echoing sharp and wet, the bed creaking under the force. Sweat beads on his throat, trickling down the sharp lines of his chest, the air thick with salt and sex and the faint musk of him.

Beautiful, broken moans tear from his parted lips, ragged and low, as his head falls back. Dark curls cling to his damp forehead; his eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy, biceps bulging and veins corded under inked skin as he chases the edge. He’s lost in it, until the hot rush of your release sprays across his abs, warm and sudden, coating him in glistening proof of how thoroughly he’s wrecked you.

He doesn’t miss a second.

“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, bliss carving harsh lines into his face. But his eyes snap open, locking on yours, drinking in the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Your pretty flushed cheeks, glassy stare, body arching in helpless aftershocks. Fuck, he loves you. The words burn in his throat, fierce and unspoken—he’d swallow them forever if it kept you here, kept you safe, kept you from running back only when some idiot leaves you cold and aching.

No time to voice it now, though. His rhythm stutters, body shuddering as he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes flood you, pulsing against your walls, filling you until the warmth spreads low in your belly and you squirm, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

Your breaths come ragged, chests heaving in tandem as he collapses onto you, heavy and spent. He eases your trembling legs down, muscles screaming in relief, but he doesn’t pull out. No—he stays buried inside, keeping every drop sealed in, like he could brand you from the inside if he just holds still long enough. His forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, the world narrowing to the thunder of two hearts refusing to slow.

After a long, heavy silence, broken only by the ragged sync of your breathing and the faint crackle of dying embers in the grate, you feel it coming, the question he’s asked a dozen times before, soft and desperate: Stay.

This time, you’re ready to say yes. This time, the word sits warm on your tongue, tasting like surrender.

But that’s not what he says.

“I won’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough from groans and restraint, his forehead still pressed to yours, damp curls tickling your skin. “Won’t say those words ever again if that’s what it takes. Just… stop running. I’m sorry I dropped it on you like that. Sorry I scared you shitless.” His fingers trace your hips, slow and reverent like he’s afraid you’ll run again if he holds too tight. “Give me a chance to fix it. You don’t have to love me back. You just have to stay.”

The plea cracks something open in your chest, a raw ache that spreads like wildfire, squeezing until your ribs feel too small for the heart hammering inside them. Because you do love him. God, you do. It’s why your feet carry you here every time the loneliness bites too deep. Why no other boy’s touch ever gets past your skin before you shut it down, cold and final. Why his gaze across the Great Hall still burns you from the inside out, a constant, bruising reminder that he’s carved himself into places you can’t reach to dig him free.

He loves you, and it’s terrifying. But loving him back—admitting it—feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no broom beneath you.

“I do love you, Matty,” you whisper, the words scraping out raw, tasting like salt and truth. “I’m just… terrified.”

A shaky breath rushes from his lungs, warm against your lips, relief and something fiercer flooding his eyes. Then that familiar cheeky smile breaks through, crooked and blinding, the one that always undid you long before he ever touched you.

“Terrified,” he echoes, voice low, teasing, but trembling at the edges with wonder. He brushes his nose against yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Yeah… we can work with terrified.”