Welcome To Paradise

Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.

It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you. 

You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say. 

The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”

He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”

You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?” 

You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name. 

Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head. 

He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness. 

“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk. 

“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.

“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?” 

You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”

He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but  you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”

You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“

“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks. 

He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.

Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”

You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building. 

You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.

Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face. 

“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.

“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.

 He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“

“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back. 

His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.  

“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful,  “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”

“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”

“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words.  You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was. 

He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both. 

Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you  weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude. 

“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish. 

“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds. 

He’s so polite, you could just die. 

You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.

You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.

But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.

 He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.

You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both. 

Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers. 

You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure. 

You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?

You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?

“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.

He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time. 

A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations. 

You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way  — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“

He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again. 

“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.

“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now. 

He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”

Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.

You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”

He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?” 

You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think  we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.

“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.

You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place. 

“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“

“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.” 

Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.” 

You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.” 

“Embarrassing how?”

For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.

“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one. 

You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.

 Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships.  And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year. 

But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.

His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again. 

Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.

You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing. 

So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.

Sort of.

Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage. 

“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up,  towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.” 

He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”

You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”

“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.

You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself —  but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe. 

Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him. 

“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer. 

The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself. 

You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—

“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.” 

The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.

He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.

Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.

Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”

You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.

You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“

He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“

Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.

Choso all but freezes, “What?”

Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No. 

“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.

You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.

 “Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.

You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.

“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves. 

A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”

***

It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”

You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top. 

There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”

“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”

At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”

Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”

She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.

Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”

She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”

“I don’t have a crush on him!”

She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”

“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”

“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”

You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”

“Y’know I love you.” She starts.

“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.

“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“

“What would Muta think…?”

She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”

You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”

She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?” 

You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“

“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”

She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”

You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax. 

You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think. 

“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.

You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her. 

Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along. 

“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat. 

“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering. 

“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.

You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.” 

It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”

Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion. 

She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”

She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. 

***

“—I think they never made any real contact.”

“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”

Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out. 

If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic.  At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.

“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”

“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say,  completing her sentence. 

“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.

She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table. 

“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”

“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.

You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.

There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest. 

There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?” 

You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways. 

You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”

It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him. 

A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group. 

“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him. 

“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”

You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”

 He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him. 

“My brother by the way. Same year though.” 

Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.

“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that. 

 “I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”

You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously. 

“We don’t look related do we?”

 Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“

“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”

“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”

“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features. 

“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.

The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement. 

***

It’s around 6:40pm  when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you. 

He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”

For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.

“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”

He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”

The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”

You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now. 

“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.

Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.

“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.” 

There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of.  I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.” 

You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”

After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.

“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”

You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.

“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”

At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”

He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”

“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip. 

He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?” 

Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it.  No going back. Remember? 

 “I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.” 

Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.

You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.” 

“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed. 

You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”

“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure. 

“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”

“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”

Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”

“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.

You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.” 

Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“

“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”

Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it.  “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“

“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”

The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”

***

The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings. 

Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away. 

He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“

You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.

He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment. 

It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor. 

“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he  takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.

“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.

“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“

“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him. 

It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.

He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.” 

Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought. 

On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.

He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face. 

An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.” 

You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.

He follows your gaze, “What?”

“You’re also thinking of something.”

His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”

You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”

Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.

Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.

 “Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out. 

He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out. 

“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”

He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes, 

“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating. 

“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him. 

“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“  You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough. 

“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment. 

He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.

“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But what I wanna know is,”

He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do…?”

He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips. 

He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling. 

His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.” 

If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry. 

His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.

Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“  He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.

“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.

You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.

You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him,  mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.

He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.

You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors.  Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear. 

He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.

 You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod. 

You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”

His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.

 He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.  

“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”

He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.

He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him. 

You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue,  entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.

“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.

You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.

 “Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.

You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,

“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?” 

His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“

“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about. 

Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“

You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um,  anything.”

You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.

He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again. 

“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck. 

You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor. 

You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.

“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.

 His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.

You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster. 

You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection. 

You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.” 

You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”

You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”

And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“

 He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit. 

He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements.  He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.

Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“

“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up. 

You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely. 

You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”

Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off. 

He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself.  “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”

Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,” 

Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.

You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast.  You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”

Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“

“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“ 

He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.

And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”

His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?” 

You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”

He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between. 

He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”

You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.

Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material. 

“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy. 

You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.”  He says, discouraged. 

“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words. 

He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.

He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant. 

“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"

His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed. 

The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully. 

Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.

He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.

He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”

He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth. 

He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”

You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more. 

You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good. 

But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,” 

He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk” 

It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.

Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.

You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea. 

“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”

He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly.  “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“

He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”

It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”

“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.

“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.” 

The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“

He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“ 

He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.

“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina. 

Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“

“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim.  He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.

His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you. 

Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”

His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.

He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.

The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.

He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”

You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.

Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.

He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you. 

You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.

He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately. 

A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum.  Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face. 

Your chests are pumping against each other,  both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions. 

You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.

 “What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”

Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.

He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“ 

He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”

You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient. 

You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”

He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling, “Yeah.”

Even now, they’re smushing you between them on the couch, manspread thighs against your own, you never get any space with these two.

“Hah, i’ll throw your ass right off rainbow fucking road,” Sukuna’s grinning like the psycho he is when he nudges your cart, your cute little Yoshi flying off.

“Ugh, you dick!”

“Sukuna,” Choso sighs and shakes his head. “Stop throwing her off.”

“Stop throwing her off,” you smack him with his mocking tone, getting back onto the road and speeding up. “Hah!”

“Not again!? You’re such a jerk!”

“I’ll avenge you angel,” Sukuna rolls his eyes when Choso runs Sukuna off the road, and his bowser goes flying, you snicker in laughter as Sukuna crashes out.

“Choso, my hero!”

“I’ll come fucking get the both of you,” Sukuna’s locked in, brows lowered – far too close to you now as if the couch isn’t big enough for him, his biceps flexing in a concerning ass way that makes you stop driving. “What brat, ya done?”

“I um…” you blink and focus once more, in time for Choso to lean forward, his elbow resting on your bare thigh so casually.

Casual.

You’re ovulating and losing mario kart!

“Mnh…”

They both look at you and you cover your face in embarrassment, slick dribbling down your inner thighs – you’re always wet around them but today is too fucking much, how many times a day can you change your panties? You could swear they keep coming up missing too.

“You all right angel?” Choso asks softly, tilting his head and looking at you far too closely, hand on your cheek. “You’re warm! Do you have a fever?”

“N-no,” Sukuna scoffs and yanks the remote from your hands, feeling your head for himself.

“You are warm, brat, better not be sick,” he tilts your chin up and smirks. “You lost big time, hah you suck.”

“Ugh!” You shove at him once more. “You suck! I’m fine!”

You three play another round and Sukuna won’t stop knocking you off, sending your car into a tailspin, you get so damn mad at him you toss the remote on the floor. Sukuna snorts when you cross your arms.

“Looking like a little spoiled brat.”

“I am not! You’re just rude!”

“Tch, can’t even lose a game,” you’re so irritated and so horny you can’t think right now, just glaring at the pink haired menace. “Don’t feel bad, I beat you at every single game, don’t I?”

“Sukuna stop,” Choso sets his remote down, wrapping a protective arm and tugging you against him. “Leave her alone, you’re really being a dick over it.”

“I am competitive, she’s the sore loser.”

“You’re not competitive, you’re being an ass,” you snuggle to Choso now and he blushes, your lips against his neck, tickling his skin.

“Thank you Cho,” you murmur, pressing a kiss, he sucks in a breath, hand tightening at your waist, Sukuna glares at the sight, smacking Choso’s hand right off you. “Hey!”

“You’re mad she’s snuggling to me.”

“Hah, right,” Sukuna stands up now, yanking you off Choso like the big brute he is, you kick at him and he smirks, yanking your ankle. “Think ya can hurt me, brat?”

“You’re the biggest brat there is, Ryomen Sukuna!”

“Wow, my full name – really,” you stick your tongue out and Sukuna bars you with his arms on the couch, making your breath catch. Just because he’s a dick doesn’t mean he’s not hot and ruining you with his proximity. “Admit you’re trash at Mario cart and I’ll make you feel real good, won’t have to fuck yourself tonight with your dildo collection.”

“Invasion of privacy! No, I won’t admit I suck,” you smack at his arm and then climb right onto Choso’s lap, he sucks in a breath at the action.

“Oh… Oh! Oh,” he’s gripping your waist with those big hands, dragging your heat against that bulge underneath his pants as you move your hips, his eyes darkening. “Hi.”

You giggle a bit at that, moving again, feeling Sukuna tense behind you. “Hi.”

“Get off his damn lap,” Sukuna turns your face towards him, just to get Choso smacking his hand away this time. “I’ll beat both your asses.”

“No you won’t,” Choso murmurs, turning your face to him now, thumb brushing little circles on your hip, making you even wetter. “I’ll make you feel good without you having to say you ‘suck’ at Mario cart. You don’t suck.”

“I can suck,” you whisper, leaning forward and giggling, Choso moans when you kiss his lips, and everything in your living room shifts.

It’s a desperate kiss once Choso gets a taste of you, moaning into your mouth and working your body against him, sucking in a breath, eyes fluttering shut, sucking your tongue in his mouth and rutting up against you. You whine out at it, you could almost cum from just feeling him, one of his hands entangling in his hair.

“Are you really gonna leave me out?” Sukuna asks, flipping you before you can think, now your back is pressed on Choso’s hard chest, Sukuna is kneeling, his hands pressing against your tits. You’re ovulating so bad they’re full and aching, your nipples sensitive when he brushes his thumbs on them. “You’re needy, huh brat?”

“Not for you and your Mario cart cheating tactics, mnh!” He uses a hand to tug up your shirt, your tits spilling out, earning his moan.

“Don’t want my mouth on them?” You can’t say no, not when Choso’s biting your neck, his fingers slipping up your shorts, making your thighs tremble, back arching for more of Sukuna’s touch. “Answer.”

“I am still mad at you, but I’ll let you do that,” he smirks as if he’ll get to fuck you – little does Sukuna know you take Mario Kart very seriously, and you’re planning on making your giant, pink haired roomie pay. “Mnh!”

Sukuna presses you back against Choso, grabbing your tit and wrapping his lips around the little bud, sucking it into the hot recesses of his mouth, tongue ring clicking against it and earning a soft moan. You move against Choso who whines out in response, cock licking so much sticky pre it’s drizzling against your inner thigh, his finger running over your panties.

“Ngh,” soft moans escape your lips as Sukuna sucks one nipple, the other toyed with by his thumb and forefinger, Choso’s running up and down your slit until you’re dripping wet. “Choso…”

“Even now?” Sukuna scowls and you grin, earning a sharp bite on your tit, leaving glistening teeth marks, you gasp in shock and he grins. “Marked you.”

“Freak,” you grumble, but he’s sucking your other nipple, and your hand finds its way in his pink silky hair, it’s so soft, you tug hard and he grips your tit hard, sucking it in his mouth as Choso toys your clit. “F-fuck… mnh…”

“You’re soaked baby,” Choso whispers, tilting your face to his and kissing you, messy with your tongues dripping saliva. “Like that?”

“Y-yes, ow!” Sukuna bites the fuck out of you again, earning your attention, you yank the fuck out of his hair and make him moan.

“Where’s my attention!?”

“I’m still mad, I already told you,” Sukuna tugs your shorts to the side, seeing how soaking wet you are, panties drenched.

“Already fuck yourself today?”

“Maybe,” he smirks. “Why?”

“Nothing – just that’s my cock.”

“What!?” You shove him hard, he’s chuckling and Choso’s damn near about to bust with how you wiggle. “You did not seriously? Psycho!”

“Bet you loved it,” you did, fuck him. “Could you take it all?”

“No – I mean!? Yep, hah wasn’t that -”

Before you can finish your petty lie, Sukuna’s kissing you, messy and mean with it, tongue ring clicking the roof of your mouth, you’re rocking back and forth, dying for them inside you. If you weren’t such a petty girl, maybe you’d let Sukuna slide his cock inside your cunt, where Choso’s running circles against your slick entrance – but you’re still mad about Mario Kart.

And now he’s making his cock your dildo!?

“You’re batshit insane,” you’re still kissing him though, Choso’s got your clit twitching and Sukuna’s pinching your nipples and rolling them, the simultaneous play is too much to handle. “You c-can’t just… mnh, d-do that.”

“That’s not fair, I wanna make you one,” Choso pouts as he sinks two fingers in your messy, needy cunt, you’re soaking them and quivering, sucking them up so damn easy. “Do you want one of me?”

“I do, stop biting, you dick!” Sukuna’s furious – how dare you give him all the attention when Sukuna is right there, he slips his finger down and Choso pulls his out with a wet pop, sucking on them and moaning.

Fuck he’s hot.

You’re a little lost when you realize Sukuna’s shoving two fingers deep, scissoring them in and out of your hole. “Hah your cunt is already fucked out, you must love my dick stretching your messy cunt out.”

“You w-wish,” your thighs are held up by Choso for Sukuna’s mean fingers to rock in and out of your cunt with loud squelches, your nails press into Choso’s forearms when he grips your tit, squishing it in his hand and rutting that leaky cock right on you. “Close, close… Sukuna!?”

“You thought,” he yanks his fingers out, smirking at the obscene amount dripping, slipping them right in your mouth. “Suck.”

You bob your mouth up and down his knuckles, cheeks all flushed and your eyes dazed, Sukuna moans at the sight, picturing how well you’d suck his cock, as you slip your tongue between those digits. Choso’s already fingering you again, your cheeks hollowed, eyes rolling back.

“I’ll let you cum baby,” he murmurs, Sukuna scoffs – Choso was always trying to ‘please you’ and this was no different, you’re sucking Sukuna’s fingers as his hand grips under your chin, Choso’s fingers making a mess between your thighs as you clamp down. “Go ahead, cum for me.”

“Mmph!” You’re drooling as Sukuna’s fingers go deeper, damn near choking you with them, orgasm making you squirt all over Choso’s lap, drops smacking against Sukuna’s pants, he groans at the sigh.

“Messy lil slut, look at ya, can’t handle a couple fingers?”

“Fuck off, was cummin’ for Choso,” Choso grins, his fingers easing out of your cunt with a messy pop as she keeps spasming, gushing arousal down onto the couch you’re sitting on. “Cho, come on.”

“Come where baby?”

“My room,” you stand and push past Sukuna, whose cock is so hard you can see it pressing out, he winces and has to adjust it when you’re crooking your finger. “You can watch.”

“Watch!? The fuck?”

You drag Choso – dopey grin on his face and all – giggling as you rush him to your room. “Yep.”

“I’m not just gonna watch you…” You’re stripped down right in front of them in moments, and both the boys have open mouths.

Listen, you’ve been waiting to fuck them, and cucking Sukuna seemed apt enough punishment after the shit he was pulling today. Your tits bounce when you turn to Choso, slipping off his shirt and running your fingertips across his tattooed chest, he snatches you up and kisses you, surprising you by how needy he is, you thought he may be shy.

He’s so not shy when he eagerly steps out of his pants, and you see all that white dripping through his boxers. “I am not watching.”

“You sit right there,” you point to your bright pink gaming chair, a big ass flower cushion and a plushy on it, Sukuna’s red eyes narrow – for a moment he does scare you, but not when he throws your plushy and pillow on the ground. “Hey!”

“Fuck off,” he sits in the chair and it creaks under his heavy weight, crossing his arms now. “Well, put on your little show – you’ll beg me to join.”

“You think so?”

“I know it, want all your holes filled,” his eyes drift down the curves of your body, his cock aching so badly he unzips his pants, watching your fucked out little gaze. “Like what you see?”

Who wouldn’t like that thick, veiny cock with the pierced reddened tip? Drooling white as he strokes it in front of you. Your throat goes dry as you consider if you can give him such a punishment, but you smile all mean.

“Admit you cheat at Mario Kart.”

“I don’t you brat!?”

“Then no,” you press Choso down on the bed, he’s tugging his boxers off, his pretty cock smacking his belly button, pre just dripping against that black strip of hair over his cock. “Oh… You’re so ready, aren’t you Choso?”

“Please,” he’s tugging you on him, giving Sukuna a view of your ass, your cunt gliding along Choso’s cock and dripping all over. “Oh pretty…”

He’s got a piercing too, right on his pretty pink tip, you’re running your slit right along it, hands braced on his chest, Choso's mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth. You’re whining out when he plays with the other, holding them both in his hands as you move.

“Your titties are so pretty,” he whispers, one hand slipping down to your waist, god he’s dreamed of you but not like this – gliding your cunt right on him? He could lift you and slam his cock so deep, but he also wants to let you tease him, edge him till he can’t help himself. “F-fuck… you’re so wet…”

“Rub it in,” Sukuna earns your laugh, peeking over your shoulder and arching so he has a look of your hole from the back. “I’d fuck you right in your ass first.”

“You would not!”

“Sure would, Choso can have your cunt..”

“I’ll take any hole,” you giggle again, kissing your roomie, his lips plush underneath yours, your nails press into his shoulders as his tip bumps your needy clit. “Ah! Choso…”

“Do you l-like it baby?” You nod eagerly, he’s sucking your tits again, dragging you down hard, his cock leaking more pre – so much he worries he did cum, but it’s still thickening against you. “Wanna fill you up with all my cum. Eat it out of you.”

“Mnh,” you’re leaning up now, gliding faster, watching Choso lose it, bruising your waist, his cheeks dusted with pink.

“You really gonna do all this for MARIO KART!? You’re such a petty little annoying brat.”

You glare and turn around, reverse cowgirl right on Choso’s cock, he’s whimpering and Sukuna’s stroking his cock, his lips parted as he takes in your body facing him. “You’re petty! And annoying, you never give me privacy!”

“Neither does he!?” Sukuna stands, his cock so heavy it’s just hanging, dripping on the pink fluffy rug.

“You’re making a mess, Kuna, all over my rug.”

His jaw sets, Choso’s fingers are pressing harder as he drags you up and down, gasping out. “Like you didn’t squirt on me!?”

“Can I put it in please?” Choso’s completely ignoring your spat – how can he think when he’s so close to being able to slide his cock inside your cute, soaking wet hole?

“Y-yes,” you let him lift you and grab his cock, wrapping his hand around the base, tip slipping in your hole. “Mnh!”

“Oh my god,” he drags you down in one stroke – deep inside – so much your tummy bulges for Sukuna to see, he groans at the sight, Choso lifting you and that mess of slick glistening. “You’re so f-fucking wet, god you feel so good.”

Sukuna’s gripping your hair and bending down as you ride Choso’s cock, ass bouncing up and down, nails pressing into his thighs to keep balance, he lifts your ass up and groans, fingers dimpling the plump flesh of your ass. “Making a whole show, aren’t you?”

You take your hand and swipe your thumb over Sukuna’s tip, licking it off and watching him lose it, only to rock on Choso’s cock more, feeling him hit your cervix, making you gasp out desperately. “You’re so deep, mnh!”

“Swear to god,” Sukuna’s stroking his cock when Choso sits up and puts you on all fours, slapping his heavy cock against your ass, you moan and arch, face precariously close to Sukuna’s cock. “Come on, fuck… just lemme…”

“You can jerk off near me,” You gasp out, a broken little moan spilling from your lips as Choso slams right back in, heavy balls kissing your clit, your head falling back. “You’re lucky to even get that.”

“Fuckin’ brat,” Choso’s groaning as you grip him with your gummy walls just fluttering, he can’t even focus on anything but the curve of your ass like this, the way his tip is pressing your cervix, how full his balls are.

Your thighs tremble, hands gripping the blanket, looking back at him all pretty as he splits you open on his cock. “Ch-choso… f-feels so…”

You break off talking when he shoves in hard, pinning you to him and rolling those hips – god Choso could fuck, you didn’t think he couldn’t exactly but you sure didn’t expect that. He slams again harder, pushing your face until your mouth is almost brushing Sukuna’s needy tip, just that has the six foot five man whimpering.

“Fuck… slutty lil brat,” you’d scowl or stick your tongue out but Choso’s hitting it too good, stretching you right out to his shape with messy strokes. Your mouth is open with your gasps, every stroke of Sukuna’s hand on his cock making your tummy clench any more.

“Y-you’re gonna admit you cheat,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when Choso grabs your shoulder and fucks in so deep it hurts. “Ah!”

“Stop fighting,” he whines out when you pulse around him, leaning over you and gripping your chin, turning you to him. “Just cum, lemme feel it milk me.”

Oh fuck.

You kiss him and let him rail you, as Sukuna has to watch the girl he’s jerked off to fuck his roomate – all because he just had to make her mad. He wishes it wasn’t so sexy hearing the skin smacking and your messy cunt squishing with every thrust, already about to bust like a pathetic loser.

“I’m s-sorry, fuck,” he mumbles, you pull back and Choso chuckles, slamming against you again, pushing you to arch more. “All right!? Shit you’re mean.”

“You’re s-sorry, really? Mnh!” He moans and grips your hair, jerking right in front of your face as Choso snaps his hips hard.

“Perfect cunt just gripping me, god jus’ like th-that,” he’s pussy drunk off you, he can’t help but be happy he’s inside and not in your bright pink cuck chair, or jerking it like Sukuna.

Not that he wouldn’t enjoy that too, but he’s been fisting his cock to you since the first day you met.

“M’gonna cum,” you whisper now, looking up at Sukuna and moaning, breath tickling the tip of his cock. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes, god just… can I just… cum on your tongue, fuck – I’ll let you win, n-next time just…”

You suppose you’ll take a little pity on him, opening your mouth with your little pink tongue out, letting Sukuna jerk it even closer, strings of puffy cum splattering all over your tongue, your mouth, your chin. It’s fucking filthy having it all over you as your orgasm hits, making you swallow all him up.

“Want me to cum inside your pretty lil hole?” Choso asks, you’re still swallowing Sukuna’s cum when he brushes it on your lips, stroking it so even more oozes from that little slit and decorates your lips.

You nod and arch, your nails now pressing into Sukuna’s thighs, Choso busting deep inside your cunt and all he can get is his tip grazing your damn tongue, he’s so desperate he’s happy for that. He’s groaning as he watches you get filled by Choso’s cum, your fucked out face and your crossed eyes.

“Wanna be inside next,” he mumbles, pulling back and groaning, your nails pressing into the tattoos on his muscled thighs as you tremble.

You’re flooded with Choso’s warmth, coating all your walls as he pulses, thickening even more, tip dragging on your spot over and over, making you both sensitive. “Took all that, so greedy.”

“Mhm,” you whisper, licking Sukuna’s cum off his thumb when he gathers it from your cheek, off your chin, slipping it in your mouth. “You came so much, Choso…”

“What about me you brat!?”

You grin and give him the tiniest kitten flick of your tongue on his tip, watching him jerk from just that. “I’ll maybe forgive you.”

“Maybe? Tch,” Choso pulls out of you with a messy pop, watching all his cum flood out of your hole, pushing it right out and dripping on your blankets.

“Look at all you took,” he plays with the sticky mess, fingering it right back inside and smirking at Sukuna. “I think she likes me more.”

“She does not, she’s just sadistic,” he’d be lying if he didn’t say that turned him on more. He helps you up on your knees, tilting your chin up and kissing his own cum off you, Choso’s kissing up your neck, as you feel him slipping out of you. “Evil little brat. You liked that dildo.”

“Maybe I’ll let you use it on me,” his brows lower as he glares again, Choso snorts against your neck, tugging you closer.

“Use my own dick on you!?”

“Then you can fuck me. If you’re nice.” You turn and straddle Choso again, kissing his mouth, he flicks his tongue and gathers the little bit of Sukuna’s cum off your mouth, moaning.

“Can I at least finger you, or am I still in trouble?” Sukuna pouts kind of cutely, you admit, so you nod, and let him kneel on the bed, fingering Choso’s cum back inside you.

Sukuna won’t knock you off rainbow road again.

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

You and your friends wanted to let loose after a long week. You couldn’t remember the last time you wore your little black dress and now you had a reason. Your group settled at a club after some bar hopping. You drank enough to feel it but not enough that you couldn’t think straight. Everyone moved to the music, living in the moment.

A few guys tried to dance with you, but you subtly moved away. A couple of your friends frowned and you shrugged. They knew you hadn’t been laid in months, but you weren’t about to fool around with a random guy when you had a perfectly good toy at home. 

And then you saw him.

A stranger in all black, from the tight t-shirt down to the boots, watched you from the corner. The handsome man didn’t smile when you two locked eyes. You forgot how to breathe since he wouldn’t look away, his stare somehow both cold and hot. Something told you to run far away because he seemed dangerous.

But a voice in your head said he’d like the chase.

You tried to focus on dancing, but it was difficult with his eyes following your every move. You glanced at him over your shoulder, looking more enticing than you meant to. Or maybe you did it on purpose since it felt good to have his attention on you. You couldn’t understand why since he looked far from safe. 

That was part of the appeal, wasn’t it?

Lust and need sizzled up and down your spine when his gaze went over you from head to toe, your instinct warning you not to play with fire. You didn’t care. You wanted to feel the heat. Hell, you wanted him to burn you by the time he was done with you.

“I need a drink,” you told your friends. 

You walked through the crowd with purpose, not letting any guys brush against you since you weren’t interested in them. Your heart raced, but you did your best to stand with confidence once you reached the bar. From the quick glance at the man, he was more handsome up close and no less intimidating. His muscles were two seconds from bursting through his clothes and his dark hair framed his face perfectly. The trimmed beard added to his allure.

Oh, the burn was going to feel good.

You held your breath when moved beside you, so close you felt the heat from his body. The heady scent of his cologne made you dizzy once you remembered to breathe. Heat rose in your cheeks when he stared, your throat so dry you weren’t sure if you’d be able to speak.

“Bucky,” he said, his deep voice so low you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, confused.

“Bucky,” he repeated, a hint of warmth in the blue of his eyes. “That’s my name.”

A name you wanted to scream before the night was over.

“Oh,” you breathed, giving him your name in return. “Nice to meet you.”

He licked his lips and said your name, making it sound like something sinful. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Were you watching me out there?” you asked, already knowing the answer. 

He tilted his head. “Did you like me watching you?”

Bucky already knew the answer, too.

You inhaled when his finger dipped under the strap of your dress, lightly tracing your skin. It was a bold move. If it were anyone else, you would’ve smacked their hand away. But his touch lit a fire within you that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I think you want me to do more than just watch.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Come with me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. The request sounded dirty and intimate, which was likely his intention. “Come with you… where?”

“On my cock.” He took your hand with a firm yet gentle grip, your thighs pressing together as his words registered. “Outside.”

You followed without protest as he pulled you along, your breaths shallow. You should’ve yanked your hand away or called for your friends once he reached the door. The man could be a killer for all you knew. Were you so desperate to get dicked down by a hot man that you threw all caution to the wind?

The door shut with a bang, the music from the club muffled as you realized you were in a dimly lit alley. It was the perfect backdrop for something seedy. “I don’t usually fuck strangers,” you blurted out when he faced you.

You didn’t judge anyone who did. Their bodies and choices were their own. But you made it a point not to hook up with random people. There had to be some sort of connection.

Which is exactly what you were feeling with him, so what was the problem?

Maybe the instant chemistry scared you more than you wanted to admit. 

“I gave you my name and you gave me yours, so we’re not strangers,” he said. 

You laughed because you couldn’t help yourself. His logic was… something. “We’re still strangers.”

“I’m clean,” he said, like that solved everything.

“Congrats. So am I. And I’m on the pill,” you retorted, shaking your head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here.”

His nostrils flared, making you step back as he stepped toward you. You jumped when your back hit the brick wall. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll let you go back inside,” he demanded, grasping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. His lips were so close that they grazed yours. “You can forget all about me.”

Your mouth parted. You believed him when he said he’d let you go back inside and you didn’t want to forget him, but he was still a stranger. He could be married or have a partner, at least. You didn’t even know his last name. 

But he excited you. Your panties were damp and your nipples were hard against your dress. Your pussy clenched around nothing, begging for some relief. Your body knew what it wanted. That was all you needed to know tonight.

His cold eyes searched yours, waiting for an answer. “You scared of me?” he whispered.

If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he sounded vulnerable. “No,” you whispered back. “I’m not scared of you.”

Maybe you should’ve been, but you weren’t.

His gaze softened, or maybe it was the dim light playing tricks on you. “Say you don’t want me,” he dared, his thumb brushing your lips. “Say it.”

“I can’t,” you whispered, your next breath shaky. “Because we both know I want you.”

“Atta girl.” Bucky smiled, the first time he smiled since you spotted him tonight. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. And if you say stop, I will.”

At least he cared about consent. 

“Sweetheart?” You raised an eyebrow. “Did you really just-”

He cut you off, pressing his lips against yours in a demanding kiss. You thought your legs would give out when he bit your bottom lip and swept his tongue inside, a sigh escaping as he dominated your mouth. He didn’t release your chin, tilting your head to give him more access. Every thought faded from your mind, your body melting into his. 

Fuck, he was going to ruin you. 

The kiss ended far too soon, but heat flowed from your core when he nipped along your throat. His teeth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and he bit down hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue soothed the sting, fueling the fire between you. 

How did he know what you needed?

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your legs turning to jelly as his hands roamed your body. 

It was crazy. Insane. Maybe you were daydreaming and still out on the dance floor, letting yourself get lost in some fantasy. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised, cupping your breast and brushing your nipple through your dress. “Wanted to fuck you as soon as I saw you. Wanted to own you.”

He brought his mouth back to yours, devouring you as he slid a calloused hand between your legs. He ran it up your trembling thigh until he brushed the fabric that barely covered your pussy, robbing you of your breath. Your hips jerked when he rubbed lightly, making you grow wetter by the second. 

He pulled back enough to let you breathe and made a rumbling sound of approval. “You’re drenched,” he rasped, shoving your panties aside and brushing a finger through your folds. “Desperate for me.”

You could only nod and moan when he slipped his finger inside you. He groaned at the feel, the sound vibrating through your bones. Pleasure seared down your spine when he added another finger. When was the last time you wanted someone so badly?

Your mouth went dry when he pressed close, feeling his hard cock through his jeans. He was huge. You hoped he split you in half. You wanted to feel him for days. 

He stared at you with a predatory hunger as he removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth, growling as he licked them clean. “Such a sweet cunt.”

You shivered, wishing he could have a proper taste. 

“And it’s gonna feel even sweeter around my cock.”

Without warning, he spun you around and pressed your front against the cold wall. He hiked your dress up, your underwear still pushed aside, and you barely registered the sound of him unzipping his pants over the rush of blood in your ears. Your breathing picked up when he spread your legs wider. 

If anyone walked out and saw you like this…

“Need to be inside you. So beg for it,” he said, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You tried to squirm when he didn’t push in more, but he held you still. “Beg for me to fuck you.”

You whimpered. Wasn’t your pussy trying to suck him in enough begging? Of course not. He had to hear you say it. 

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded. “Please.”

God, you were really doing this. 

You were about to let some guy you just met fuck you in a alley. 

He filled you in one ruthless thrust, you cry echoing in the night air. It was like you felt every ridge and vein of his cock. You had never felt stretched, so full. It was reckless to not use protection, but the feel of his bare cock deep in your pussy heightened your pleasure. 

And at least he was kind enough to give you a moment to adjust to his size. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, letting you feel every inch of him before he nearly pulled out completely and buried himself deep again. “Practically strangling my cock.”

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, your hands scrambling along the wall for purchase. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted, setting a steady pace. “Say my name and take my cock like a good girl.”

Oh, you did. 

He took you hard and deep, the fog of arousal growing thicker with each movement. Every brutal thrust drove you up on your toes and you could only hold on for the ride. He gripped your hips with a force that bordered on pain, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. No one had ever fucked you like this. 

It was dirty and perfect. 

A hand moved to your throat, your pulse hammering. The possessive grip wasn’t enough to choke you, but it made you aware of his power and dominance. He was in control and you both knew it. 

The world around you stilled until all you knew was him. 

You reached back to grip his hair, making him groan. “Please,” you gasped when he thrust faster, his lips moving across your skin.

You almost stopped breathing as the coiling pressure built, your muscles tight and your nerves igniting. Your moans grew louder, mixing with his grunts in a euphoric melody. He was ripping you apart at the seams. 

“You need to come, don’t you?” he asked, his hand snaking around to rub your clit. The dual sensations sent shockwaves through your body and you didn’t know how much more you could take. “Do it, sweetheart. Come all over my cock.”

His name was a fractured prayer on your lips as you shattered, your back bowing. You convulsed and clamped around him like a vice, colors swimming in your vision. An arm moved around your waist to keep your legs from giving out and he kept driving into you, your head spinning as he drew out your orgasm and chased his own. 

When was the last time you came that hard?

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he gritted, his rhythm starting to falter. “Such a good. Fucking. Girl.”

He groaned your name against your neck when his cock throbbed, his release flooding you. It almost pulled another orgasm from you from how good it felt. If his rough fucking didn’t make you feel owned, him filling you up did. 

If he lied about being clean… Well, you took that risk, didn’t you?

He panted and slowly pulled out you, the loss making you whimper. You were still coming down from your high when he turned you around and you almost avoided his gaze. It wasn’t fair that he looked mostly composed while you probably looked wrecked. But there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. 

That had to be a good sign. 

But you swallowed, wondering where you went from there. 

Instead of walking off and leaving you there to collect yourself, he fixed your underwear, which were completely ruined thanks to the mixed release leaking out of you. He fixed your dress after with tender hands, smoothing it out as your breathing steadied. His eyes didn’t leave yours when he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the rough, passionate kiss from earlier. It made your heart flutter. 

Oh, no. 

Bucky fucked you against an alley wall. Just because you felt butterflies, it didn’t mean he felt anything. How could he when you gave it up so easily? But why did you have a feeling that he wasn’t the kind of guy who would slut-shame anyone?

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing your warm cheek. 

You leaned into his touch without thinking. “Yeah,” you replied, surprised that you could speak and that he asked. “You?”

“Yeah.” He fixed his hair and tucked himself away. “Ditch your friends.”

“What?” you asked, not sure that you heard him correctly.

He stared at you with a faint, almost amused, smile. “Ditch your friends because I’m taking you home and fucking you in my bed.” His tone implied that it wasn’t a suggestion and you didn’t want to protest. “The night’s still young, I didn’t get to see how beautiful you looked when you came on my cock, and I haven’t eaten your pussy yet.”

You laughed breathlessly to cover up the whimper that tried to bubble up. You had wanted to see his face, too. And, fuck, you wanted him to devour you like a starved man.

“So, more sex?” you asked, already feeling that spark of arousal light up again. 

The smirk he gave was enough to soak your panties again. “On as many surfaces as possible,” he said, taking your hand. “Oh, and food. Gotta make sure you’re comfortable and well fed.”

Your mouth fell open. He wanted to feed you? And was he implying that you’d stay the night? 

“You’re something else,” you breathed.

He chuckled, the sound making you smile, before he snuck in another gentle kiss. You felt that flutter again. “So are you.”

You followed him out of the alley, your body eager for more. You wondered what excuse you’d give your friends for taking off. Surely they’d understand if they got a glimpse of Bucky.

It was reckless to go with him, but maybe it was just the beginning of something more.

Who wants to get dicked down by this man some more? Is it bad that part of me is also leaning soft!dark that he just decides he wants to keep you? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

the walk home is one that the two of you are familiar with. before life got busier, you used to walk this way almost every evening. suguru and you would share an earbud each and fight over who got to queue up the next song, just to end up pausing the music to focus on whatever benign conversation would spark between you.

suguru would walk you home, make you laugh by pretending to go in for a goodbye kiss at the door, and then act horribly offended when you'd slam the door in his face instead. every single time. without fail.

"you know," you look up at him. "we've still never kissed."

geto scrunches his nose up, glancing down at you as you walk side-by-side. his lips are still shiny with the broth from his ramen, because he is apparently still a child and doesn't know how to wipe his mouth. not with food, not with you...

"sure we have," he says. "what about that time after graduating that we played blind spin-the-bottle? we kissed then."

"oh, that was satoru," you muse. "i just took his place when he took the blindfold off you. remember? you complimented me on my 'sweet lips'? all him, baby."

suguru stops, and you try not to laugh at the awful sound of his shoes scuffing the pavement. "you're fucking with me."

"i'm not!"

"you are always fucking with me," he laughs, taking slow steps towards you that quicken with each step you take away. "c'mere. i'll fucking spank you."

you're running, trying to stifle your laughs as to not lose your breath. "and i'm the pervert?!"

he chases you all the way home, though you half resent him for making you run the length of your journey. with those fucking legs of his he could have caught and carried you home a solid three seconds into the chase.

at the door to your apartment, the two of you catch your breath. suguru's chest heaves up and down, and you're very suddenly reminded of just how winded he got the other week when you had the length of his cock in your mouth.

"thanks for lunch," he grins, though he was the one to beg you to come and eat with him. and the one to pay. "i forgive you for lying to me about your virginity."

you roll your eyes. "i think we traumatised that old woman."

"this one?" suguru reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, handing it to you. "i think she wants a piece of what you got."

you unfold the paper to reveal a phone number written in slanted lettering. well goddamn. the old lady was giving you the look because she wanted suguru.

"you should call her," you say, pushing the number back into his chest.

"ah, so you're saying i've still got it?"

you snort. "you never had it."

"hey. i could totally rock her world."

"you could rock her hip out of joint, maybe."

that earns you a laugh, which makes you laugh as well. the two of you say your goodbyes and, as per tradition, suguru puckers his lips up and makes a show of going in for a goodbye kiss.

though this time, for some reason you can't even pretend is lost on you, you don't slam the door in his face. you lean up, cup your best friends face in your hands, and meet his lips half way.

it's a perfect first kiss, really. his lips feel different against your own than they do between your legs. this time he's tentative in comparison to messy and hungry and yes, he still tastes like broth.

for a man always so ready to receive, he takes a long while to kiss you back. it worries you, even, makes you wonder if all of this building tension between the two of you had truly been just for fun.

but then he catches up, and lifts his hands to your waists and leans in so far that your arching back to avoid getting consumed whole by the starved man. you've never been kissed like this, like you're a smooth liquor with a dangerously high risk of addiction. something that doesn't taste too strong. that you could drink and drink and not realise the world is spinning around you.

you love it.

"i want it," suguru says as he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. it's nice seeing all of his face like this, with his long hair pulled back.

"want what?" you scrunch up your nose. "my virginity?"

"no," suguru shakes his head, nearly clipping your nose with his, and then stops. "well, yes. holy shit, yes, more than anything—but no. this, idiot. i want this."

you look down to his hand which is gesturing wildly between the two of you. "...yeah? really?"

"really," he nods. "i think i hate being your friend."

"wow, i'm hurt."

"i'm serious."

you blink. "you're serious."

"dead serious," he looks between your eyes. "do you want it? ...me?"

you do. god, you do. you think you've known it since before all of this began, but to hear geto say it out loud, without using it as a joke or game or stupid line he'll tease you for falling for later makes your chest tight and sore.

you laugh, because thats your most natural state with him, and nod. "a little, yeah."

"a little," he parrots, smiling. you're only graced with the sight for a second though, as he's quick to lean in and press his lips to yours again.

this kiss is deeper. impossibly hungrier than the last, and you think if they only get better with time that you're going to grow old very fucking spoilt. he steps you backwards into your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him, not parting his lips from yours for even a second.

it feels a little cliche, sure, being walked right to the bedroom from the door. you're sure you've read this exact scenario a million times before in those eroticas that suguru teases you for, and part of you wonders if he's trying to emulate them for you, but you couldn't care less. few things in your life have ever felt as right as being with geto.

he's already hard, you can feel his tenting pants pressing against your lower stomach as he kisses you. it's only emphasised when he pushes you gently back onto your bed, and has you wrap your legs around his clothed waist. the weight and heat of his restricted erection against your pussy is enough to make you gasp.

you've held his cock before, tasted it, stroked it to completion and licked the cum clean from its length. but feeling it like this, pressing against your clit... you might go crazy. you understand the 'overwhelming need' you've read so much about now.

he's leaning over your body to kiss you again, licking over your bottom lip before pressing his tongue into your mouth. you can't tell if you're grinding against him, or he's grinding against you, but a newfound friction down south has you gasping into his awaiting mouth.

such ministrations go on for what you feel could both be an hour or ten seconds. your mind is so blurry and hot with need that you're lost to all concepts of time and space. he's got both of your tops off, and is working on his pants when he seems to reach a moment of clarity and suddenly stalls.

you glance down to where his thumb breaks the seal of his waistband. god you love that fucking happy trail of his, snaking down to his cock that is just aching to spring free and fill you...

"look at me."

you glance up at his firm tone, and meet his intense gaze. his pretty eyes are staring into yours, more serious than you've ever seen them. "i want this," he starts, half-breathless. "but i only want this on your terms. tell me what you want, pretty. i can use my mouth, or my fingers, or we can stay like this. we could stop, even."

you start to shake your head, but he takes your chin between two fingers and has you hold his gaze as he continues.

"i'd feel privileged to wait for this. and i will, for as long as you need me to. i have no expectations of you. never have. i tease you, i know, but i never fucking thought i'd actually get to have you like this. so, if you aren't ready, neither am i."

suguru makes it hard for you to tease him sometimes. your idiot of a best-friend-turned-lover, for all the stupid shit he says, has these beautiful moments of sincerity that oftentimes make you want to cry.

"i've been ready, i think," you say. "maybe not for just anyone, but if you'd asked at any point before this, i would have said yes. as long as its you."

"you're sure?" geto presses his forehead to yours. "say it out loud."

"i'm sure. i want this, and i want you. and i'll let you know if that changes and i want to stop."

"good," he presses a kiss to each corner of your mouth. "good."

in his back pocket is his wallet. and in his wallet, alongside the old lady's number and a polaroid of the two of you is one condom. he fishes his cock out of his pants and rolls the latex on to the achingly hard length.

you half expect him to fuck you there and then, but instead he dips a hand down to toy with you a little. he rubs circles over your clit until you're lax and writhing, and then stretches you open on two, and then three, of his fingers.

once you're practically begging for it, suguru presses a kiss to your nose, and then leans down to whisper in your ear. "when i first tasted you, i said you wouldn't be able to take me."

you feel his tip running up and down your folds, from clit to entrance, and then back up. "i know," you sigh, locking your ankles behind his back and closing your eyes.

"you wanna prove me wrong?" he nuzzles the side of your face. "we can make a bet. if you take all of me, i'll buy dinner."

"you'll buy dinner anyways," you smile, kissing his shoulder. the gesture makes him shudder.

"mm, true. if you lose, then, you have to let me read some more of that nasty porn on your phone."

you grimace. no matter how soft he is with you, suguru will never stop teasing you. "deal."

"deal."

a kiss to your neck, and then your jaw, and finally your lips, pulls a smile to your face. suguru holds himself over you, revels in the closeness of your bodies, and has you look him in the eyes as he pushes just his tip into you.

and there goes his ability to tease the intactness of your virginity. you gasp as you feel yourself stretching to accomodate him, hardly an inch deep inside of you and you're starting to thin the world might end if he ever pulls out.

he stills just for a moment, watching as your eyes flutter shut and you catch your lip between your teeth. "okay?"

you nod, and he pushes in further. bit by bit, stopping to kiss your face, or rub distracting circles on your clit, until the subtle pain that comes with being so full starts to morph into pleasure and suguru is once again whispering in your ear.

"you win."

your eyes open, and the already fucked-out expression on his face makes you smile. glancing down, you find the two of you connected completely, and you're suddenly very aware of the capacity to which he's inside of you.

you feel split open. in a good way. if that's possible.

"you're big," you say.

"yeah?"

"yeah," you nod. "don't let it get to your head."

"too late," suguru smiles. "can i move?"

you close your eyes once again, savour the feeling of him fully inside of you for a moment longer, and then nod.

the bliss that follows is full-body. he's slow to start, dragging his cock out of you in a slow burn, just to thrust forwards and fill you to the brim all over again. it has you moaning incoherently, which only seems to spur suguru on into a more consistent pace.

you like sex with him, you conclude, and you're pretty sure he likes it with you, too. if the sweet sounds from his lips aren't indicative enough of his enjoyment, the way his hips are already stuttering towards a release certainly is.

"close?" you ask.

"no," suguru lies, moving his hands down to hold your hips. he increases his pace a little, pushing you further up onto the bed with each now-harsh thrust.

god, you've never been so overwhelmed. the pleasure that suguru can pull from you is unmatched. you couldn't emulate this with fingers or toys or even his mouth—this is a unique pleasure that far surpasses your stomach and feeds instead into every conceivable inch of your body.

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks that you want to run your tongue over again and again. he's looking down at you, mapping your face out with his eyes like you're some sort of painting to be dissected and ogled at for years to come.

he fucks you mean, and dotes on you at the same time. "so pretty," he calls you. "so fucking tight, too. gonna be the only one to ever feel you like this, okay?"

"that's presumptuous," you start to joke, but are quickly cut off by an intense and near-blinding pleasure when suguru starts hitting a very specific spot inside of you. yeah, you're done for.

"you like that?" he groans, only speeding up and adding two fingers n your clit to bolster your pleasure. "yeah you do, shit, you're tightening up on me so much. gonna come with me?"

you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, much like it did in your hand after you'd taken him in your throat. you wonder how it'd feel without the latex barrier, to have his release flood your insides... claimed in that primal way you might think cringeworthy once this is all over.

you're close nonetheless, rolling your hips up to meet each thrust of suguru's cock inside of you. he's perfect, and you find yourself saying just that as your orgasms build and build and crash over the two of you like treacherous waves on the beach.

who knew dick made you so poetic.

he meets your orgasm with a kiss, cumming into the condom as you squeeze him tighter than ever. tongue pushing into your mouth, he fills you in more ways than one, not stopping his movements until you're shaking and whining into his mouth for some mercy.

his forehead rests against yours as you both come back down to earth. your breathing syncs, deep laboured breaths shared between you—body and breath and pleasure. you've always shared everything with each other, huh?

"good?" is all suguru can say. you can only answer with a nod—good is an understatement. you might have a new vice.

he starts to pull out, nice and slow, and you're already grieving the sensation of feeling so full when he stills, his tip still inside of you.

you look down to meet his gaze, this stupid knowing smirk on his face. "there it is," he says.

"what?"

"that smile you get," he smiles. "now what was that fucking word you used? oh, that's right."

"huh? what are you doing, idiot?" you furrow your brows as he pushes your thighs back into what might be the start of a mating press.

"in your own words? i'm going to ravish you, baby."

At this, the pink-haired man is letting out a loooow whistle- one of his pink brows raise as he looks between his opponent and you in the stands. 

Oh—how fuckin’ pretty you were. 

Just engulfed in an ice-blue jersey with the Tokyo Free Blades logo on the front - they sold those things for far more than they were worth, but Sukuna’s sure this must’ve been one of Gojo’s own. It was big enough and looked softer than the merchandise- or maybe that was just the slight blur around your figure…were the lights too harsh or was Sukuna hallucinating? It’s slipping down to your wrists, where you were holding a big banner that had your boyfriend’s name on it—‘Go Go Gojo The Strongest Satoru!’ Eyes sparkling. Lips slightly swollen from your nervous gnawing. Jumpin’ up and down excitedly as you catch his eye. How cute…

And while Sukuna’s wondering just how damn lucky the bastard opposite him was- Gojo can’t help but muse about just how awfully the other’s hair color clashed with his uniform.

Blood-red just like his eyes.

Locked and narrowed on you—

Gojo’s knocking his hockey stick against Sukuna’s, making the other man finally tear his eyes away. He gruffs out finally, “Never said she wasn’t.”

He pushes against his opponent’s wooden blade harder, “Then why’ve you got her name in your fucking mouth?”

“What- scared she’s gonna like it better in my mouth, heh?” Only for the other to push back with a leer.

“The mouth I punched back in the New York playoffs?” Gojo scoffs. They’d played against each other a few times before - it was impossible to avoid anyone in the big leagues. And each time had ended up with one or both in the infirmary and headlines for days. “Or the mouth that got himself suspended for two games a few months ago?”

He sweeps a look towards you in the stands, you were on your feet and looking over them in concern now. And listen—listen, Gojo was well-aware he’s lucky to have you - and proud of it. But having you be stared at by this son of a-

Sukuna leans in with a whisper, “The mouth tha’s gonna make your girl cum harder than she has in her entire life.”

“See, the difference between you and I…” And Gojo should be rageful- he was. Despite that strange throb in his shorts, he promises he was. But more than that he couldn’t stop from leaning in himself, letting his breath cloud out within the cold stadium. Against Sukuna’s ear shell, “-is that you can only dream…while I have my mouth on her every fucking night.”

Sukuna jerks away, “You little-”

“Oh, and the title as well.” Gojo smirks, that little dimple popping out by the edge of his lips. He can hear his numerous fan clubs scream even louder - Gojo Satoru had splashed onto the ice hockey world and shot straight to the top without looking back. 

They couldn’t get enough of the Prince of the Ice. 

His looks. His winks. His plays. “Perhaps you haven’t realized it yet, Ryomen Sukuna, but the only reason you were the greatest center in history was simply because…I wasn’t playing yet~”

The other man straightens silently. He was a few inches taller than Gojo, standing at an impressive 6’6 to Gojo’s 6’4. It was easy to realize why the media seemed to love him as a ‘bad boy’ - the troublesome one. Despite them being similar ages, he was the more experienced one. Buffer. Nastier. Tattooed and towering. 

They called him the King of the Rink for a reason. And the King looked down on them all—especially new captains with blue eyes and too many fan clubs. But that wasn’t saying he didn’t have many of his own - but at least he deserved his. “And what took ya so long to reach my level, Gojo Satoru?”

Gojo looks at Sukuna.

Gojo looks at you.

Then back at the other player- “Was too busy fucking my girl.”

And Sukuna’s ready to spit out something that wouldn’t be able to air on sports channels- before the referee skates over just then.

His deadpan voice cutting through the chaos, “Alright alright, break it up you two.” The older man - Masamichi Yaga, a legendary player in his own time, one of Gojo’s own junior coaches - looks between the two. “Keep it clean.”

Sukuna grumbles but ultimately glides a few inches backwards, hockey stick at the ready. Gojo follows with a smirk.

The commentator announces- “Two players who’ve made the headlines for their explosive rivalry- Ryomen Sukuna, the strongest center in history, and Gojo Satoru, the hotshot who stole that title from straight under his nose—hah! I can hear the fan clubs already. Though, that’s not to say our King of the Rink will be giving it up that easily. We’re in for a reeeeal treat tonight, ladies and gentlemen!”

“Okay- King, welcome back for another season.” Yaga then turns to the white-haired man. “Gojo, welcome to the NHL. Set.”

Gojo smiles, he hopes you’re watching this. Nothing matters if you’re not watching.

“Oh—our Prince of the Ice is smiling. Can it be that he’s confident in his win already?”

“Yeah- welcome, bastard.” Sukuna bites out, his stick blade digging into the designated area on the spot. “Enjoy yer first game here- and your last. By the end of it yer gonna be crying in your gal’s arms.”

“But Ryomen Sukuna is one of the most feared players in the league for a reason- just look at those muscles!”

One white brow raises, “You think I’d lose against you?” Eyes locked on Yaga once he presents the puck and readies himself.

“This is a moment in NHL history, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I know it.”

“Gojo and Sukuna-”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“-who to choose?!”

The Prince and the King.

Both prodigies.

The puck is dropped and it’s a mad dash—the clap of hockey sticks like a most satisfying lightning strike, and that circular slab of black is being swung past the neutral zone and into Gojo’s side.

“Sukuna gets the puck! Such a tight turn and attack straight to the net- the Tokyo Free Blades aren’t letting him get far—oh, what a steal.”

Gojo’s speeding past to let his first defense line sweep him back the puck- Sukuna’s racing past to take it back from him.

And the game commences. 

“This is going to be a tight game, ladies and gentleman”

In the first twenty minutes, it’s one point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

Considering the intensity of each team’s defense, you weren’t surprised that it was off to a fierce yet slow start. Gojo was holding back, testing out the playing field, and Sukuna was a lot more used to this stadium. This league. It was making the other captain sweat.

But with your cheers, you could see a faint smile on Gojo’s face as he started the second twenty minutes.

Your boyfriend was using his famous body fake technique to gain two more points-

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

Everyone was on their feet. Whether out of exhilaration or out of desperation for their team—and you were one of them. During the second break Gojo, of course, skidded down the side of the rink during his break to spend it blowing kisses at you through the plexiglass - before his coach arrived to drag him away.

And so caught up in your embarrassment at his display, you didn’t see the way he shot a smug look at Sukuna. The other man glowering from his own side of the bench.

He was never one to be left behind.

The final twenty minutes started off with the pink-haired tyrant using his signature aggressive playstyle to get nothing more than three more points back-to-back. Making the commentator cry out at the hat trick and the audience get onto their feet now.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

The score was quickly five to five - one of the greatest plays that the NHL had recently seen. And Sukuna was basking in it.

Basking.

He was skating down the sides of the stands at a rapid pace, showing off for the audience- showing off for you—Sukuna reaches where you were seated and bangs the shaft of his hockey stick against the plexiglass. THUD-THUD-THUD—! You startle while the fans around you jump up and cheer-

And he’s looking right down at you. Smirking through the cage of his helmet…

Until Gojo’s skating by him and rams Sukuna against the plexiglass with his own body. The two of their muscular figures colliding. Sukuna’s turning to Gojo with a snarl. Gojo’s raising his fist up high and aimed.

It’s a fight that Yaga has to break up.

The timer rings.

.

.

.

“—can’t believe I had to take the win with a fucking shootout.” Gojo speaks in his aggravated tone, hissing once you press the ice-pack to the cut above his eyebrow.

This wouldn’t have been considered worse for wear had it been any other player, but this was the Prince of the Ice. You could already envision the headlines that would flood your timeline tomorrow. The hat trick. The smile. The fist fight. 

“But you won, Toru.” Once the game had ended in a tie, there was no choice but to start an overtime period. A fight to the death, more like. It lasted less than five minutes and ended up with Gojo scoring first out of pure fury and adrenaline.

Though that in itself was a tight match, the game had finally ended: 6—5.

The Tokyo Free Blades had won. 

Barely. And if you asked Gojo Satoru, a bare win was worse than a fair loss.

Which is why you were cooped up with him in the team’s locker room even after the rest of the players had filtered out. The coaches knew you well enough by this point that you’d gained access easily, and you knew Gojo well enough to know that he was taking this match to heat. Especially as captain.

And here you were pressing an ice-pack to the numerous cuts and bruises he’d acquired during his tussle with Sukuna. “I thought you did really well, baby.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. But-”

“Oh, come on—”

“But having you with me during an NHL game and I it ends up like this-”

“Toru, you’re the hardest on yourself.” Huffing, you push back on his damp white bangs. “I loved your playing today and I know everyone else did, too.”

“Yes, but I made the team go into overtime-” Gojo cries out once more.

“Which happens fairly often!”

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, “Yes, but that damned Ryomen Sukuna- fuck! How I wish I could have used more backhands against him- or body checks- or cycling- or even just slammed my hockey stick into his ugly fucking-”

“Satoru.” You interrupt him, and your boyfriend looks up at you immediately.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Underneath the glowy white light of the locker room, you can’t help but think that Gojo looks so pretty like this. 

There was a reason that he was the hockey player with the most fanfiction written of him (you knew, you’d checked). He was still in his deeeep blue uniform from earlier, not having had the heart to take them off just yet. It was slightly loose as it should be, but did nothing to hide Gojo’s firm shoulders, his broad chest, his strong arms. Matching the shade of his teary eyes, slightly reddened around the edges in a way that made him look so delicate. He flutters his long lashes up at you and subconsciously pouts. You’re noticing just then that he had a fresh bruise on his lower lip, making them look even more plump. 

Gojo looked almost ethereal. 

Head slightly sweaty. Body slightly blushing. His fingers still jittery with adrenaline. 

Pouting. Pretty. 

Though it didn’t matter because to him—you would always be the most beautiful. 

Gojo whimpers at the slight sting of pain once you kiss his poor, injured lips. “Fuh-fuck, sweetheart…mm.” And it was almost impressive how you had a 6’4 mountain of muscle and power as nothing but putty in your hands.

He melts.

“My girl?”

“Mhm, Toru?” You’re cooing down at him- chuckling at the way he chases your lips once you slightly pull away. It doesn’t matter if it hurts…he just needed you.

“Can you make me feel better?”

“Of course, Toru.”

In mere moments you’re being slammed up against the locker with your cunt against the smooth metal and Gojo’s hot erection inside your cunt. His fat cockhead probin’ between your pussylips and pushing against every tiny nook and cranny.

Just so thiiiiick and flared wide open that it makes your mouth water. Your legs limp.

You fucking loved when Gojo got like this - just after one of his games when he’s so high on the adrenaline that his furious erection just won’t seem to go down.

And of course - of fucking course - the only possible solution to that would be to shove you against the nearest flat surface he can find. To press you down with his hefty weight so that you can’t squirm your hips away. To hold you against this still-sweaty body as he pummels his thick inches inside you. To fuck you so hard and needy that even the lockers echo out their sounds in sultry synchronization with you.

Slam-slam-slam— 

In and out, in and out, in and out—

“F—ngh, fuck.” He whispers, all hot and breathy against the back of your neck. It makes you slightly flinch at the sensation and Gojo’s pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your nape- then digging his teeth in to almost draaaag you back to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- m’feeling better already, sweetheart.”

“Thank goodness, because you’re making me feel all- oh.” Just then his mushroomy tip swabs against your g-spot and you can’t stop your moan. “Shit, right there, Toru.”

Gojo’s panted chuckle breezes down your spine, “You could say I really, mm, hit the goal- hm?”

“Sh-shut up.” 

Before you’re arching right at Gojo’s sculptured core - he still had his blue ice hockey jersey on, and so did you. One of his that he’d given you, in fact.

Though he was holding his jersey up with one hand so that your restless body could sliiiiide down each sensual curve and ridge of his abs. He knew how much you liked that.

He could feel just how much wetter you got whenever you felt Gojo’s white happy trail scrape up against your cunt. Your outer pussy was just rubbed raw on the slammin’ of his base and now there was this—he pulls the hemline of his jersey up to his mouth and bites down on it. Keeping it permanently held up as the captain ruts and ruts against you even harder now.

Deeeeeeep, plunging strokes that leave wet thwacks! against the back of your cunt.

The hockey player’s reddish globular tip pushes against your sweetest spots a few more times, and each time he’s counting- “That’s one.”

“Wh-what do you…”

Hitting that exact spot once more like a target- wetness seeps from your cunt and sticks your thighs together with a wet sheen. Shit, it was just too cute how he had that mind of yours muddled with only a few strokes. “Two- three—” Each one accompanied by the most vicious mwah against your throbbin’ bundles of nerves.

“Why are you- hck! counting, baby?” You sniffle out.

So damn gone on his thickened, veiny length that he’s forced to (well, more like glad to) hook two rugged palms underneath your thighs and lift you up. He’s supporting your body a proper inch off of the tiled floor, jerking you up even higher every time his aching hot cock was swabbin’ away into you- “Three. That’s a hat trick.”

You blink tearily over your shoulder, not quite sure you heard him right. “A…a what?”

“A hat trick.” All three of those words were followed by three more pushing probes against your g-spot- “And look at thaaaat- that’s another hat trick.” Cutely peckin’ away his swollen cockhead again. And again. And again and- “That’s four. Five. Six. Seven-”

“Pleeeeeease—”  The only thing you can do is grab onto the jutted handles of the lockers for dear life. Back arched. Toes curling.

Those bulbous wet tears welling up by the sides of your eyes are so damn cute that all he wants to do is kiss them away. “Not ‘please’, heh- what you mean to say is thank you.”

“Th-thank you.” Babbling out with no difficulty.

And that makes even Gojo raise one pale brow, his rosy lips curling at the edges. “Fucked dumb already? Mmm, you really liked today’s game, huh? So good f’me.” With a raspy titter he slides a hand down the middle of your spine and gives your right ass cheek a goooood spank. “Then can you say thank you very muuuuuch, Toru—?”

“Thank you very- hck! much-” Mouth moving before your mind, he’s planting down yet another smack before you can finish your sentence. “-Toru!”

The focused captain nearly doesn’t wait until bossing you around again. “Theeeeen, how about can you say that Gojo Satoru, my handsome- ngh, boyfriend, is the best ice hockey player in history?”

Your mind was almost dizzy at the length of that sentence- “Satoru- ngh, fuck.”

“Nuh-uhhhh—” His needy pitch echoes out, planting a few more mean thrashes against your g-spot to leave you even more stupid. Hat trick. So slick with your glazy syrup that it’s easy to follow that route to reach your delicate spots. “It’s- Gojo Satoru, my handsome boyfriend, is the best-”

“Begging yer girl to say that shit because you know it’s not true?”

A voice that decidedly didn’t sound like either yours or your boyfriend’s.

It was too gruff, too mocking, too…predatory. Something in it that makes goosebumps erupt down the line of your spine and for you to snap your head immediately to the side- despite no one being in the locker room, you two had still chosen a slightly private corner of the mazing lockers. Somewhere no one would be able to see.

You just didn’t think that Ryomen Sukuna of all people would come looking for you.

He stood inside the sex-saturated room with his arms crossed, beefy biceps bulging through his red jersey. Head cocked. Expression smug. Tall enough that the tips of his pink hair touched the ceiling. Like Gojo, Sukuna hadn’t changed much out of his uniform- he was still sporting his red jersey and a slightly bloody nose to match.

Something you didn’t realize could be so attractive-

Dried around where his lips curled up into a smirk so smug. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said that you didn’t find Ryomen Sukuna attractive - anyone with able vision or ears would be able to. He was strong. He was cocky. He was the type to glide through the rink as if he owned it- and just today he’d stopped and signalled at you—

And then there was the matter of his tattoos.

Thick inky rings at his wrists and his biceps, some more peeking out of his uniform. They always did give him an aura of authority. 

Even now, he stood inside the traitorous room as though he owned it. 

Stealthily, he’d opened up the door and crept inside the rival team’s locker room- or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d been deafeningly loud and you two just hadn’t noticed.

Being so caught up-

Sukuna’s crimson gaze glides down the curvature of your spine and to where your pussy was just drippin’ all over the other man. Creating a slimy sheen down Gojo’s pistoning cock and all the way down his muscular thighs.

It smacks n’ splatters all over the globes of your ass because the white-haired man just wouldn’t stop-

“Why the fuck are you here? Spying on us because you can’t get any?” Gojo scoffs, not even slowing down- in fact, by the way you could feel his thick throbbing tip at your throat, you think he might just be speeding up—

“Fuuuuuck, Toru-”

“Shhhh shh shh, sweetheart.” One of Gojo’s hands lifts from your thighs and ends up clapping over your mouth. He feels your gaped maw splosh out in saliva and presses against your face even harder- “Wouldn’t wanna let that mean ol’ pervert hear any of your pretty noises, right?”

“Who the fuck are ya calling old-” Sukuna growls.

“I-I…” And you’re torn between looking behind at your boyfriend, and sideways at the pink-haired intruder. Both just making your cunt throb even harder.

“Hear that?” Sukuna snickers out of his toned chest, “Heh- yer pretty girlfriend doesn’t even know where to look.”

“Probably wanting to look anywhere but at your ugly ass-”

“Probably looking for an escape.” The taller man looms even closer, casting a shadow over your sweaty connected bodies. Your cunt quivers and he eyes you greedily as though he knew- “Rutting into her like that? Honestly- if ya won a match then fuck her like it.”

Gojo opens his mouth, “I won’t take advice from a sore loser.”

“Then take advice from me as a man.” Before Sukuna’s diverting his gaze down to where you were looking up at him with widened eyes. He softens his tone just for you, he leans down to speak just to you—grinning. “Your pussy wants me bad, doesn’t she, mama?”

“Don’t you fucking talk to her-”

Gojo tightens his palm atop your loosened mouth- and the only thing that does is smear the wads of saliva leaking out of you. Because you’re clenching your gummy walls so hard that he can’t help but give an animalistic jolt-

“She jus’ squeezed that pussy tight, didn’t she?” The hockey captain asks, and he doesn’t need to wait for the answer - he could already see it in Gojo’s dazed eyes. His parted lips. His aching cock. Sukuna’s own aching erection that he reaches a hand down to palm over his shorts, “Mmm, I can already imagine- fuck…what a shame she’s wasted on a bastard like you.”

Any and all haziness leaves Gojo’s peripherals instantly as he whips them over at the other man. “Uh-huh? And you really think you’re any better?” He’s inadvertently jostling the two of you even closer to him. 

“Fucker, I know I’m better.” Sukuna steps closer.

And you’re not sure how but you find yourself practically sandwiched between them - Gojo’s pecs pushing up against you from behind, his lengthy shaft drilling into you like a madman. Sukuna’s against your front - pressing against you with his muscular core, and his erection throbbing obviously between his legs. You were pulled away from the locker that was your lifeline and could barely even breathe like this-

Gojo humps his roverin’ tip into you from behind and scowls, “I’d say prove it but my girl doesn’t deserve to be put through that.”

“You’d say prove it but you’re scared I’d steal your girl.” Sukuna was cornering you both now. The positions had somehow flipped so that Gojo was starting to have his back against the locker now, Sukuna looming in. You between them. Being compressed. Being fucked stupid still-

He hisses at the frigidness of the metal, “In your dreams-” 

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna seethes, “Watch me.”

And then Sukuna’s snaggin’ away your panties- yes, you still had your panties on. Light blue just like your boyfriend’s eyes because you knew how ruined he was for that - and as soon as Sukuna’s registering the fact, he’s grazing his nail against the cloth and riiiiiiipping it straight off of your wet cunt. 

Nose crinkling in amusement as he throws it to the side-

“Oi-” Gojo snaps from behind, “I bought those limited edition for her, y’know-”

“And next time I’ll buy her ones in red.”

“You wish you could afford that shit-”

And it’s the last thing you’re hearing before Sukuna’s pressing one of his thickened fingertips right between your pussylips. His roughened crown pries apart your folds—sluuuurp, and you were just so damn damp that it trickles down his tattooed wrist.

Glistening against the ring of ink on his skin- Sukuna’s openin’ you up like some cute birthday present. Spreading apart your thick pussylips. Probin’ just the knobbled edges of his digits against your entrance—maybe because of his rumored rough training, but Ryomen Sukuna’s hands were much more calloused than Gojo’s. Much thicker. Much meaner.

He takes a goooood look down at your hole and chuckles- “Pull out and pull her legs up.”

At that, Gojo falters his sloppy pace. “Wh-what?” You could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Did I fuckin’ stutter?” Rolling his crimson eyes, the man sighs. How troublesome. “I said- pull out and pull her legs up. Lemme get a taste of that pussy.”

“Over my dead body.”

Sukuna looks over at you with a smirk, “Cover your eyes, mama- there’s about to be a murder.”

The only thing you can do is let your eyes follow their argument like a tennis match- or a hockey match. Mouth babbling uncontrollably by this point, “Please-”

Your boyfriend’s cooing down at you immediately, “Yeeees, my sweetheart?”

“Yeeeeeees, my sweetheart~?” Sukuna mocks.

“Jealous?”

“Over my dead body.”

Jealousy, surely. And Gojo knows it, too- which is why he’s kissing your throat in front of the man. Lips spreading across your skin in such a sultry way. “Then what do you say, my girl? Wanna- mmm, let this ol’ pervert have a taste of you? After I’ve been inside you?”

“Wanna feel-” You’re gurgling out, “Wanna feel you both-”

“Hmm, fine.” Gojo answers, “But this pussy’s too nice.”

The white-haired man echoes out in a scorching breath, slight possessiveness seeping into the way he gives your gooey cervix a final ram before pulling out—no, wait. He’s not going to make it that easy on his rival.

Without a single warning, Gojo’s coating your dewy walls in a thick layer of his seed.

Gojo’s cumming.

Almost timed, almost perfectly on schedule, almost making the other man’s knees buckle as he sees the frothy white residue seeping out of your hole. There’s so much of it, and he can feel his balls emptying out even more with each pump. Fucking the clingy wads back in a few times- really messing up the slick surface of your channel with his cum. Cumming harder than he thinks he has in his entire life-

And you’re throwing your head back against his collarbone with a moan, “O-oh my god, Toru. It feels so good.”

“Hear that?” He chuckles at Sukuna, who couldn’t take his eyes off of the way Gojo’s slick shaft kept slippin’ in and out of your cunt. Glistening n’ glossy with so many layers.

He gulps.

Seeing the state the pink-haired captain was in, Gojo leans down and whispers something in your ear—

“O-on your knees, Kuna.” You’re repeating with a slight whimper, still slightly dizzy at the flood of ivory sap being poured inside you. And he didn’t tell you to add on that little nickname but ah well- it was worth it to see Ryomen Sukuna, King of the Rink, fall to his very knees before you.

To have Gojo Satoru pull his massive cock out of you with the loudest, most lecherous sluuuuurp!

You’re twitching at the sheer sensitivity- feeling the spray of cum gush out of you so intensely that you almost want to close your legs. But your boyfriend holds them wiiiiide open with two arms being hooked underneath your knees. 

He lifts you cleanly off of the ground- 

Your knees up to your tits. Your ass being smacked by his toned v-line.

A standing full nelson.

There’s a ribbony wire of cum that slips out of your hole and ends up slide-slide-sliding all over your pussy. Gojo’s cock still hot and red between your legs. He snickers down at the kneeling man, “Eat that.”

Sukuna doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He doesn’t care that your pussy’s all covered in him—he doesn’t care that you’re just so stimulated and gone after this round that all you need is his flattened tastebuds on you to shatter into your orgasm.

Sukuna’s mouth guffawing out darkly as he feels you clench ‘round  and ‘round his tongue- “Heh, would ya look at thaaaat?” Looking up at the two of you through his pink lashes, “Cummin’ on my tongue the moment I put it on her- this pussy reeeally likes me, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Gojo rolls his eyes.

“Sure thing, two-pump chump.”

And whatever Gojo’s saying next - you don’t hear. Because just then he’s movin’ apart your folds with his mouth and shovelling the entirety of his tongue inside.

Push after push.

Probe after probe,

Pointed chin slapping your cunt. His honed canines grazing your folds. Drilling into you like a man starved throughout your orgasm- he’s pressing both palms up against your thighs and pushing them even higher to get to your sweetened core. Smacking at the miry ribbons of white that were webbing up your insides.

And you don’t know whether it’s the sheer stretch or the intensity of your bliss, but you find yourself sobbing maddeningly. “Oh- oh my god.” Bucking. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t plan to.” He chuckles wetly, a line of cum dribbling down his mouth. The slashes of his tongue somehow precisely pinpointing each peak of your high. Elongating that feeling inside of you until it felt like your veins were bubbling up- “Because she’s my pussy now, huh?”

You gasp, “I-I mean-”

“Says who?” Gojo growls out from above.

Pressing his rock-hard erection back between your pussylips as if to remind you just who was holding you up. And the audacity of Ryomen Sukuna—he’s merely leaning down and spitting a glittery wad across your slit. 

It ends up dolloping straight down onto Gojo’s cock, as well.  

The white-haired man shivers-

“Says me.”

Before Sukuna’s back to pressing one hot kiss on top of your cunt, two hot kisses, three. They were all open-mouthed and lavish—slidin’ his tongue furiously in and out of your hole. In and out. In and out. “Fuckin’ her all this time and you couldn’t even make ‘er cum.”The vibrations of Sukuna’s deep baritone sends jolts of pleasure up your spine, “Fuckin’ her all this time and I bet you’ve never made her feel this good-”

Gojo reaches up to grab at your throat with one hand, still holding you up. “S’that true, sweetheart?”

“I-I like bo—fuck.”

But then both men are rendering you speechless - Sukuna with his tongue slappin’ into the tender ridges of your walls, Gojo craning his long fingers down to press on your clit. Anything so that neither of them would have to hear how you wanted them both.

Pick one but not both.

And they’re both trying to be that one- Gojo flicking your throbbing clit with ease, Sukuna shoved between your legs and lappin’ at your every treacly dewdrop with his tongue. 

It was so different from the way your boyfriend would eat you out - while Gojo was slow and sensual and loving—handing you anything and everything you could ever want with his tongue - Sukuna was the complete opposite. He was rough. He was teasing.

He was grippin’ onto both of your thighs and draaaagging you back once you attempted to bounce your hips away. With his nails digging into the sides of your flesh, he was eating you out until you couldn’t breathe-

Just sharp, rapid pumps inside your hole with his slicked tastebuds. Draggin’ his teeth on your folds. Slurping up the pearly white dewdrops of sap. And whenever you clenched like it just felt so good- he’d reel his sloppy tongue back and slap it over your clit instead. 

Never letting you feel too good, never growing tired of those cutely disappointed huffs n’ puffs you’d let out.

“Oi oi-” Sukuna’s tongue slides over Gojo’s fingers, both tugging and grinding on top of your clit. “Yer in my zone, Gojo Satoru.”

“You’re in my girl’s pussy, Ryomen Sukuna.” He’s biting back. Jaw dropping slightly open at the sheer pace at which Sukuna would thrust into your sopping wet hole- uncaring whether you were stretched out enough to take his sheer circumference because Sukuna was going to make you take it either way. 

“Haaaah? Thought we went over this shit already- this is my girl’s pussy from now on. My pussy.” 

“You call her that when I’m the one that’s cum inside her?”

“Yeah, but who made her cum?”

You hitch out, “You’re both so s-stupid-”

And the bickering is starting up one more - though unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) for you, the more they argue, the harder they’re going on your cunt. Rubbin’ their lips and fingers raw—“Got a problem with that?”

Gojo pipes up, “She never answered the-”

“Aht aht-” Sukuna interrupts the blue-eyed man, just too fun to watch him fume like this. And instead of paying him any attention, the King stares right down at your pussy. “Got a problem with that?”

He wasn’t talking to Gojo. He wasn’t even talking to you-

He was talking to your greedy pussy and waitin’ until she answered- opening his mouth to let his tongue spread your lips wide open and draaaaag down your velvety walls. 

Inevitably, you’re just so wet by this point that you can’t help but splash out in your juices- and it creates the filthiest squelching noise that Sukuna grins at. “See? She doesn’t mind.”

“You fucking-”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” Before the sultriest, most mind-numbing stretch opens up your pussy. And you snap your head down on carnal instinct to find that Sukuna was kneeled between your legs and fingering your pussy open. 

Ruthlessly with not one, not two, but three of his thick fingers- they were just so large that it took him a few half-thrusts to even fit the first few inches inside. Those roughened crowns of his mazing like spotlights searching for your every sweet spot, “Oh my god, it feels so good, Kuna-”

“Oh yeah? What a coincidence, yer- I mean my pussy’s saying the same thing, mama.” He then looks up at your boyfriend as if to say—your move.

Gojo Satoru rolls his eyes.

And he’s then pushing Sukuna’s head back to fully take over your clit for himself.

“Fuck off.”

Sukuna’s pink brows furrow and he grimaces. “Watch it, fucker. I have a Calvin Klein ambassadorship-”

“He talks big but he doesn’t know this pussy as well as I do, huh?” Though Gojo doesn’t listen to a word he says - doesn’t have to. He’s rolling the edge of his thumb along your clit in quick clockwise circles, and then stopping every then and now to repeat the motion anti-clockwise. “All that chit-chat, but really…she’s still my pussy, isn’t she?”

You hiccup, “I-I just don’t understand why she can’t be both-”

“No.”

“Nuh-uh.” Gojo affirms along with Sukuna. Breathy laughter echoing against your right ear in a way that almost felt crazed—“Guess I hafta remind it to you then, huh, my girl?”

“Ohhhh, he’s slurring, mama.” Sukuna titters.

“I’m realizing…” You breathe out.

Maybe the two of you had broken Gojo Satoru. 

Maybe the two of you had made Gojo Satoru snap-

In no time he’s jerking you further up in this position and absolutely shattering you with the movements of his nimble fingertips. Gojo always did have the prettiest hands you’ve ever seen, the prettiest palms, the prettiest digits that had countless edits dedicated to them on social media. 

And they were just so looooong and flexible- tuggin’ on your throbbing knob a few times before drawing patterns. Not just any patterns - but something swirling and swipin’ that makes your eyes roll all the way to the back of your skull.

He was curving the soft crown of his fingerpad against your clit- making a curving shape that makes you buck. 

“And what does that say?”

“Wh-what?” You gasp out stupidly to the man above you, his voice eerily calm.

“I said…” A few more twists n’ turns of his fingers on top of your clit that make you tremble with pleasure. “-what does that say, sweetheart?”

Hell, even Sukuna has to look up at the tone of Gojo’s voice. Something about it so…either way it’s making the pink-haired man flicker his gaze up n’ down your cunt and chuckle. “Not bad, you sick fuck. Not bad.”

And you’ve never been more confused- “I don’t know what you mean-”

“I said-” It’s only then that you’re feeling it, feeling the sensation of Gojo’s doughy fingertips pinch your swollen clit. Letting the sting seep into your nerves for just a bit before he’s resuming that same swipin’ motion. “-what does it say on this pussy?”

It’s only then that you’re realizing he’s spelling something out on your cunt.

“Man, she’s too fucked stupid on my tongue to realize-”

“In your dreams.”

“Shit, is it…” Your dazed pupils seem to be following in the same motion, being held to him with absolutely no mercy. And, somehow, you manage to be mapping out the swivelling of his fingers. “Is it an ‘S’—?”

“‘S’ for Sukuna.” The pink-haired captain titters out.

Before Gojo’s immediately spanking down on your pussy for no reason- “And this one? What about this one, my girl?”

“Shit, shit shit, shiiiit—” You could feel the oncoming tidal wave of your high - already so close with both men stimulating you so much that it almost hurt. “Is that one- hck!” If you weren’t mistaken, this current one was something…pointier than the last curving letter. “Is it an ‘A’?”

“Good girl.”

“Aw, shit-” Sukuna gruffs out between your pussylips, “I can’t let my pussy go that easily, can I?”

Increasing the incredible zaps of electricity that were running straight from your core, Sukuna had another swivellin’ fingertip of his pressing inside. Four—and they were just so big that you swear you could feel your mind start blanking out.

Pushing and pushing.

Shovelling his hot tips against the sweetest of your spots, it’s almost as if he was providin’ his fingers inside with the aim to bruise-

“And how many fingers s’that?” Sukuna leers up at both you and Gojo, a challenging smile upon his handsome face. “Count f’me, girlie.”

“Be original.” Gojo scoffs.

“Be better.”

“Not when you’ve got my cum on your face.”

Sukuna isn’t even sure what to say to that, merely stuffin’ his face into the froth of white and transparent juices pourin’ out of you.

“Fuh-four.” Almost feeling embarrassed by how much your words were tangling n’ mingling into one- but that’s if you were in any better state of mind. Right now it felt like you could barely even string a coherent thought together let alone a sentence. “Four fingers?”

Sukuna smiles against your tender folds, “Aaaaatta girl.” Pulling back and this time pushing in a different number of digits. “And how many now?”

“Three?” You cry out.

“We’re not done here, sweetheart.” Thrown by the way that Gojo was rasping into your ear, “Don’t let has-beens distract you- what letter?”

“It’s a ‘T’—?”

“What number, mama?”

“Two.”

“Letter?”

“Oh—” Feeling your legs start to twitch the way they did whenever you were close, “It’s ‘O’-”

“Number-”

You’re arching against them, “Four-”

“Letter-”

Bucking your body, “‘R’—”

“Lett-”

“Number-”

“Letter.”

“Fuck- number.”

“Fuck off- letter.”

“S’my pussy and I want to ask-”

“No, it’s my pussy and-”

But only you could cut through one of their infamous arguments with ease- “Satoru.” Bringing back both men’s attention onto you and you entirely. Your back arches against Gojo’s front until his smooth pectorals were providing you with cushioning for his rough fingers. “Y-your letters are spelling out- ngh, ‘Satoru’ on my pussy.” And then you’re staring down at the pink-haired man, “And Sukuna- you’ve now got four fingers inside me.”

He smirks, “Atta girl- correct.”

“You did well, sweetheart.”

And their sweet whispers are all you hear before you’re shattering into your second- third- perhaps even fourth orgasm of the night. Something that lasts so loooooong and blissful that it leaves your body utterly limp in Gojo’s arms.

Sukuna plops his fingers and mouth down on your cunt and fucks you through each incredible high, the mountains of it unfurling over you. His globular fingertips pressin’ into the tiniest crevices inside and marking himself out. Meanwhile Gojo was spelling his name again and again and agaaaain on top of your swollen pussy. 

Until it was a pattern that you think might have permanently embedded into your very veins with how frenzied your boyfriend was marking it out. Gojo crushes you to his toned front and whispers- “Cum f’me, my girl.” Scalding hot pants against your ear, “Yes- yes, cum f’me.”

He ruts his aching cock against your behind and you whine-

“Cum f’me so good.”

And Sukuna himself looks as though he wanted to say something as he dragged out the tremors across your body- but he was far too busy with his lips glued to your pussylips. Lappin’ up every ounce of slick and cum- “Mmm, just you wait, mama.”

They don’t stop until your massive wave of bliss has well and fully bated - until it’s nothing more than a few tingles that shoot sparks up your spine.

But then…they don’t stop even then.

Sukuna has his lips plastered to your clit by now, his fingers smeared down your walls—and he didn’t give a fuck what the other man had to say about it. Because Gojo himself had his arms around you tightly, hips just lightly pushing and pulling. Reeling and rutting.

Gojo’s plush cockhead was swervin’ between your legs and sliiiiiding up the slit of your pussy-

“Oi-” Sukuna’s grunting as the other man’s smooth velvety length grazes his lips, “Watch it. M’trying to eat out my girl’s pussy.”

“Then shut up and move.” Gojo gruffs out, teeth grit. He hits his hips against you with a smack! “Or don’t- I don’t fucking care.”

“That’s gay as hell.”

“Bi.”

“Bye to you, too.” Sukuna’s rolling his rouge eyes. He’s just about to open his mouth once more with something snarky, when he realizes that oh…Gojo was actually fucking serious.

He was actually attempting desperately to pummel his hips into you. He was actually holding you up with only one of his beefy arms for a brief moment, guiding his thickened tip to smooch up against your hole and puuuushing—

Cumming.

Pouring out hot loads of seed in a gloss.

“And who said you could fuck my girl’s pussy?” Immediately, he’s on his two feet and shrugging down his shorts- dampened with precum by now. Thoroughly. It’s then that you’re getting the first proper look at the Ryomen Sukuna’s cock.

Where Gojo was longer and prettier- Sukuna was just thiiiick and covered in so many veins that it made you already anticipate him being inside you. It was almost dizzying the sheer amount there was. Unruly pink happy trail. Heavily tightened balls. He was the most sensual tannish pink at the very top of his shaft, graduating down to a darker shade at his base. And his base—oh.

“You seriously got tattooed there?” Gojo’s the first to voice his thoughts out loud. One of his pale brows raising at the ring of inky black ‘round Sukuna’s hilt. “Sick fuck.”

You yourself gulp at the sight, “Did that hurt, Kuna?”

“Who cares if it-”

“Nah.” Sukuna replies, “No pain, no gain- right, mama?”

“I-I suppose…” Nodding was all that you could do - Gojo was furiously smearin’ apart your pussylips and trying to rut inside.

“And what exactly would my girl be gaining, huh?” The white-haired captain is the one to ask.

“Isn’t that obvious?” His tone certainly made it out to be, and the King was looming even closer with his throbbing erection. Just like Gojo, he looked so hard that it almost looked painful- almost looked as though he was begging n’ bursting to be inside your tight hole. Sukuna’s caging the two of you against the lockers, “She’s gaining both of us.”

Your eyes widen, “Both-”

“Inside.”

Gojo perks up, “At once.”

Both. Inside. At once. 

You weren’t walking out of this locker room.

At all.

Sukuna inches ever-so-slightly closer. One hand placed outright against the locker room- and you honestly have to stop yourself from ogling his bulging biceps. The other wrapped around his meaty hilt and pressin’ up against your hole- 

“If s’both at once then you better put them in at the- mm, same time.” Gojo mutters.

“Tch-” But Sukuna doesn’t deny him - and before you know it, he has his rugged hand wrapped around both their cocks. Gojo’s face wincing with a hiss at the slight sensation, he dribbles out in even more cum that gets smeaaaared down your wet crevice. “And that last round- we didn’t end up deciding whose pussy this was, huh?”

“No…” Gojo’s clenching his teeth, straining his head to look down at the heavenly sight below. Sukuna was teasin’ your flooded orifice, getting you used to the feeling of them both.

“Then how about…”

“-we let this pussy decide.”

“Mmm, heh-” Sukuna smirks, “-time for the overtime.”

And they might have been the fiercest of rivals on the ice—but here? Gojo and Sukuna were in perfect synchronization when they’re tuggin’ their cocks to your cunt and emptying out.

Fucking you at the same time.

“Eeeeeasy now, mama- s’gonna be a snug fit.” Sukuna’s forehead starts to bead with sweat, “You should know that they say my cock’s so big it’s as if they were- hah, two.”

“Two inches, maybe.”

“What were you saying, two-pump chump?”

It was such a tight fit.

“Ngh—fuck.” Sukuna spits out through his pearly white canines, nose crinkling at the sensation of your walls rubbing against him and him rubbing against Gojo. “You’ve got me, mama.”

“Fuh-fuuuuuck, sweetheart-” Meanwhile Gojo was damn near drooling- he was trembling, he was spurtin’ out his precum. He was holding onto you for what felt like dear life as he’s rutting- “It feels so good, what the fuck- what the fuuuck.”

“Yer welcome.” Sukuna chuckles, though you could see the burning blush formulating on his ears.

“Not you-”

He throbs, “Nah, tha’s definitely me.”

And you can’t help but cling onto both of them- “Toru—Kuna- you’re both inside- fuck.” One of your hands grabbing into Sukuna’s toned deltoids, while the other was scrambling to grab onto Gojo’s pure white hair. Honestly, you didn’t even need the balance at this point - they were the ones holding you up. Gojo’s strong arms holding you up in a full nelson, Sukuna’s ones latched onto either side of your hips to keep from running. “And you’re both just so big- I don’t know if it’ll even f-”

“Don’t say that it won’t fit, sweetheart.”

You’re turning back to Gojo, “Why- oh.”

Because your boyfriend’s voice sounded octaves higher than usual. It sounded breathier. It sounded more unsteady.

You don’t think you’ve heard him sound like this in your entire life.

And you’re just looking behind to check up on him and- fuck. Gojo Satoru was already pussydrunk - you could tell by the bleary look in his eyes. He was shivering. He was letting his pinkish lips fall further and further open every time he’s plunging in a solid few pumps-

“Oi oi-” Sukuna gnaws down on the insides of his cheek to keep from any strange noises like…whimpers from seeping into his tone. “-I thought we were fuckin’ her together?”

“Oh—huh?” Blue eyes looking between the two of you- did he seriously forget that? Was he seriously that gone? And you’re getting your answer the moment that your gluey walls clench—and Gojo’s breath hitches. Body moving before his mind as he ruts-

His eyes blow wide open as if he didn’t even realized what he just did.

He holds into you so tight that neat crescent marks embed into your skin. “Don’t say it won’t fit- please.” Breathy whispers plastering in scorching breezes against the side of your neck, “Don’t say it won’t fit because I need it to- have to.”

“Why’s that, Toru?”

“Yeah-” Sukuna raises his pinkish brows, “Why’s that, Toru?”

“B-because…” Gojo’s handsome cheeks give a slight blush, and he’s averting eye contact with both you and the cocky man that also had his cock stuffed inside you. “-how will make this pussy really mine if I can’t even hit her- ngh, womb?”

Your jaw drops- but Sukuna only lets out a light whistle. “So thaaaat is the master plan, huh?” The other captain himself giving you a solid, aaaaaching thrust- “Hasn’t yer coach ever taught you not to tell yer master plan to the rival team?”

“Why does it matter?” Poor, pussydrunk Gojo Satoru cocks his head. And you almost start to feel sympathy for the way that Sukuna was starting to take your boyfriend as a joke- “You won’t win anyways”

Nevermind.

It doesn’t take long for them to funnels their cocks upwards like fucking animals-

Claiming every single spot inside you. Slidin’ past one another for space- they feel the sensitive spots on their cock press against the other’s and that makes them buck. Molding and massaging and making you sob out on the feeling of two entire cylindrical intrusions keeping you wide open.

Gojo was impatient with his tempo, slashing the most delicate parts of your insides with his lengthy cock. And it certainly didn’t help that the globular end of his shaft was covered in slick and hooooned to reach your deepest depths. Even deeper.

Even deeper than Sukuna, who was spending more time training your entrance to gape out into a pretty lil’ oh—the same way your mouth was. “Just like that, mama.” And listen…he can’t help himself when he leans down and spits straight between your puffy lips. Sticking a thumb between your legs and pryin’ your folds apart. “Would ya look at that…she’s actually starting to take me- I dunno about that other motherfucker-”

“She’s taking me, too.” Gojo scoffs.

“-but I just know this pussy’s gonna love my cock.” Sukuna hums, his great chest rumbling with satisfaction. “She’s gonna have me stuffed all the way against her womb and then beg to be called mine.”

Making you shiver with the drag-drag of the calloused digits holding his base, “Sh-shit-”

Sukuna grins, jerking his hips up. Rapid and ravenous. “And she’s begging to take it all the way until that tattoo at my base-”

“In your dreaaaaams~” The other man’s answer comes before yours, and so does a thorough bang right near your g-spot occur. “She’s all mine. So if you w-want any then come and get it now, Sukuna—oh wait.” Leaning down theatrically, Gojo pretends as though he was hearing something emanating from your pussy. Something riveting. The squelches. “You can’t- because the only one she’s begging for is me.”

“Face-off.”

“Fuck off.”

“Can you two just shut up and fuck me—ngh.” Your tastebuds sizzle in the drenched layer of your own saliva, taking over your mouth in an instant once one of them finally bottoms out.

One of them.

And the problem was that you couldn’t register which one was which- before a second loud wallop tremors at the bottom of your pussy and the other man is bottoming out. Both of them. 

Mere split-seconds apart from each other. 

Their rotund tips curving against your cervix juuust right until your eyes roll back, hands latching onto their muscular bodies. Toes curling. Teary lashes fluttering. Gojo and Sukuna had you pressed tightly between them as they funnelled all their swollen, greeeeedy inches inside of you.

“So?”

It’s Sukuna who’s speaking- and you can just barely manage to extract yourself from the valley of his pecs. Sometime during their furious cadence, you’d wound up salivating between his toned chest. “S-so?”

Gojo hums, “So what’s the verdict, sweetheart?”

“Verdict?”

Sukuna tuts with one of his usual eye-rolls. “So- who’s first, mama? Who did that slutty pussy of yours want more?”

“O-oh…” Your mouth drops agape, “It was…”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Blinking back the tears in your eyes- “It was…”

“Take your time, my girl.”

“It was-” It’s then and there - mid-moan to one of Gojo’s impatient thrusts - that you decide to come clean to the two men. Sadly looking down—if you were in any clearer a state of mind then maybe you’d have noticed the way both their plummy tips throb even harder when you pout. “I don’t…know…”

“Well…” Gojo looks at Sukuna, and Sukuna looks back.

“Well.”

And there seems to be a silent conversation there that you weren’t privy to.

“We can always fuck her pussy and then ask her.”

“Y’know- sometimes I love the way you think.”

You’re not quite sure which one of the two suggested it, and which one of the two simply agreed - Gojo or Sukuna. Because they’d finally fit inside and now Gojo and Sukuna were pistoning their hips up into you like they were trying to make you forget the other.

Trying to make your mind nothing but a blur.

The pinkish lengths disappearing in and out of you nothing but a blur.

Both of their split-ended cockheads dig into the deepest grooves of your pussy, finding each of your favorite spots as if they were almost magnetized to them. It just felt so good to have them slide across your walls and slide across each other- those veiny lines on their cocks being pressed against the other’s shaft. Bulging out your tight channel like you never could have imagined before. Expectedly, knowing your body for a longer time, Gojo is the first to find your g-spot and preeeeess his flared tip against it.

He smirks down at Sukuna- who didn’t take more than a few more vicious strokes to find it himself. Though he can’t lie the blow it did to his ego— “What was that? Your cute lil’ womb feeling lonely, girlie?” Sukuna’s speaking down at your slurping cunt, “Awww don’t worry, I’ll help you-”

“Tch…” To which the other man was also concentrating a bit more on the route that his length was taking inside your channel. Gojo was hard and sloppy- the cap of dribblin’ pre on his shaft making it so that sometimes he’d barely even graze his tip against your channel until he’s doing it all over again. “Upset you can’t find the g-spot?”

“M’surprised a man like you could even find the clit.” Sukuna’s snarling back, purposefully dipping his thumb up to roll over that sweet nub.

“M’surprised a man like you was even given the chance to fuck her.” Gojo chuckles haughtily.

“Why were you surprised when a man like you was given the chance?”

“At least I won the match-”

“At least I won the girl—my girl.”

Gojo bristles, “You seriously think you won my girl over?”

“If the shoe fits-”

Gojo scoffs- and thankfully it’s the only thing he does. Thankfully he’s ignoring the vengeful temptation within him that’s telling him to just deck Ryomen Sukuna in the face one and for all.

Instead, he’s taking his anger out simply on your cunt. Both ice hockey captains swipin’ their rotund crowns inwards and attempting to fuck the decision out of you.

Faster.

Harder. 

Choose me. Choose me. Choose me.

“Sh-shit, how am I ever meant to choose—” You’re gasping through your cascade of tears, legs twitching- and you’re taking it as a sign to mean that your high was nearby. Though how you were expected to orgasm once more with the sheer amount of overstimulation that your body was wracking from, you had absolutely no idea.

And Gojo and Sukuna were fucking you like they didn’t even care about that in the first place.

They had their hands gripping onto your body- almost teamwork. “Don’t tell me that we’re gonna go this long without you even choosing, sweetheart…” Gojo purrs. He was the one holding you open, and Sukuna was the one taking advantage of that to twiddle n’ tug at your clit. 

“Yeah- don’t think yer getting out of this any time soon.” Sukuna agrees - agrees with Gojo Satoru for what was likely the first and last time ever in his entire life. You squirm your hips and he’s pinning you down to keep you from moving a single inch—“If ya don’t choose now then we’re gonna have another- hah, round.”

Eyes damn near bulging out of your skull, “A-another round?”

“Another round.” Gojo affirms. His head falling into the crook of your neck, “And another round- and another round- and another round and another round and another-”

“Aaaaaall the way until you finally choose, girlie.” Sukuna chuckles darkly—“Me or him.”

“Me or him.”

“I…I choose—” You start off- and you can feel the way that both Gojo and Sukuna lean in even closer to hear your ultimate decision. Who’s pussy was this? Whose girl were you? They’re slammin’ their hips into yours so hard that the skin of their pelvis grows bright red. “I choose-”

“Yes?” Gojo shoves his cockhead against a particularly sweet spot inside you.

“Mhm?” Sukuna was pressing down haaaard on your clit like the cutest button.

And it’s with great difficulty - and a few more rabid strokes - until you can speak. “I choose…that you both fuck me again.”

Such filthy, filthy words coming out of your pretty mouth- 

It’s enough to make both you and Gojo cum again- and for Sukuna to take one lingering look at you two before he himself starts to throb with his high. “Fuh-fucking hell.” Never stuttered in years since his first team tryouts. Never felt so overcome with his orgasm since he first discovered what the hell that was. 

They’re both pumping out looong luxurious stripes of their seed.

Your own high was nothing but a mere few trembles by this point—or so you think. That is, until those faint tingles burst into something so intense and white-hot that you see your vision blacken for a few seconds. A strange wetness seeping between your legs.

You wonder just what might have happened- until Sukuna’s low whistle sounds. “Squirting, huh?”

“All because of me-”

“Actually-”

You have to open your eyes and see for yourself- and it’s making you gape at the splashes of squirting sap that escape you. So much so that you start to wonder just where so much of it must’ve fit, so hard that it makes every single double thrust push you through your constant high. “Sh-shit, I did this…”

Again and again.

Only once the most of it has bated and left you unclenching can you focus on taking every single wad that they’re planting inside you. Emptying out their heavy balls. Using both globular cockheads to swipe the dewy droplets inwards. 

“Inside, motherfucker.” Sukuna spits out at the other man, guiding his ruby-red tip to swivel inside. 

“I already know, you fool.”

“Sh-shit, there’s so much of it.” The mess of it glazes your insides and creates a sort of second skin. Only temporary, however, because every time you were fucked- that sheen would splosh all over again. “I feel so…ngh.”

“Mmm, filled up to the brim?” Sukuna swipes his thick fingertip down your slit and collects the excess of ivory cum dribbling out of you.

Gojo helpfully supplies as well, “Properly stuffed full?”

Sukuna smirks, “Wet like a waterpark?”

“The sweetest treat with a creamy middle?” Gojo was ruttin’ his hips up furiously, properly fucking all three of you throughout your orgasm. Toes curling. Back arching. Even when his own high was starting to peter out now and he was only pumping you full—

“Like yer gonna explode?”

“Heh, like yer gonna end up pregnant-”

You’re throwing your head back with a mewl, clawing onto their muscular bodies- “Please-” Just fucked stupid until both their waves of bliss are fading out. Pouring pumps of wadded cum every time they underwent a peak of bliss, “F-fuck, please-”

“Please?” Sukuna raises one brow down at the way you sob, “Whaddaya mean ‘please’? I distinctly remember a certain indecisive pussy- and you, wanting to go another round n’ really decide? Right, Satoru?”

“Most certainly, Ryomen.” Your boyfriend - that traitor - is fucking agreeing with his rival for one.

When did that even happen—?

But you don’t have the time to think too deeply about it- because in almost no time, they’re pulling out. In the next blink you find your limp body laid flat across one of the large wooden benches in the locker room.

Gojo and Sukuna kneeled between your legs and looking absolutely famished. You could feel their cum pouring out of you triple-fold like this, a slow n’ slick ooze.

“Shit- look at the way she’s leaking.” Gojo nudges Sukuna.

Sukuna smirks back, “Mostly because of me, heh?”

“You fuck-”

“Ahem.” They’re snapping their eyes to you instantly, just so pretty when they kneeled before you like this—they should do it more often. Still twitching from the aftershocks of your high, “And you- ngh, want me here because…?”

“To eat that pretty pussy out, mama- duh.” Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Because no matter what, we belong to you.”

Gojo pipes up, “Just trying to figure out the logistics- I want to taste my girl first, you’ve already had your turn-”

“Eh? Fuck off, I’m eating her out first-”

“You already-”

“Why not both?” It’s become your mantra, of sorts. And you’re leaning back on your elbows against the bench, leads spreadin’ just a bit wider.

The two hockey look players between you and your pussy with widened eyes.

Before you’re reaching out and bringing their heads together to kiss your puckered cunt. Their lips meeting your pussylips. Their lips meeting each others—

A hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Gojo moans.

Sukuna can’t keep the blush off of his ears once his and Gojo’s tongue slide against each other and fight for purchase of your cream-covered cunt-

“Help me decide, boys.”

.

.

.

“Aaaaand we have Gojo Satoru and Ryomen Sukuna coming up to the center to take the opening face-off, ladies and gentlemen.” Different game. Same commentator. “This might just be the most anticipated moment in our play-offs: Tokyo Free Blades vs. Heian Hawks. Gojo Satoru vs. Ryomen Sukuna. The strongest center now vs. the strongest center in history—and which one of them will take the Stanley Cup?”

Gojo and Sukuna were skating up to the face-off circle, their hockey sticks at the ready and their eyes locked on one another.

It had only been a month or two of fooling around until yet another NHL play-off, this time in Shinjuku, had the two men facing each other. And they were ready for it- in fact, they almost seemed excited for it.

Your two boyfriends are lowering into position as the referee arrives to give them a concise speech, and you can’t help but jump up and down with your cheers. Still slightly sore from how hard they went on you. Still covered in marks down your neck and your thighs from both of them. You were in the fan section for the Heian Hawks, despite the Tokyo Free Blade jersey you wore - but at least the banner in your hand announced—Shinjuku Showdown! Go Go Toru and Kuna!

And yet, even then you knew that one of them would find something to whine n’ huff about until you gave them extra coddling. You hope you didn’t write one of their names bigger than the other…

It drew a few stares, predictably.

From fans around you that beamed or from the particularly fervent fan that couldn’t comprehend this betrayal. You just never would have expected that it would draw the attention of the game commentator itself-

“And what’s that? Isn’t that Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend?” To your acute horror and amusement, you’re suddenly seeing yourself splashed across the big screen. “Look here, ladies and gentlemen- Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend with her support for the Heian Hawks as well—raise that banner higher, my dear.”

With a cheer, you do as you’re told. You know this is about to take over your entire timeline very, very soon.

“Well well well, who could’ve imagined? Maybe the Prince of the Ice has some competition, eh?” Panning over the visuals to a smirking Sukuna and Gojo who was rolling his eyes- fondly, however. “Isn’t this the same lass that caused a fight between the two players during their last match together?”

Though you’re shaking your head with a laugh, Sukuna raises a thumbs up.

“Who’d have thought…maybe a friendship between two heated rivals really is possible after all?” The commentator muses out loud, and you’re dodging the phone cameras that are being shoved your way now. Being Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend always did come with a bit of publicity that you never did expect, but being the girlfriend of both of them…“Or maybe even…something more?”

Gojo and Sukuna look at each other.

They flip each other off.

“Or maybe not—” The man declares to roaring laughs, and Yaga is smoothly lifting his hand in a signal of dropping soon. “Let’s have a good game Gojo and Sukuna fans. Clean. Fair. For that Stanley cup. No one gets injured too badly and most important of all—rock me!”

The puck drops.

The game starts.

A/N. Shinjuku showdown? More like Shinjuku PLOUGH-down *throws tomatoes* Also fun fact: some of the commentary in here were taken from actual games!

“look, i’m not even the one who smokes the most!” you hiss, gripping the wheel like it personally insulted you. “you all could’ve just fucking gone yourselves—”

“but you’re soooo innocent,” shoko croons, voice smug and sleepy like she’s lounging on her balcony with a joint already lit, probably sipping wine at 3pm like her life’s not on the brink of academic collapse too. “he might give us a discount if you show a little titty.”

“she’s gonna get robbed,” gojo says, laughing like a full-volume jackass, and you hear the clink of a lighter flick, followed by his telltale wheeze as he coughs on the inhale.

“she’s not gonna get robbed,” geto says, way too calm about it. “toji likes her type.”

you nearly swerve into the wrong lane.

“EXCUSE me?”

“you know. the dumb ones.”

“i have a 3.8 GPA!”

“yeah, in marketing.”

your scream echoes through the cabin. the phone slides off the seat again, thunking against a crusty water bottle and your half-empty iced coffee, which sloshes violently but mercifully doesn’t spill. you snatch it up and jam it back in the cup holder, ignoring the way shoko’s cackling now like it’s her fucking birthday.

this was supposed to be a simple errand. pick up the stash. come back. get high and eat pizza. but nooo, shoko had to go and run out the day before the final group presentation, and now all of you are teetering on the edge of burnout, one red bull away from dying in a google doc. except unlike everyone else, you got elected tribute, because “he’s nicer to new girls” and “you’ve got tits he hasn’t seen yet” and apparently that’s enough to send you into the slums of shinjuku looking for some underground weed plug who sells out of the back of a gym.

“this is exploitation,” you mutter, rolling down the window just enough to spit your gum onto the pavement. the air is thick with piss and heat and fried oil from some sketch-ass stall down the block that smells like heaven and hepatitis.

“it’s a social exchange,” shoko corrects smugly. “you get weed, he gets a little eye candy. maybe a blowjob if you’re feeling generous.”

“if you don’t come back with an eighth at least,” gojo adds, “i’m not letting you hit this indica. and it’s the one that makes you see god.”

“i hope you fucking choke on it.”

“love you too, sweetheart.”

you hang up.

the gym is squat and grimy, wedged between an abandoned massage parlor and a curry shop that always smells like someone’s wet sock. its signage is cracked and sun-bleached, the windows blacked out with film so thick you can’t even see silhouettes inside. a cardboard sign hangs crookedly in the door: “ring bell or fuck off.” very classy. your stomach does a little drop. not fear exactly. just... nerves. or maybe guilt. or maybe you’re thinking too hard about what shoko said.

you’ve never met the guy in person before. always heard stories, though. apparently he’s some ex-something—mercenary? killer? the guy who lifted a vending machine once with his bare hands? shoko said he used to fight people for fun. and now he just sells weed and works out all day. like a retired apex predator gone slightly domestic. dangerous but chill, if you didn’t get on his bad side. which, hopefully, you won’t.

you shift your skirt down a bit—black pleated, technically a size too small but who’s counting—and reapply your lip gloss in the cracked rearview. a deep breath. okay. hot girl dealer time. slut it up just a little for capitalism. shoko did say he liked praise. maybe he just wants someone to call him strong and pretty.

you ring the bell.

no answer.

you ring it again, longer this time. the door clicks. opens with a low, mechanical creak, revealing nothing but the dark smell of rubber mats and sweat.

then—

“you’re not shoko.”

the voice is gravel and heat, low and slow like it’s dragging itself out of a pit. toji fushiguro appears from behind a weight rack like a fucking boss fight, shirtless, skin sheened with sweat like he’s just finished tearing someone in half. his hair’s a little damp, falling over his brow, eyes half-lidded but sharp as hell, like you just interrupted something sacred. like you’re prey and he’s thinking about licking the plate clean.

he stares at you, towel draped around his neck, sweatpants slung loose on those fucking thighs like they’re allergic to modesty. and you—god, you freeze. like a dumbass. because he’s hot. dangerously, stupidly hot. like he looks like he’d laugh if you fell on your knees and call you cute for trying. like you suddenly get why shoko always comes back smelling like smoke and latex and regret.

“uh,” you say, brilliantly. “hi.”

“you shoko’s friend?”

“yeah, i’m—she sent me to pick up. for the project.”

he cocks his head. a slow grin spreads across his face like molasses on heat. “she send you alone?”

you nod.

he steps forward. the floor creaks under him. you’re hit with the smell of him—salt, musk, a little weed, a lot of testosterone. the kind of scent that makes you dizzy even though your legs are still working.

“first time buyin’?”

“face to face, yeah. usually we just... i mean she... she handles it.”

he tilts his head again, wiping his neck with the towel. “you nervous, princess?”

your stomach lurches at the nickname. somewhere deep in your brain, something very stupid turns on.

“n-no.”

he laughs. low. deep. thick like molasses and twice as sticky. his eyes skim you slowly, like he’s taking stock, like he’s reading the little tag on the back of your neck and deciding how much you’re worth.

“you look nervous.”

you don’t answer.

“don’t worry. i don’t bite. unless you want me to.”

and holy shit. you haven’t even asked about the price yet.

he holds the door open for you with one veiny forearm braced against the top of the frame like he’s doing it on purpose, showing off the full stretch of thick muscle and that little dent in his bicep that makes you feel like your brain’s gone soft from heatstroke or maybe sheer sexual humiliation, because now you’re wondering how much that arm could wrap around your neck before you’d stop pretending to care about prices and just let him split your legs open like a sandwich bag. but you walk in anyway, pride first, head high, face blank even though your thighs are doing that little clenchy thing traitorously underneath your stupid micro-skirt. inside it smells like sweat and blunt wraps and a hint of citrus cleaner like someone tried to pretend this was a real establishment but gave up halfway through the mop bucket.

the gym is dim and muggy and cluttered with benches and racks and a single punching bag that looks like it’s been hit so hard it developed trauma, and toji doesn’t bother turning on more lights, just lets the dusky heat settle in your collarbones while he strolls ahead, sweatpants slung low and towel tossed now over one shoulder like he’s modeling for a very horny prisoner’s dream journal. you follow because what else are you gonna do, go back out there with no weed and your friends waiting to laugh at you? he leads you past a protein shake bar that’s got more liquor bottles than supplements, down a short hallway, then into a back room with a metal table and a low couch that looks like it’s been fucked on a dozen times without ever being cleaned properly.

he drops onto it like a lazy king, legs spread wide, one arm slung across the backrest while the other reaches under the couch and pulls out a small black box with worn corners and a heavy metal latch. he flips it open, reveals a collection of baggies like he’s about to hand you something sacred, and you almost gasp because holy shit, it’s the good shit, purples and crystals and sticky glisten that says you’re about to forget what deadlines and dignity are.

“alright, baby,” he says, slow, dragging the word out like it’s honey dripping from his mouth. “what you lookin’ for? party stuff? sleepy stuff? somethin’ that makes you forget your name and say thank you every time you breathe?”

you blink at him, then shake your head like that’s going to reset your IQ to normal.

“uh, whatever’s strongest. like, the one that makes gojo shut up.”

toji snorts. “ain’t nothin’ that strong.” he rifles through the box, pulls out a dense little nug in a vacuum seal, holds it up between thick fingers. “this one’s called coma slut. knock your ass flat and leave your pussy hummin’ for two hours minimum. shoko loves this shit.”

you reach for it. “cool. how much?”

he grins. doesn’t hand it over.

“five thou.”

you pause. blink again. “what?”

“five thousand. yen.” he says it slowly, like you’re dumb. like he knows you’re dumb. like he likes that you’re dumb. “you want the premium, princess, you pay premium.”

“shoko pays like thirty-five hundred!”

he grins wider, white teeth flashing like a predator. “yeah, but she sucks dick.”

your jaw drops. he shrugs, easy, casual, resting his big hand between his thighs like it belongs there, like your gaze naturally belongs there too.

“returning customers get a loyalty discount. you’re new. no loyalty. just big eyes and a cute voice.”

you fume. literally fume. arms crossed, foot tapping, chest puffed out like it’s gonna make a difference but it just makes his gaze slide over your tits with a slow burn.

“fuck this. i’m calling her.”

you yank out your phone and jab her contact, slap it on speaker while it rings because if you have to suffer, she’s gonna hear it in real time.

she picks up after two, voice already smug. “well? did he give you the discount?”

“he’s trying to charge me five fucking thousand for the coma slut.”

a snort. then a long, wheezy exhale.

gojo’s voice joins, cracked and high: “did you show him your tits yet?”

“gojo i will murder you in your sleep.”

“you have to negotiate,” shoko says, sounding like she’s laying down in a hammock sipping gin. “flirt a little. he gets off on praise. tell him he’s strong. tell him his arms look like sex toys. whatever. it’s not that hard.”

you glare at the phone. “i’m not sucking his dick.”

“you say that now,” gojo mutters, just loud enough.

“listen,” geto adds, voice warm and too fucking reasonable, “it’s really good weed. just—try the flirty dumb girl thing. you’re good at that.”

you hang up before you punch the speaker into the wall.

toji’s still lounging, baggie dangling from two fingers, eyes half-lidded, watching your temper rise like it’s cute. like you’re just some little kitten clawing at the edge of his bed.

“you done throwin’ your tantrum?” he asks, that grin stretching lazily. “’cause you’re not gettin’ shoko prices, princess. you ain’t earned ‘em. but…”

he leans forward now, elbows to knees, his voice dropping low like the room just dipped in temperature. his eyes drag across you again, slower this time, hungrier. he licks his bottom lip, tongue flashing, and your breath stutters like a car running on fumes.

“…i am feelin’ generous today. you say somethin’ nice, i might shave off a thousand.”

you cross your arms harder. glare.

“…like what?”

he leans back, smirking.

“tell me i’m the hottest guy you’ve ever seen.”

“fuck no.”

“tell me i look like i could ruin a bitch without even tryin’.”

“you probably could but i’m not saying that out loud.”

“you’re so cute when you pout.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you’re wet.”

“i’m—i am not—!”

“your legs say otherwise, baby.”

you screech and grab your phone again, but he just tosses the baggie into your lap and chuckles low like he’s been waiting all day to watch someone squirm like this.

“four thousand, then. just ‘cause you’re funny. next time you better come with somethin’ sweet for me.”

you don’t know if he means words or your mouth.

and you’re not sure which one you’d give first.

you dig through your purse like it owes you something, fingers scrabbling past lip gloss tubes and stray hair ties and old receipts and shoko’s dumb-ass pink lighter that always smells like coconut vape juice, all the while trying not to look like you're panicking even though you definitely are, because you know you don’t have four thousand in there and you know he knows it too—he’s watching you with that smug fucking smirk like he’s already counted every bill you’re about to hand over, lounging like a lion who just saw the antelope trip on her own shoelaces.

“okay, wait,” you mutter, slapping your wallet open on the edge of the couch, pulling out three crisp thousands, one crumpled five hundred, and a pathetic collection of coins that rattle into your palm like your pride hitting the pavement. “three-five-fifty... uh... fuck. that’s all i got. can you... i mean, can you do like, a discount? like a one-time thing? like a hot girl coupon?”

you look up at him, eyes big, lip slightly bitten, trying to make your face do that dumb coquette pout you saw on tiktok, the one where girls blink slow and look like they don’t know what two plus two is. you know, the kind of stupid that makes men with muscle brains go soft in the middle.

but toji just stares at you like he’s sizing up a sale on meat.

“you really come here short?” he says, slow, drawling it out like he’s chewing your embarrassment between his teeth. “you come to my spot, take my time, drool all over the place—don’t think i didn’t see you clench your thighs when i opened that box—and then have the fuckin’ nerve to not even bring enough?”

you stammer. “i didn’t know the price was—shoko said—”

“shoko sucks dick,” he cuts in flatly, pointing at you with a lazy flick of his fingers, like that’s the end of the discussion. “and she tips. what the fuck you bring me? attitude and half a wallet?”

you flush. “i didn’t mean to—”

he leans forward, forearms on his knees, big hands dangling between spread thighs, voice low and quiet now, like he’s letting you in on a secret even though it’s obvious he’s just having fun watching you squirm. “i could be an asshole, y’know. i could tell you to come back with the rest and shut the door in your face. but i’m nice. i’m generous. i like girls who ask real sweet. maybe... if you really want that discount... you could say thank you properly.”

you blink at him.

“like...?”

his grin spreads slow and wide and absolutely fucking evil.

“like on your knees.”

your stomach drops, heat flashing through you like someone cracked a match at your thighs. your fingers curl around the cash instinctively, knuckles white, heart thudding loud in your ears because you definitely just felt your pussy twitch at the suggestion and you hate yourself for it, hate that you’re even considering it, hate that shoko warned you and you laughed and now here you are with a little skirt and a hot dealer and the kind of decision that makes you either a slut or a broke bitch with no weed.

“you’re joking,” you breathe, weakly.

he tilts his head. “does it look like i’m fuckin’ joking?”

you look at him—at the casual way he’s spread out, the line of his abs, the sweat still clinging to his throat, the twitch of his jaw like he’s holding back a laugh—and no. no he is not joking. not even a little.

you fumble your words, your dignity, your self-worth, and mutter, “what if i just—like—venmo you the rest later?”

he snorts. “nah, sweetheart. this ain’t fucking paypal. you wanna take my premium stash? you gotta earn that shit. ‘less you wanna walk outta here empty-handed and tell your little friends you couldn’t seal the deal.”

your mouth opens, then closes. your legs feel hot and twitchy, your palms sweaty, your breath stuttering in your chest like your brain already left the building and left your pussy in charge of negotiations.

he leans back, stretches like he’s already been serviced, one hand brushing absently across his own thigh. “c’mon. you do that pretty pout again and say some nice things, i might even toss in a joint for free. call it a customer appreciation special.”

you want to scream. you want to leave. you want to burn this place down and tell shoko to go to hell and—

you want the weed.

bad. like, enough to consider what you’ve already half-decided.

and his smirk deepens when you stay standing there, shifting, eyes flicking to the couch, to his lap, to the way he spreads his knees just a little wider like he’s inviting you in.

like he knows.

/rephrase

and toji fushiguro fucking knows. especially now he has you on your knees, hands braced pathetically on his thick thighs while his cock fills your throat like it was always meant to be there, like your mouth is just a wet little sleeve designed for his pleasure and not for arguing about prices or complaining about group projects. the smirk on his face is goddamn carved, eyes half-lidded and dark with amusement, chin tilted down just enough to watch you gag around him, drool dripping from the corner of your lips to splatter messily on his abs and his sweatpants, which are bunched uselessly around his hips like he’d barely taken the time to shove them down before fisting your hair and feeding you his cock like it was a peace offering—or punishment, depending on how you wanted to spin it.

“fuck,” he growls, voice thick and mean and low, one big palm tangled in the back of your head like he’s holding a leash, tugging you down just a little further, just to hear the wet choke that tears from your throat when the head hits the back again. “knew you had a good fuckin’ mouth on you the second you started bitchin’ about the price. this what that attitude’s for, huh? suckin’ cock like a good little dropout?”

your nails dig into the muscle of his thighs without thinking, and he laughs, the sound wicked and lazy, dragging you off his cock just far enough for a sticky gasp of air to escape your lips before he’s thrusting right back in with zero patience, all thick base and heavy weight that makes your jaw ache and your brain buzz, your eyes already glassy from how deep he’s hitting and how casual he is about it, like this is what girls do in his gym, just get on their knees and prove they’re worth a discount by being useful holes.

“you droolin’, baby?” he coos, mock-sweet and hot breath fanning over your forehead as he leans in, free hand cradling your jaw so he can tilt your head and see the spit bubbles collecting on your chin, the streaks of mascara starting to blur under your eyes. “fuckin’ dumb little mouth can’t even keep it in, huh? look at this mess. you ever sucked dick this big before or is this your first real meal?”

you try to glare up at him but the second you move he pushes deeper, deeper, until your nose is smashed against his pelvis and you can smell the sweat slicking his skin and the musk of sex that clings to his body like it never leaves, and your throat spasms around him because holy shit, he’s so thick it’s like he’s plugging you at both ends, stuffing you full from the top like your whole face is nothing but a cock-sleeve now, your gag reflex long gone under the pressure of his filthy praise and the slow grind of his hips.

“yeah, that’s it,” he grunts, knuckles brushing your cheekbone as he strokes the spit-slick mess of your hair, "fuckin' knew you had it in you. you ain't mad about the price anymore, are you? bet you’re thinkin’ four thousand was too cheap now. nah, you're just happy to be useful. bet your college professors never taught you how to breathe through your nose while suckin' cock this good, huh? maybe you'd pass your finals if you practiced like this."

you try to pull back for air, just a second, but his grip tightens in your hair, holding you flush against him, nose buried in the coarse hair at his base while he rolls his hips slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch lodged deep, cutting off your breath until black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, thumb smearing the tears across your cheek like he’s painting you with your own ruin. “you wanted that discount, princess. you take what i give you. nreathe through your nose like a good girl, c’mon. there you go… fuck, feel that? that little flutter when you stop fightin’ it? that’s you lovin’ this shit.”

he finally lets you slide back an inch, just enough for a ragged gasp that tastes like salt and him, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the fat, flushed head of his cock. it glistens under the dim back-room light—angry red, slick with your throat, veins pulsing like they’re pissed you dared pull off even a little. you cough, chest heaving, mascara running in thick black rivers down your cheeks, and he just watches, lazy and pleased, stroking himself once, twice, slow and filthy right in front of your face.

“look at you,” he says, almost fond, almost cruel. “pretty little thing all fucked up over some dick. shoko’s gonna smell me on you the second you walk through the door. gonna know exactly how you paid for that eighth.

you whimper—actually whimper—and hate how needy it sounds, how your tongue darts out on instinct to lick at the precum beading at his slit. he groans low, head tipping back for a second before those sharp green eyes snap right back to you, pinning you in place.

“greedy already? thought you were the innocent one.” he taps the heavy weight of his cock against your cheek, once, twice, leaving wet streaks across your skin. “open up again, baby. we ain’t done till i paint that smart mouth white and you swallow every fuckin’ drop. then maybe—maybe—i’ll throw in an extra gram for bein’ such a perfect little slut.”

your knees ache against the grimy floor, skirt bunched uselessly around your hips, panties soaked through and clinging like a second skin, and you know you’re ruined. you know the second you walk out of here you’re gonna replay this on loop—his taste, his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something to break and keep. but right now you don’t care. right now you’re leaning forward on your own, mouth opening wide, tongue flat and eager, eyes locked on his like you’re begging. and toji’s grin is all teeth.

“that’s it,” he praises, guiding himself back between your lips with a slow, possessive thrust. “knew you’d figure out what that mouth’s really for. now take it deep and say thank you with that throat, princess. make me believe you earned every yen off.”

your throat burns, eyes watering, but the humiliation is a live wire straight to your clit, sparking every time he talks to you like you’re nothing but a warm, wet convenience. you moan around him—actually moan, like your mouth knows better than you do—and his fingers flex in your hair, his hips roll just enough to make your tongue flatten helplessly along the underside of his cock, veins pulsing against your taste buds while your brain flares with static and your thighs twitch, slick starting to pool between your legs from how hard he's holding you, how good he sounds, how thoroughly you've stopped thinking about literally anything except the weight of him on your tongue.

"that's it, baby, fuckin' look at me," he rasps, pulling you back just an inch, enough for your eyes to lift, mascara-stained and hazy, mouth stretched wide and glistening as you suck in a shaky breath, your lips still wrapped around his shaft like you're terrified to let go. "shit, you're cute like this. dumb little weed-thief all choked up on cock, tryin' so hard to be good. you want that discount, don't you? want me to say you earned it?"

you nod—barely, because he's still holding you there—and the motion makes your nose brush his skin again, makes your throat tighten around him until he groans deep in his chest and mutters, "fuck, you're tight everywhere, huh? bet that pussy's just as greedy as your mouth."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, tears slipping down your cheeks now but you're still sucking, still letting him use your mouth like it's a fleshlight with feelings, tongue flattening obediently when he fucks forward again and again, his pace slow and relentless, every movement pushing your limits, every growl of praise making your stomach twist with need and your pride evaporate like it was never there to begin with.

he leans back just enough to watch his cock disappear between your lips again, his smirk downright mean now. "keep goin', baby. i'll tell you when you're done."

"that's right, baby, just like that—fuckin' christ, look at you," toji groans, voice dragging through clenched teeth like it's carved from iron, one heavy palm flattening against the back of your head again just to feel the resistance melt out of you as you let your throat open wider, drool slipping in thick, shiny ropes down your chin and catching at the collar of your shirt, which is damp now, stained with spit and humiliation and the heat of his cock gliding again and again down your throat like it's been there before and knew the way, like you're already trained and just pretending to be new, and he fucking loves it. "shit, you were made for this, huh? whole face built for takin' cock. they teach you that in class, sweetheart? or you just born to be a little brainless throat toy?"

your hands are gripping his thighs now, useless little fingers clutching for purchase as he rocks his hips forward and uses your mouth with easy, slow-grinding thrusts, not fast—no, deliberate—like he's savoring the stretch of your lips, the way your spit strings when he pulls back just far enough for the head to pop free with a sticky schhluck, watching the way your mouth hangs open like you forgot what to do with it once it wasn't full. he lets the head slap against your tongue, lazy and wet, then taps it against your cheek with a chuckle.

"open wider," he mutters, low and rough, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the sheen of spit so it shines under the dim lights. “c’mon, princess, don't be shy now. you already got my dick halfway down your throat, what's a little more mess?”

you blink up at him, dazed, lips raw and puffy, eyes glassy and red-rimmed with tears you don't even remember crying, and you whisper some weak little "mmph" sound that's supposed to be a yes, and that's all the fucking permission he needs—he shoves back into your mouth with a grunt, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until your throat spasms again and your eyes roll up just a little from how full you are.

"goddamn," he mutters, hips grinding forward so you can feel every inch of him sink back into place, his cock pulsing hot and heavy inside you, "shoko never said your mouth was this good. probably jealous, huh? that's why she sent you instead—wanted you to find out just how much better you are when you're down on your fuckin' knees."

you make a broken little noise around his cock, a breathy sob or a moan or something in between, and it sends a shudder up his spine, his thigh twitching beneath your palm as he curses again and cups the back of your skull like he wants to mold your head to the shape of his cock permanently.

"fuckin' look at you," he murmurs, almost fond now, and it makes your stomach twist in the dumbest, sluttiest way, like praise is a drug you didn't know you were addicted to, "doin' such a good job for me. didn't even have to beg that much. just needed a little push, yeah? bet all that attitude melts away the second you got a cock between those lips."

you whimper again, thighs squeezing together instinctively, and he feels it—grins wider, meaner, because he knows now, knows exactly what kind of girl you are, what kind of desperate little whore shows up short and ends up with her face stuffed, all because she wanted a discount.

"that why you wore that little skirt, baby?" he croons, voice going syrup-slick and filthy, "came here hopin' i'd put you on your knees? thinkin' if you gave me those pretty eyes and a little pout, i'd let you off easy? nawww, you wanted this. don't lie. you need this. need to know you're good at something, even if it's just gettin' face-fucked 'til your brains leak out your ears."

your whole body flushes at that, heat crawling from your chest to your scalp, and your lips tighten around him on instinct, desperate to prove him right, because he is right, because you don't even care about the weed anymore, not really—you just want him to keep talking like that, keep telling you what a dumb little cocksleeve you are, keep dragging that rough praise out like it's gospel and you're the disciple swallowing every word.

"yeah, there youuu go," he murmurs, voice rough with hunger now, fingers threading deeper into your hair as he starts to fuck your mouth harder, shallower now, shorter strokes that make your whole head bob in time with the motion, each thrust punctuated by filthy, wet sounds that echo off the walls. "that's a good girl. shiiit, listen to you. all messy and noisy for me. can't even pretend you don't love it, huh? pussy probably fuckin' drippin', ain't it?"

you nod—barely—but he sees it, and he laughs, breathless and mean, like he's proud of you in the nastiest possible way.

"knew it," he growls, hips snapping just a little harder now, faster, not quite fucking your throat but enough to make your jaw strain and your breath stutter in broken gasps around him. "knew you were a nasty little bitch soon as you walked in here. whole time you were talkin' about prices, all i could think was how good your mouth would look wrapped around me. now look. takin' it so deep. makin' me proud, princess."

your brain short-circuits at that—proud—and your eyes flutter as your thighs twitch again, mouth going slack just enough for him to bottom out, your chin damp, your tongue numb, but your body humming like he's fucking something deeper than your throat.

he pulls back slow, lets you breathe, lets you gasp a little against his length while he strokes your cheek with his thumb, voice dropping low, dark, full of that same evil satisfaction he's had since the moment you knelt.

"don't tap out now, baby. we're just gettin' started."

your hands are shaky when you finally wrap one around the thick base of his cock, spit-slick and swollen, veins bulging under your fingers like he's just aching to blow but holding it back with the kind of practiced control that makes your pussy pulse with something stupid and submissive, something soft and hot that makes you feel like your IQ's dropping with every slow stroke you give him.

your chin's glistening, cheeks streaked with saliva and snot and whatever pathetic mess your body's producing just from sucking him so deep for so long, and you wipe your face with the back of your hand without letting go of him, still jerking him slow and lazy while you look up at him with eyes all glassy and fucked-out, lips bruised and shiny, voice wrecked.

"you're so full of yourself," you mutter, barely a whisper, still catching your breath, "you think every girl wants to suck your dick for a discount?"

he grins, eyes gleaming like you just proved him right all over again. "nah. just the smart ones. aren’t you the smart one, yeah?"

you roll your eyes, but your hand doesn't stop moving, thumb dragging over the leaking tip where precum's already dribbling out, your tongue flicking out to catch it without thinking, like you need the taste now, like you're past the point of pretending you don't want it.

"so what?" you say, voice low and shaky but trying to sound in control. "that all you got for me? a little weed and some praise? don't tell me that's your whole game."

he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, voice rough and rumbling like a fucking earthquake rolling through the floor. "i give you more than that, you might start followin' me home."

"try me."

that grin deepens, eyes narrowing as he watches you stroke him, sees the way your thighs are squeezed tight, like you're trying to keep your brain from leaking out through your panties. he grabs your wrist, firm but not cruel, and you look up as he leans down and says it in that voice that makes your stomach flip: "i got a special stash. not even shoko gets that shit. real heavy. makes you feel like your whole body's floatin'. makes your pussy clench just from breathin'. only break it out for girls who earn it."

you blink at him, hand frozen on his cock, mouth opening and closing like your brain's buffering.

"...and?"

he smirks. "you want it?"

"obviously."

his hand slides down your arm, slow, warm, fingers dragging across your shoulder, your collarbone, until his palm is cupping your jaw, tilting your head back until you're looking all the way up at him, throat stretched, lips parted, heart thudding stupid in your chest.

"then let me fuck you, y/n."

you freeze.

your name sounds dangerous coming out of his mouth, heavy and hot like he's branding you with it, like he knew it the whole time and was just waiting to drop it until you were soaked and dizzy and still kneeling on his gym floor with your hand around his cock and your pride in the garbage.

"what the fuck," you whisper, half to yourself.

"whaaat?" he shrugs, still smirking like he's got the cheat codes to your whole body. "ain't like you weren't already thinkin' about it. got that fuckin' look on your face the second i opened the door. tryin' to act all mad but your thighs rubbin' together every time i said your name. you were wet before you hit your knees."

you glare. "you're such a perv."

"yeah, but i'm right."

"fuck you."

"you want to."

you don't say anything. your fingers twitch around his cock and he sees it, watches the way your eyes flick to the stash box on the table behind him like you're weighing the pros and cons of being a whore for premium bud. he leans in closer, so close his breath hits your lips and you can smell the sweat on his neck, the musk of your own spit all over him.

"c'mon, princess. you already sucked me off. might as well let me bend you over and really earn that discount."

you scoff, but it's weak, almost a laugh. "you think i'm that easy?"

"nah," he says, low and hot, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down a little, "i think you're smart. you know a good deal when you see one. and you like how i talk to you. you like bein' called pretty when your mouth's full. like hearin' what a good little slut you are."

you shiver.

he grins. "see?"

you try to pull away, to roll your eyes again, to say something biting—but your voice fails and your body betrays you and all you do is sit back on your heels with his cock still wet in your hand, blinking up at him like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't the hottest thing that's ever happened to you.

he leans back, spreads his thighs, one hand stroking lazily at the base of his cock like he's waiting for you to decide.

"last chance," he says, voice a little breathless now, cock twitching under his fingers. "you say yes, you walk outta here with the best fuckin' weed in tokyo and a whole new attitude. say no... and you still owe me four thousand yen, baby."

you hesitate.

you look at the stash. you look at his cock. you look at his fucking face—all smug and sweaty and wicked, like he's already picturing you bent over that beat-up couch.

and you say—

"...you better not be lying about that stash."

he laughs, full and low and fucking delighted.

"oh, i'm not lyin', sweetheart. i just hope you can handle it."

he doesn't grab you like you expect, doesn't yank you up by the arm or push your face into the couch like some impatient street-level animal, no—he reaches, slow and easy, fingers sliding under your chin and tilting your face up like he's about to inspect it for bruises, or maybe kiss you like you're some shy thing trembling in the dark. and then he does, which is the last thing your dumb-ass brain expects, his mouth hot and deliberate and full against yours, tongue pushing past your lips like he's claiming the same territory you just worshipped him with, and the kiss is filthy, wet, intense, full of teeth and heat and the taste of weed and salt and spit but it's slow, achingly slow, his hand cradling the back of your head like you're something precious instead of the girl who just sucked him in a dingy gym backroom.

you make a stupid sound against his mouth, a breathy little squeak that betrays how unprepared you are, how suddenly soft this feels—except it's not soft, not really, it's still him, still toji, still all muscle and sweat and testosterone and perversion, but he's got you straddling his lap now like you belong there, your knees planted against the faux leather of the couch on either side of his thighs, his hands dragging slow over your hips and up your back like he's mapping you out with his fingertips, and his cock is still hard, hot, pressed between you, twitching against the soaked heat of your panties where your skirt's already bunched up.

he breaks the kiss to look at you, thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip, that smirk gone lazy now, like he's already got dessert and he's just savoring every bite.

"fuckin' knew you'd be soft," he murmurs, eyes raking down your chest, "mouth all nasty but heart beatin' like you're gettin' kissed by your first crush."

"shut up," you breathe, flushed and dizzy and already grinding against him without realizing it, your hips rocking just a little with every breath.

"nah, baby," he says, grinning now, voice dipped in something that's half-mocking and half-worshipful, "you like this. you like gettin' all worked up over a kiss. fuckin' cute. all that attitude and now you're meltin' on my lap like a bitch in heat."

he lifts your shirt like he's unwrapping candy, slow and greedy, his eyes locked on every inch of skin as it's revealed, and you let him, arms raised as he peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind the couch without looking, and the moment he sees your bare tits he groans, full-bodied and filthy, one hand coming up to cup one, squeeze it, feel it like he needs to confirm it's real.

"god damn," he mutters, voice rough with something hungry, thumb brushing over your nipple until it stiffens, and then again, and again, until you arch into it like a reflex, like he's got strings tied to your spine and your thighs. "you came here with no bra, huh? fuckin' slut. wanted me to see 'em."

"no, i just—didn't feel like wearing one—"

"bullshit," he cuts you off, pinching your nipple sharp between his fingers, making your breath hitch, your body jerk in his lap, "you knew i'd get you shirtless. probably thought about it while you were walkin' in. 'oh no, mister fushiguro, don't look at my titties,' meanwhile your dumb little cunt's already makin' a puddle in your panties."

you whimper, actually whimper, and he grins wider, pinching the other nipple now, rougher this time, tugging it just to see how much bounce he can pull out of your hips, and you grind down without even meaning to, the hot thick press of his cock nudging right against the seam of your panties now, your clit throbbing from nothing but pressure and words and those calloused fingers tweaking your tits like they're stress toys.

"yeah, you like that," he says, like it's obvious— it is. . . like it's written all over your face in red marker— it fucking is . . . "you like bein' played with, huh? like when i go slow. thought i was gonna bend you over and ruin you, but nah, i'mma take my time. make you feel every fuckin' second."

his hand slides down, fingers dragging over your ribs, your stomach, the edge of your waistband, then slipping under to find the wet mess of your panties clinging to your cunt like a second skin, and he groans again when he feels it, when his fingers slide over that soaked cotton and come away shiny.

"fuck. told you. knew you were drippin'. you're so wet it's like your pussy's beggin' for me through the fabric. can't even pretend, baby. you're soaked. ruined your own underwear just grindin' on my lap like a bitch in heat."

"shut up," you hiss again, weak and pathetic, trying to glare but your eyes are fluttering, lips parted, mouth still swollen from sucking him and now your tits are getting pinched and your pussy's being touched like it's a treat he hasn't decided to eat yet.

"you gonna make me shut up?" he murmurs, dragging his tongue up the side of your throat, licking a stripe that makes your whole body seize up, his fingers still playing with your nipples like they're buttons he's programmed to keep your brain on standby. "nah, you like when i talk like this. gets you fuckin' dumb. gets that pussy all twitchy. can feel it right now, baby, through your panties, your little hole clenching for me like it's sayin' hi."

you don't say anything, can't, because he rolls one nipple between thumb and finger while the other hand's sliding between your thighs, pressing against your clothed slit and staying there, just pressure, just heat, not even rubbing, and it's enough to make you moan into his neck, breath hot and trembling.

"yeah," he whispers, mouth on your ear now, teeth grazing the lobe, voice dripping with filth and amusement, "go ahead and moan for me, baby. show me how bad you want that special stash."

his fingers hook the crotch of your panties and tug them aside like they're nothing, like soaked cotton's never been an obstacle in his life, and the sudden rush of cool air against your bare pussy makes you gasp sharp into his shoulder, your hips jerking forward on instinct, chasing the heat of his palm before he even touches you properly.

“shit,” he breathes, low and reverent, two thick fingers sliding slow through your folds, parting them just enough to feel how slick you are, how you're dripping down his knuckles already. “listen to that. fuckin' soaked. you hear how wet you are, princess? that's all you. all from suckin' my dick and lettin' me play with these pretty tits.”

you whimper, burying your face in his neck because looking at him right now feels too dangerous, too much like admitting everything he's saying is true. his skin's hot, salty with sweat, and you can't help licking a stripe up to his jaw just to taste him again, just to do something with the static buzzing under your tongue.

he chuckles, dark and filthy, and finally—finally—sinks one finger inside you, slow and thick and deliberate, curling it just right so your whole body clenches around the intrusion like it's been waiting years for this exact stretch.

“fuck, tight,” he mutters, pumping once, twice, thumb finding your clit with embarrassing ease, circling it lazy like he already knows exactly how you like it. “knew your pussy would be greedy. suckin' me in like you never wanna let go. you always this easy, or am i special?”

you bite his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud, teeth digging into muscle, and he hisses, hips bucking up so his cock nudges hard against your thigh, smearing precum on your skin.

“answer me, baby,” he growls, adding a second finger and scissoring them slow, stretching you open while his thumb keeps that maddening pressure on your clit. “or you too dumb already? just needed a couple fingers in your cunt to shut that smart mouth up?”

“fuck you,” you manage, voice muffled against his skin, but your hips are rolling now, riding his hand shamelessly, chasing the way he curls his fingers every time he bottoms out.

“yeah?” he laughs, breath hot against your ear. “that's what you're doin', sweetheart. fuckin' yourself on my fingers like a needy little slut. go ahead. use me. . .”

your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging in as you grind down harder, thighs trembling, breath coming in short little pants against his neck. he's not even rushing you—just letting you fuck yourself stupid on his hand while he watches your face in the dim light, that smug bastard grin never leaving his mouth.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with want now, fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles until your legs start shaking for real. “pretty tits bouncin', pussy makin' a mess all over my lap. you gonna come just from this? just from my fingers and some dirty talk? c'mon, baby. do it. come all over my hand so i know you're ready for my cock.”

“toji—please—” you gasp, the word slipping out broken and desperate, your clit throbbing under his thumb, every slow drag of his fingers inside you sending sparks up your spine.

“that's it,” he coos, voice dropping lower, hotter, like velvet dragged over gravel. “say my name again, princess. beg me nice and pretty.”

“please, toji,” you whine, hips stuttering as he curls both fingers hard against that spot that makes your vision blur. “need it—need to come—”

“good girl,” he praises, thumb pressing firmer, circling faster now, the wet sounds of your pussy loud and obscene in the quiet room. “such a good fuckin' girl for me. lettin' me finger this tight little cunt while you ride my lap like you were made for it. feel how wet you are? drippin' down my wrist, baby. all 'cause you love bein' told what a slut you are.”

your breath hitches, thighs clamping around his hand as the heat coils tighter, hotter, your whole body trembling on the edge.

“come on,” he murmurs against your temple, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. “come for me, sweetheart. soak my fingers. show me you're my good girl—my pretty little mess. i got you. just let go.”

“toji—fuck—i'm—”

“yeah, you are,” he growls, fingers pumping faster, thumb relentless. “come right now, baby. be a good girl and come all over my hand.”

the orgasm crashes through you like a wave, sharp and blinding, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers in pulsing waves as you cry out into his neck, nails scraping down his back, hips jerking helplessly while slick floods his palm. he keeps moving, slow and steady, drawing it out until you're shaking and gasping, oversensitive and boneless against his chest.

“fuck, that's beautiful,” he breathes, voice thick with satisfaction, fingers still buried deep as your walls flutter around them. “good girl. so fuckin' good for me. look at you—comin' so hard you can't even breathe right.”

you whimper weakly, forehead pressed to his shoulder, body trembling with aftershocks as he eases his fingers out slow, bringing them up glistening and dripping.

“open,” he says softly, tapping your lips.

you do, dazed, tongue sliding out to taste yourself on his skin—salty, tangy, filthy—and he groans low, pushing them deeper so you suck them clean. “perfect,” he murmurs, eyes dark and hungry as he watches your mouth work. “now you're really ready for that cock, princess.”

he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, eyes locked on the way your tongue chases them for a second before you realize what you're doing. a low, dark chuckle rumbles out of him as he wipes his slick hand across your thigh, leaving a shiny trail that cools fast in the muggy air.

“greedy little thing,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel dragged slow over skin. “already suckin’ on my fingers like you’re scared i’ll take ‘em away. don’t worry, baby. you’re about to get somethin’ a lot thicker.”

you’re still trembling from the orgasm, thighs twitching every time the aftershocks ripple through you, but he doesn’t give you time to settle. both big hands slide under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, shifting you forward until the blunt head of his cock nudges right against your soaked entrance—hot, heavy, leaking, pressing just enough to part your folds but not sinking in.

you gasp at the contact, hips trying to roll down on instinct, needy little circles that chase the stretch you’re suddenly desperate for.

he stops you immediately—one iron grip on your hip, holding you suspended an inch above him, the tip barely kissing your hole.

“uh-uh,” he says, low and mean, eyes glinting in the dim light. “you don’t get to take it yet. you move when i say. understand?”

you whine, high and pathetic, fingers digging into his shoulders. “toji—”

“say it,” he cuts in, voice sharp now, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like he’s thinking about shoving it back in your mouth just to shut you up. “tell me who decides when this pussy gets fucked.”

your face burns, but the words tumble out anyway, soft and shaky. “you do.”

“louder.”

“you do,” you repeat, clearer this time, voice cracking as the head of his cock drags slow up your slit, collecting slick, spreading it, teasing your clit for a second before sliding back down to rest at your entrance again—never pushing in, just threatening.

“good girl,” he murmurs, smirking like the devil himself. “now sit still and let me play.”

he lowers you fractionally—just the tip breaching you, stretching the rim of your hole with that fat, flushed head until you’re clenching around nothing but the promise of more. your breath stutters, thighs trembling on either side of his hips, and he just watches your face like he’s memorizing every twitch, every desperate little flutter of your lashes.

“fuck, look at that,” he breathes, almost to himself, hips tilting up in a tiny roll that seats him maybe half an inch deeper—barely anything, but enough to make you moan. “pussy’s tryin’ so hard to suck me in already. hear how wet you are? just the tip and you’re makin’ those greedy little sounds.”

you try to sink down further, just a little, just to feel more of that burn, but his hands clamp down hard, bruising grip keeping you exactly where he wants you—impaled on barely the head, throbbing and helpless.

“told you,” he says, voice dropping into something dark and mocking. “you don’t move ‘til i say. you think one little orgasm means you earned this cock? nah, baby. you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch nice and slow, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

he pulls back out—slow, deliberate—until just the slit of his tip is kissing your hole again, and you whimper at the loss, pussy clenching around empty air like it’s begging.

“listen to that,” he taunts, dragging the head up through your folds again, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. “hear your cunt cryin’ for it? poor thing. so empty. bet it’s throbbin’, huh? bet you’d do anything for me to fill it up right now.”

“please,” you whisper, nails scraping down his chest, leaving faint red lines. “please, toji—”

“please what?” he mocks, circling your entrance again, pressing just enough to stretch but never enough to satisfy. “use your big girl words, princess. tell me exactly what you want.”

“want you inside me,” you choke out, hips shaking with the effort of staying still. “want your cock—please—”

“want it bad, don’t you?” he murmurs, finally—finally—sinking in slow, one thick inch at a time, eyes locked on where you’re stretching around him, on the way your pussy flutters and grips every ridge and vein. “fuck, that’s pretty. look how tight you are. takin’ me so slow like a good little slut.”

he stops again halfway, throbbing inside you, letting you feel the pulse of him, the weight, the stretch that’s somehow not enough and too much all at once.

you sob, head dropping forward, forehead pressed to his collarbone. “more—please, need more—”

“shh,” he soothes, cruel and soft all at once, one hand sliding up your spine to fist your hair and tug your head back so you’re forced to look at him. “you’ll take what i give you. and right now i wanna feel this greedy pussy flutter around half my cock for a while. wanna watch you try not to come just from bein’ stuffed a little.”

he rolls his hips in a shallow, lazy thrust—barely moving, just enough to drag the head along your walls and make your thighs spasm.

“feel that?” he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing, just teasing. “that’s all you get for now. just this. just enough to keep you desperate.”

your whole body is shaking, slick dripping down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement obscenely wet and loud in the quiet room.

“toji,” you whimper, voice breaking. “please—i’ll be good—”

“yeah?” he grins, mean and slow, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in to the same maddening depth. “you’ll be good? then stay still. let me fuck you at my pace. let me tease this pretty pussy ‘til you’re cryin’ for real.”

he does exactly that—long, slow, shallow thrusts that never give you more than half of him, dragging over every sensitive spot just enough to wind you tighter and tighter but never enough to push you over.

every time your hips twitch, trying to chase more, he stops completely, buried shallow, throbbing, waiting until you still again.

“bad girls who can’t listen don’t get to come,” he murmurs against your throat, teeth grazing the skin. “and you’re tryin’ so hard to be good for me, aren’t you? tryin’ not to fuck yourself on my cock like a desperate little whore.”

you’re nodding before you even realize it, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the ache, the need, the way he’s stretching you open so slowly it feels like forever.

“that’s it,” he praises, voice rough with restraint now, hips rolling in another torturously slow thrust. “just take it. feel every inch i give you. feel how full you are even when i’m barely fuckin’ you.”

you’re burning, shaking, dripping, every nerve screaming for more, but he just keeps that cruel, lazy pace—halfway in, halfway out, teasing, teasing, teasing. “gonna keep you like this for a long time, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “gonna make you earn the rest.”

he keeps you there forever—or it feels like forever—suspended on those shallow, teasing thrusts, every slow drag pulling a whimper from your throat that you can’t swallow back. the room is thick with the smell of sweat and sex and the faint weed lingering on his skin, the couch creaking softly under the lazy rock of his hips. your skirt is bunched uselessly around your waist, panties shoved to the side, thighs slick and trembling from how long he’s been edging you with just half his cock.

“still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, voice low and rough, one hand splayed across your lower back to keep you arched just right. “pussy keeps flutterin’ every time i pull out—like it’s scared i won’t come back. don’t worry, baby. i’m not goin’ anywhere till you learn some patience.”

you try to rock down again, desperate for more, for all of him, but his grip turns iron.

“what’d i tell you?” he growls, stilling completely, buried only halfway, throbbing hot inside you. “you move when i say. or did suckin’ my dick make you forget the rules already?”

“toji—” your voice cracks, raw and pleading. “pleaseee, i need—”

“need what?” he interrupts, leaning in until his lips brush yours, not a kiss, just a cruel tease of one. “need me to fuck you proper? need me to split this little pussy open and make you forget about everything?” he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until just the tip is stretching your entrance again, then sinks back in to the exact same depth—halfway, always halfway. “nah. you don’t need it yet. you want it. big difference.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks on his skin. “i’ll pay you back,” you whisper, desperate, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “i swear—next week—i’ll bring the four thousand, just please—”

he laughs, dark and mean, hips rolling in another lazy thrust that makes your breath hitch.

“oh, now you’re offerin’ to pay?” he taunts, thumb brushing over your clit once—just once—light enough to make you jerk but not enough to give you anything real. “cute. but we’re way past yen, princess. you’re payin’ with this pussy now. and right now it’s buyin’ you slow. reallll slow.”

he drags it out—ten more minutes, maybe twenty—every thrust deliberate, shallow, controlled. he watches your face the whole time, drinking in every whimper, every tear that slips free when he bottoms out at halfway and stops again, letting you feel how thick he is, how much more there still is that he’s not giving you.

“feel that?” he murmurs, grinding slow circles once he’s halfway in, just enough to nudge your walls but never deep enough to hit that spot you’re aching for. “that’s all you get for bein’ short on cash and short on patience. half a cock for half payment. fair, right?”

“not fair,” you sob, head dropping forward, forehead pressed to his chest. your whole body is shaking now, pussy clenching around what little he’s giving you, slick dripping steadily down his shaft, pooling on his thighs. “please, toji—i’ll do anything—”

“anything?” he echoes, voice dripping with mock interest, one hand sliding up to fist your hair and tug your head back so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “then beg prettier. tell me exactly why a broke little whore deserves this cock balls-deep.”

you swallow hard, tears clinging to your lashes. “because—because i came here short and let you use my mouth,” you whisper, voice trembling. “because i got on my knees for weed i can’t afford. because i’m letting you fuck me for a stash i don’t even have money for—please, i need it—”

he groans low, hips twitching like your words hit him harder than he wants to admit, but he still doesn’t give in. instead he pulls out slow again, drags the head through your folds, coating himself fresh in your slick before sliding back in—just halfway.

“good start,” he says, smirking, sweat beading on his brow now from how tightly he’s holding himself back. “but you’re still too coherent. still thinkin’ about money and pride and all that shit. i want you dumb, baby. want you so empty-headed the only thing in that pretty skull is how bad you need me to fuck you deeper.”

another slow thrust. another stop at halfway. your thighs are trembling so hard the couch is shaking with you. “keep beggin’,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, teeth nipping the lobe. “we got all night. and this pussy’s not gettin’ the rest of me till it earns it.”

he keeps that brutal, lazy rhythm for what feels like hours—slow, shallow thrusts that never give you more than half, every drag pulling slick sounds from where you're stretched around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly each time he stops just short of where you need him. sweat beads on your skin, mixing with his, the air heavy and humid, thick enough to taste the salt on your tongue every time you gasp.

“still beggin’?” he murmurs, voice rough from holding back, one hand sliding down to grip your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints. “thought college girls were supposed to be smart. figured you’d learn by now that whinin’ doesn’t get you what you want.”

you shake your head against his chest, tears slipping free now, hot and frustrated. “toji—i can’t—please, it’s too much—”

“too much?” he echoes, mocking, pulling out slow until just the tip is spreading you open again, letting the cool air hit your throbbing clit for a second before sliding back in—halfway, always halfway. “this is too much? baby, i’m barely fuckin’ you. got half my cock in this greedy little hole and you’re cryin’ already. what happens when i actually give you the whole thing? you gonna break?”

your thighs are trembling nonstop now, slick dripping steadily down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement wetter, louder. you can feel how swollen you are, how empty past that halfway point, how your walls keep clenching around nothing but the promise of more.

“i won’t break,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying to sound defiant even as your hips twitch for more. “just—please—give me more, i’ll be good—”

he chuckles, dark and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “you’ll be good? you’re already good, princess. good at takin’ half like a desperate little slut. good at cryin’ for cock you can’t afford.” he rolls his hips again, slow and deep—still only halfway—grinding there until you sob. “but good girls wait. good girls earn it.”

“how?” you choke out, nails scraping down his back, leaving red lines. “tell me how—i’ll do anything—”

“anything?” he repeats, smirking against your temple, sweat dripping from his hair onto your skin. “then stop movin’. stop beggin’. just sit here on my cock like a pretty little toy and feel what it’s like to want somethin’ you gotta work for.”

he stills completely—buried halfway, throbbing hot inside you, letting you feel every pulse, every vein, the sheer weight of what you’re not getting yet. your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper, and he groans soft, grip tightening on your hips.

“fuck—there it is again,” he mutters, voice strained now. “that greedy squeeze. you keep doin’ that and i might just give you another inch. maybe. if you stay real still and let me feel how bad this broke little pussy needs to be filled.”

you freeze, breath hitching, body shaking with the effort of not moving, not grinding down, not chasing the rest of him. tears slip down your cheeks, dripping onto his chest, and he watches them fall like they’re trophies.

“good,” he praises, low and mean, one thumb brushing a tear away only to smear it across your lips. “that’s it. just take it. feel how empty you are past this point? that ache? that’s what happens when you show up short on cash and big on attitude. you get teased. you get half. you get to sit here drippin’ and desperate till i decide you’ve learned your lesson.”

minutes drag by—slow, torturous, every second stretching longer than the last. he doesn’t move, just holds you there, cock pulsing inside you, letting the need build until your whole body is trembling, until soft little sobs are slipping out with every breath.

“toji,” you finally whisper, broken, barely audible. “please… i get it. i’m short. i’m broke. i’m—i’m yours. just please fuck me.”

he exhales slow, eyes dark and hungry, like your words finally cracked something in him.

“mine, huh?” he murmurs, hips shifting just enough to sink in one more inch—still not all, but deeper, stretching you wider, making you cry out sharp. “that’s cute. say it again.”

“i’m yours,” you repeat, voice shaking, clinging to him. “please—”

he groans, low and rough, fingers digging into your ass.

“alright, baby,” he says, voice gravel and heat. “you want the special stash? want me to fill this pussy proper? then hold on tight. you’re gonna earn every gram.”

he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s deciding whether to reward you or punish you more. his cock twitches once, deep inside where he’s still only giving you about two-thirds now—deeper than before, but nowhere near enough. the stretch burns sweet, your walls fluttering uselessly around the thick length he’s allowing, every tiny clench pulling another low groan from his throat.

“mine, huh?” he repeats, voice darker, rougher, the word tasting like ownership on his tongue. one hand slides up your spine, fingers threading into your hair again, tugging your head back so your throat is exposed, so he can watch the way your pulse jumps under the skin. “say it right. tell me whose pussy this is while you’re sittin’ on less than i could give you.”

your lips tremble. tears are drying sticky on your cheeks, mascara smudged into dark streaks, but the humiliation only makes the ache between your legs sharper.

“yours,” you whisper, voice wrecked and small. “this pussy’s yours, toji.”

he hums, pleased but not satisfied, hips rolling in one long, torturously slow circle—grinding the fat head against your front wall, dragging over that spot that makes your breath hitch, but never deep enough to really hit it. your thighs shake harder, nails biting into the meat of his shoulders.

“louder,” he orders, free hand sliding between you to thumb your clit—just one lazy swipe, enough to make your whole body jerk, enough to make slick gush around where he’s buried. “tell me again. make me believe a broke little slut would let some gym-rat dealer own her cunt just for a couple grams of top-shelf.”

“it’s yours,” you say again, louder this time, voice cracking on the edges. “my pussy’s yours—please, toji, i’m yours, just—fuck me properly, i can’t—”

“can’t what?” he cuts in, mean smile curling slow. “can’t think? can’t breathe? can’t stand how empty you feel even with most of my cock stretchin’ you?” he pulls out another inch—deliberate, cruel—until only half is left inside again, letting you feel the sudden loss like a punch. “look at that. pussy’s cryin’ for it already. see how it clenches? tryin’ to keep me. pathetic.”

you sob once, soft and broken, hips twitching despite his grip. “i know it’s pathetic,” you admit, the words spilling out like confession. “i know i showed up short, i know i sucked you off for a discount, i know i’m lettin’ you edge me stupid in a back room just so i don’t have to tell shoko i came back empty-handed—please, i’ll do whatever, just don’t stop—”

he stills again, fully seated at that maddening halfway-plus-a-little, throbbing so hard you can count his heartbeat inside you. his thumb returns to your clit—slow, feather-light circles now, barely pressure, just enough to keep you hovering on that razor edge without letting you fall.

“whatever?” he echoes, voice gone velvet-dangerous. “careful with promises like that, princess. i could make you come back every week. could make you text me when your rent’s due and your wallet’s empty. could have you crawlin’ in here on your knees every time you need to study high and stress-free.”

your breath shudders out. the thought shouldn’t make your cunt clench harder around him—it does anyway.

“would you?” you whisper, barely audible, like you’re afraid of the answer.

he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and damp. “if you keep squeezin’ me like that? yeah. i’d make you my regular little payment plan. no cash. just this wet pussy whenever i want it.”

another slow roll of his hips—deeper this time, three-quarters in, stretching you wider, making your eyes roll back for a second before he pulls back to that same torturous depth.

“but not tonight,” he murmurs. “tonight you’re still learnin’. tonight you take what i give you and you thank me for it.”

he starts moving again—long, excruciatingly controlled strokes, never bottoming out, always stopping just short of where you need him most. every withdrawal drags a wet, obscene sound from your cunt; every re-entry makes your thighs tremble and your voice break on little ah-ah-ah sounds you can’t swallow.

“thank you,” you gasp after the next thrust, the words automatic now, desperate. “thank you—for—for teasin’ me, for—for not lettin’ me come yet, for—”

he cuts you off with a rough thrust—still not all the way, but hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“good girl,” he growls, voice fraying at the edges like he’s finally starting to feel the strain too. “keep thankin’ me. keep tellin’ me whose you are. maybe—maybe—if you’re sweet enough, i’ll let you have the rest.”

your head drops to his shoulder, body shaking, cunt dripping, mind blank except for the slow, relentless stretch and the promise of more.

“thank you, toji,” you whisper again, over and over, like a prayer. “thank you—thank you—i’m yours—”

he groans deep, hips stuttering for the first time.

“fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “keep sayin’ that and i might actually believe you deserve the whole thing.”

he finally moves—sudden, decisive, like he’s done playing patient.

“enough teasin’,” he growls low against your ear, voice frayed with the strain he’s been hiding. “you’ve been good enough. time to really earn that stash.”

before you can process the words his hands clamp under your thighs—big palms gripping hard, fingers digging into soft flesh—and he lifts you off his lap in one smooth motion. your body leaves the couch, legs dangling for a split second before he’s on his feet, carrying you like you weigh nothing. the sudden shift makes his cock slip out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing, a pitiful whine tearing from your throat at the emptiness.

“shh,” he mutters, already turning, striding the few steps to the nearest clear wall—the rough brick one near the weight racks, still warm from the gym’s lingering heat. “you wanted more. now you’re gettin’ it.”

he pins you against the wall with his body first, chest to chest, letting you feel every hard line of muscle and the slick heat of his cock pressing up between your thighs. then he hooks his arms under your knees, spreading your legs wide—wide enough that your thighs burn from the stretch, knees hooked over the crooks of his elbows, calves dangling helplessly. your skirt rides up uselessly, panties still shoved to the side, cunt exposed and dripping in the dim light.

“look at you,” he says, voice dark and satisfied, eyes raking down where you’re spread open for him. “legs apart. no hidin’ now, princess. gonna fuck you standin’ so you feel every inch.”

he adjusts his grip—hands locked under your thighs, holding you splayed and suspended—and lines himself up with one slow drag of the head through your folds. you’re so wet it’s obscene, slick coating him instantly, dripping down to his balls. he doesn’t tease this time. he sinks in slow but steady—all the way this time, one long, unrelenting thrust that stretches you open completely, bottoming out until his hips are flush against yours and you’re stuffed full.

your head thumps back against the brick, a choked moan ripping out of you at the sudden fullness, the burn of him splitting you wide while your legs are forced apart like this. gravity pulls you down harder onto his cock, every inch buried deeper than before, the head nudging places that make your vision spark.

“fuck—tight,” he grunts, voice rough, holding you steady with that iron grip on your thighs. “feel that? whole cock now. no more half-measures. this what you were beggin’ for?”

you can’t answer—only nod frantically, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails digging in as he starts to move.

he doesn’t thrust up into you like you expect. instead he lifts you—slow, controlled—until just the head is stretching your entrance again, then drops you back down onto his length in one smooth, devastating motion. your body slides up and down his cock like you’re nothing but a sleeve for him to fuck, legs splayed wide, thighs trembling in his hold, cunt clenching hard every time he bottoms out.

the wet slap of skin on skin echoes off the brick, loud and filthy, your slick making obscene sounds with every drop. gravity does half the work—each downward motion seats him deeper, harder, the head kissing your cervix on every full drop while your clit grinds against his pelvis.

“that’s it,” he rasps, breath hot against your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. “up—down—up—down. ridin’ me like the little slut you are. look how wide your legs are—pussy takin’ every fuckin’ inch while i hold you open.”

your arms loop around his neck for leverage, face buried in his shoulder as he keeps that punishing rhythm—lifting you high, then letting gravity slam you back down, over and over. each drop punches a gasp or a sob out of you, thighs shaking violently in his grip, cunt fluttering and spasming around the thick drag of him.

“toji, fuck—too deep,” you whimper, voice breaking on every bounce.

“too deep?” he mocks, lifting you higher this time, holding you there for a second so you feel the stretch at your entrance before dropping you again—hard. “you were cryin’ for more five minutes ago. now take it. take the whole cock while your legs are spread like a whore earnin’ her weed.”

he picks up the pace just enough—still controlled, still using your body weight to fuck you onto him, but faster now, each drop making your tits bounce, your breath hitch, your walls clamp down harder. slick drips down his thighs, down yours, pooling on the floor beneath you in little wet spots.

“gonna keep you like this,” he mutters, voice strained, sweat rolling down his temple. “gonna fuck you standin’ till you can’t walk straight. till every step tomorrow reminds you who owns this pussy.”

your legs are jelly in his hold, spread so wide the muscles burn, but the angle has him hitting that spot inside you on every drop now—relentless, perfect, building pressure you can’t escape.

“toji, please—” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “gonna—gonna—”

“not yet,” he growls, slowing the drops just enough to keep you teetering, holding you suspended for a heartbeat longer each time before letting you fall. “you come when i say. you earned the cock—now earn the orgasm.”

he keeps fucking you like that—up and down his length, legs forced wide, body pinned between brick and muscle—slow enough to torture, deep enough to ruin, until you’re nothing but shaking, dripping, begging mess in his arms.

he keeps that brutal rhythm—lifting you high with those iron grips under your thighs, legs forced wide apart, then dropping you down his full length every few seconds, letting gravity do the dirty work. each plunge bottoms him out hard, the thick head kissing your cervix, grinding against that swollen spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. your clit drags against his pelvis on every drop, slick and swollen, the friction building faster than you can handle.

your whole body is shaking now, thighs burning from being held so wide, cunt clenching harder and harder around him with every descent. the pressure coils tighter, hotter, a white-hot knot low in your belly that keeps winding and winding until you’re gasping broken little pleas into his neck.

“toji, fuck, i’m close, pleaseeee.”

“yeah?” he rasps, voice strained, sweat dripping down his temples as he lifts you again, holds you suspended for a heartbeat longer this time so the head of his cock stretches your entrance wide, teasing, before slamming you back down. the impact punches a sob out of you, walls fluttering wildly, so close—so fucking close—you can feel the orgasm cresting, thighs locking, breath stuttering.

“gonna come. . . gonna come on your cock—please—”

he groans deep, hips snapping up to meet the next drop, grinding there for a second while you’re fully seated, clit mashed against him, cock throbbing so thick inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half. your nails rake down his back, body arching, the edge right there, right fucking there—

and then he stops.

completely.

still buried to the hilt, but frozen, holding you impaled and trembling, not moving an inch.

your eyes snap open, a desperate whine tearing from your throat. “no, no. . . don’t stop, i was—”

“shh,” he cuts you off, low and mean, lips brushing your ear while your pussy spasms uselessly around him, chasing the orgasm he just stole. “not yet, princess. you don’t get to come that easy.”

you sob once, frustrated and wrecked, hips twitching in his hold but he doesn’t let you grind, doesn’t let you chase it. your legs are still spread wide, thighs quivering in his grip, cunt dripping down his balls in frustrated little pulses.

“pleaseee, toji, i need—”

“i know what you need,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement, starting to walk—still holding you like this, cock buried deep, every step making him nudge against your walls in tiny torturous shifts. “but i might not fuck you again after tonight. broke little student shows up once, pays with her mouth and her pussy, gets her stash and disappears. so if this is the only time…”

he turns, carrying you effortlessly toward the low metal table in the corner—the one with the black box of weed still sitting on it like a taunt.

“…might as well try as many positions as i can while i’ve got you spread and drippin’ like this.”

he sets you down on the edge of the table—cold metal biting into your ass—legs still hooked over his arms, held wide apart. he doesn’t pull out, just adjusts his stance so he’s standing between your thighs, cock still throbbing inside you, the new angle letting him sink even deeper somehow, pressing right up against that spot that makes your toes curl.

“look at you,” he says, eyes raking over where you’re impaled, legs splayed obscenely on the table, skirt rucked up, tits heaving with every ragged breath. “spread wide on my table like a fuckin’ buffet. gonna fuck you here next. gonna make sure you feel me in every position before i decide if you’re worth round two.”

he rolls his hips once—slow, deep, deliberate—grinding the head against your g-spot while his pelvis drags over your clit. the denied orgasm flares back to life instantly, hotter, meaner, building twice as fast now that you’re teetering so close already.

“toji, please—” you beg, voice cracking, hands scrabbling at the edge of the table for leverage. “let me come—i’ll do anything—”

“you’ll do anything anyway,” he mutters, starting a slow, punishing rhythm again—pulling out halfway, then slamming back in, making the table creak under you. “but you come when i say. not before. not when you’re this close to beggin’ me to keep you as my personal little weed slut.”

each thrust jolts you, legs shaking in his hold, cunt clenching desperately, the buildup roaring back twice as intense—pressure so thick it hurts, so close again you can taste it, thighs locking, breath hitching—

and he stops again.

buried deep, still, watching your face crumple with frustration and need.

he holds you there again—impaled to the hilt on the cold metal table, legs still hooked wide over his thick forearms, thighs burning from the stretch, cunt stuffed so full you can feel every vein pulsing against your fluttering walls. the denied orgasm throbs like a second heartbeat low in your belly, sharp and angry, every tiny clench around him sending fresh sparks of frustrated pleasure-pain up your spine. your clit is swollen and untouched now, aching where it presses uselessly against his pelvis, every shallow breath you take making it throb harder.

toji’s chest rises and falls slow against yours, sweat-slick skin sticking where your tits are crushed to him. he doesn’t move. just lets you feel him—thick, hot, unmoving—while your pussy spasms helplessly, trying to drag friction from nothing. slick drips steadily from where you’re stretched around him, pooling on the table beneath your ass in warm little puddles that cool fast against the metal.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and mean, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “how full you are? how deep? you’re grippin’ me like a vice, baby—pussy’s cryin’ for it, clenchin’ over and over like it thinks it can force me to move.”

you whimper, head falling back, the back of your skull thunking softly against the table. tears of pure frustration prick at your lashes again. your hips twitch—tiny, involuntary jerks—but his grip tightens instantly, iron bands under your thighs keeping you exactly where he wants you: spread, suspended, stuffed, and denied.

“don’t,” he warns, voice dropping darker. “you move again and i pull out completely. leave you empty and drippin’ on my table like the desperate little thing you are.”

a broken sob tears out of you. “toji—please—i can’t—i need—”

“need to come?” he finishes for you, mocking, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, forcing your face toward his so you have to look at him. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, sweat beading on his brow from how hard he’s holding himself back. “yeah, i know. been feelin’ it build twice now. felt you flutterin’ right on the edge, walls squeezin’ me so tight i almost lost it. but not yet.”

he rolls his hips once—just once—slow, deliberate, grinding the fat head against your g-spot in a lazy circle that makes your whole body seize. stars burst behind your eyelids again, breath punching out in a high, shattered whine as the pressure surges back vicious and immediate.

“see?” he rasps, holding you there, grinding shallow but deep enough to torment. “that’s all you get right now. just enough to keep you stupid and wet and beggin’. you wanna come so bad you’re shakin’—thighs burnin’, pussy leakin’ down my balls—but you don’t get to. not till i say.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving red crescents. tears slip free now, tracking hot down your cheeks. “i’ll do anything—please—toji—i’m sorry—i’ll come back—i’ll pay next time—just let me—”

he chuckles, low and cruel, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “you’ll come back anyway. broke little college girl with a taste for premium shit and a pussy that can’t say no. but tonight?” he pulls back just enough to let the head stretch your entrance wide—cold air hitting your soaked folds for a heartbeat—before sinking back in slow, torturously slow, until he’s buried again. “tonight you learn patience.”

he starts moving again—not thrusting, not really—just tiny, shallow rolls of his hips that drag the thick ridge of his cockhead over that swollen spot inside you over and over. it’s not enough to push you over. it’s exactly enough to keep you teetering—pressure building, coiling tighter, hotter, meaner with every denied peak.

your legs shake violently in his hold, thighs quivering from being forced so wide for so long. your cunt flutters uselessly around him, slick gushing in frustrated little pulses that drip down his shaft, coating his balls, making every tiny movement wetter, louder.

“toji—” your voice cracks, raw and pleading. “it hurts—need to come—please—”

“i know it hurts, princess,” he soothes, almost gentle, but the words are filthy. “that’s the point. hurts so good you’re cryin’. pussy’s so sensitive now every little grind feels like too much. but you’re gonna take it. gonna sit here stuffed and shakin’ till i decide you’ve earned the right to fall apart.”

he leans in, lips brushing yours—not kissing, just teasing. “tell me you’ll come back next week. tell me you’ll show up short again. tell me you’ll let me edge this greedy cunt till you’re sobbin’ for it.”

you’re nodding before the words even register—frantic, desperate, tears streaming.

“yes—yes—i’ll come back—i’ll be short—i’ll beg—just please—”

he groans low, hips stuttering for a second like your words hit him hard. but he doesn’t give in.

instead he stills again—buried deep, throbbing, unmoving—watching your face crumple with fresh frustration, listening to the broken little sounds you can’t hold back.

“good girl,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “next position,” he says casually, like he’s discussing the weather, already lifting you off the table. “bend over the couch this time. wanna see that ass bounce while i decide if you’ve earned the right to come at all.”

he doesn’t pull out. he just holds you there—still pinned against the table, legs hooked wide over his elbows, thighs trembling from the stretch, cunt stuffed full and throbbing around every thick inch of him. the denied orgasm still simmers under your skin, a low, angry buzz that makes every tiny shift of his hips feel like torture. your walls keep fluttering, clenching down hard in frustrated little pulses, trying to drag him deeper, to force the friction you’re starving for, but he stays perfectly still, letting you feel the full, heavy stretch without giving you a single thrust.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough against your ear, breath hot enough to make you shiver. “how full you are? how deep i’m sittin’? every fuckin’ vein, every ridge—you’re grippin’ me like you’re scared i’ll disappear if you let go.”

you whimper, head thumping weakly back against the brick, tears of frustration clinging to your lashes again. your clit is swollen and untouched now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, so sensitive that even the faint brush of his pelvis when he breathes makes your hips twitch involuntarily.

“toji—please—” the word cracks, barely more than a breath. “just—move. anything. i can’t—”

“can’t take it?” he finishes for you, smirking slow and mean. one hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers digging in harder to keep your leg spread wide while the other braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in completely. “poor baby. got the whole cock now and still cryin’ for more. thought you were gonna come so pretty for me a minute ago. now look at you—shakin’, drippin’, beggin’ like a broke little whore who knows she’s gotta earn it.”

he rolls his hips once—barely an inch, just enough to drag the head along your front wall in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch and your cunt spasm hard around him. the pressure flares bright and vicious, pushing you right back to that razor edge you were hovering on before he stopped, but he freezes again the second your thighs start to lock.

“no—no—no—” you sob, voice breaking, nails scraping uselessly down his shoulders. “don’t—don’t stop again—”

“then stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous, forehead pressed to yours now so you can’t hide your face. “you twitch, you grind, you try to fuck yourself on me? i stop. simple. i wanna feel this pussy cry for it. wanna feel how bad it wants to come without me givin’ it permission.”

your whole body is trembling—legs aching from being held so wide, cunt throbbing with every heartbeat, slick dripping steadily down where you’re joined, pooling on the floor beneath you in tiny, obscene drops. the denial is excruciating; every denied peak makes the next one build faster, meaner, until you’re not even sure you could come even if he let you. it’s too much pressure, too much need, coiled so tight it hurts.

“toji—” you whisper, voice wrecked and small. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry i came short. i’m sorry i’m broke. just—please—”

he exhales slow through his nose, eyes dark and unreadable as he watches another tear slip down your cheek.

“sorry ain’t enough anymore,” he says quietly, almost gentle, but the edge is still there. “you wanna come? you gotta convince me this tight little cunt is worth keepin’ around. tell me why i should let you fall apart on my cock when you couldn’t even bring enough cash to buy a gram.”

you swallow hard, throat clicking, words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

“because—because i’ll come back,” you choke. “i’ll come back every time. every time shoko needs more, every time i need to study, every time rent’s due and i’m short again. i’ll let you fuck me however you want. on my knees, bent over the table, against the wall—whatever. just—please let me come. please let me keep this.”

he’s quiet for a long second, cock twitching once inside you like your words hit something deep.

then he leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not a kiss, just a tease.

“good start,” he murmurs. “keep talkin’. keep tellin’ me how bad you need this cock to be your new payment plan. maybe—if you’re convincin’ enough—i’ll give you one slow thrust. just one. see if you can handle even that without fallin’ apart.”

your breath shudders out, body shaking harder, cunt clenching desperately around him as you start whispering again—broken, filthy promises, every word dripping with need—while he holds you there, spread wide and stuffed full, letting the denial burn hotter and hotter without mercy.

he finally shifts—slow, deliberate, like every decision is still his to make.

“alright,” he mutters, voice thick with restraint that’s starting to crack. “you’ve begged pretty enough. let’s see how that pussy takes it when your face is buried and your ass is up.”

he pulls out in one long, torturous drag that makes your walls flutter and clench around nothing, a broken whine spilling from your lips at the sudden emptiness. slick strings between you, thick and glistening, dripping down your inner thighs as he lowers your legs. they shake so hard you almost collapse, but his hands are already on your hips—firm, bruising—spinning you around so your front is to the couch.

“hands on the backrest,” he orders, low and rough. “ass up. spread those knees.”

you obey on trembling limbs, palms slapping against the worn faux leather, knees sinking into the cushion as you arch your back, presenting yourself. skirt still bunched around your waist, panties shoved aside and soaked through, cunt swollen and dripping, pulsing visibly in the dim light. the cool air hits your exposed skin and makes you shiver, clit throbbing painfully from all the denied peaks.

toji steps up behind you, one big hand sliding up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest down until your cheek smushes against the couch—fabric rough and smelling faintly of old sweat and smoke. your ass lifts higher, legs spread wide, thighs quivering from the stretch and the anticipation.

“fuckin’ look at this,” he breathes, voice reverent and filthy all at once. rough palms spread your cheeks wider, thumbs pulling your folds apart so he can see everything—how puffy and wet you are, how your hole clenches around nothing like it’s begging. “drippin’ down your thighs. pussy’s cryin’ for it. been cryin’ since you walked in short on cash.”

you whimper into the cushion, hips rocking back instinctively.

“stay,” he growls, one hand clamping on your hip to still you. the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—hot, slick, impossibly thick—then sinks in slow, one devastating inch at a time, until his hips meet your ass and he’s buried to the hilt again.

the new angle is brutal. deeper. the head presses right against your cervix, stretching you so full your breath catches, walls spasming hard around every ridge and vein. gravity and the arch of your back let him bottom out completely, pelvis flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.

“oh—fuck—” you choke, voice muffled against the couch, fingers clawing at the leather.

he doesn’t move right away. just holds there, letting you feel him throb inside you, letting the stretch settle into your bones.

“feel that?” he rasps, voice gravel-rough. “whole cock. no more teasin’. this is what you earned, princess. now take it.”

he pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—until just the head stretches your rim, then slams back in hard enough to make the couch creak and your whole body jolt forward. the slap of skin on skin is loud, wet, obscene. every thrust punches a broken sound out of you—high, needy, wordless at first, then spilling into actual words.

“toji—oh god—toji—yes—fuck—deeper—”

he sets a punishing rhythm now—no more shallow games. long, hard strokes that drag every inch along your walls, bottoming out with a wet smack each time, his balls slapping against your clit on every plunge. the pressure builds fast—too fast—after all the edging, after every stolen orgasm. it coils low and vicious in your belly, tighter with every thrust, every grind of his hips when he bottoms out and circles there, stirring his cock inside you like he’s trying to rearrange your guts.

“gonna—gonna come—” you gasp, voice cracking, back arching harder, ass pushing back to meet him. “please—please let me—need to—”

“yeah,” he growls, one hand sliding around to find your clit—thumb pressing hard, rubbing fast, rough circles that match his thrusts. “come. fuckin’ come on my cock. soak it. show me you’re mine.”

the permission snaps something inside you.

your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, toes curling, cunt clamping down so hard around him it feels like you’re trying to trap him there forever. the orgasm rips through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, shattering. you scream into the couch, voice raw and wrecked.

“toji—fuck—coming—coming so hard—oh god—yes—yes—”

he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. fucks you straight through it—harder, deeper—each thrust prolonging the waves, dragging them out until you’re shaking uncontrollably, slick gushing around his cock in messy pulses, dripping down your thighs, soaking the couch beneath you. your walls flutter and spasm wildly, milking him, and he groans low, hips stuttering for the first time as he feels you fall apart completely.

“that’s it—fuck—good girl—keep comin’—milk me—fuck—”

he keeps pounding through the aftershocks, through the way your body jerks and twitches, oversensitive and trembling, until your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers, until you’re boneless against the couch, ass still up, legs shaking, cunt still clenching weakly around him with every slow grind he gives you now.

he leans over you, chest to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “came so pretty for me. now breathe. we’re not done yet.”

your body is still convulsing, walls clenching and releasing in erratic waves around his cock, every nerve ending firing off like exposed wires in a storm. the orgasm hasn't fully ebbed yet—it's still crashing through you, hot and relentless, making your thighs quiver uncontrollably against the couch cushion, your toes curling so hard they ache. slick gushes with every spasm, soaking the faux leather beneath you, the wet sounds obscene and echoing in the dim room as toji doesn't stop—doesn't even slow. he keeps thrusting through it all, long and deep and deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging his thick length along your oversensitive walls, grinding against that swollen spot inside that sends fresh sparks up your spine even as you whimper and twitch from the intensity.

“toji—too much—fuck—it's too sensitive—” you whine, voice muffled against the couch, raw and breaking on every syllable, your cheek scraping the rough fabric with every jolt of his hips. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again, not from pain but from the overwhelming flood of sensation, your clit throbbing painfully where his balls slap against it on every plunge, your cunt fluttering wildly like it doesn't know whether to push him out or pull him deeper.

he chuckles low and rough behind you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he's leaning over you now, one big hand planted beside your head for leverage. “shh, baby, i know—i know it's too much,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and praising even as his cock keeps splitting you open, slow and unyielding. “but you're doin' so good for me. takin' it like a champ. just breathe through it—yeah, just like that. good girl. you can handle a little more, can't you? for that special stash? for me?”

his free hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair—thick, calloused digits gathering a fistful of strands, wrapping them tight around his palm like a leash. he tugs—sharp but not cruel—yanking your head back off the couch so your back arches deeper, throat exposed, face tilting up toward the ceiling where the dim fluorescent lights blur through your tears. the pull stings at your scalp, a delicious burn that mixes with the overstimulation between your legs, making your whole body arch and tremble harder, your ass pressing back against his hips on instinct even as you sob out another plea.

“please—toji—can't—too sensitive—ah—”

“you can,” he praises, voice hot and gravelly against the shell of your ear, his breath damp and ragged from how hard he's holding himself back. “you're my good little slut, remember? comin' so pretty for me already, but we're not done. you're gonna get through this—gonna let me fuck you full 'til you're drippin' with me. then you'll get high soon, baby—real high. i'm gonna give you that new shit, the stuff that'll make your whole body float, make your pussy clench just from breathin' it in. i know you can't wait for that—can feel how you're still squeezin' me even when you're whinin' it's too much.”

he punctuates the words with a sharp slap to your ass—his big palm cracking down on the flesh where it jiggles from his thrusts, the sound echoing loud and wet in the room, the sting blooming hot and immediate across your skin. it makes you yelp, a high-pitched “fuck—toji—” slipping out as your cunt clamps down harder around him in response, fresh slick flooding out around his cock, dripping down your thighs and onto the couch below. the slap leaves a red handprint you can already feel heating up, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, and he rubs it immediately after—rough palm soothing the burn even as he tugs your hair tighter, keeping your head pulled back so he can watch your face twist in the dim light.

“see? that's it—good girl,” he groans, hips rolling slower now but deeper, gentler through the aftershocks, fucking you through the tail end of your orgasm with long, languid strokes that drag every inch along your fluttering walls. “whinin' so sweet but your pussy's lovin' it—still suckin' me in like you don't want me to stop. you're gonna get somethin' shoko never does, baby. somethin' special just for you. 'cause shoko never sucked my dick like you did—never got on her knees and choked on it for a discount. and she sure as hell never let me fuck her raw like this, never spread her legs and begged me to fill her up.”

his words sink in hot and filthy, mixing with the sensory overload—the way his cock feels impossibly thicker now, veins pulsing against your walls with every slow grind, the wet schlick of your arousal every time he bottoms out, the sting in your scalp from his fist in your hair, the lingering burn on your ass from that slap. your body is a live wire, oversensitive everywhere—clit pulsing with every brush of his balls, nipples hard and scraping against the couch fabric, thighs slick and trembling from the constant spread. the room smells thick with sex—sweat and musk and the sharp tang of your release—and the air is humid, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

“toji—oh god—gonna—again—” you gasp, voice shattering as the overstimulation flips into something sharper, hotter, the gentle thrusts building a new pressure fast, your cunt starting to flutter again in warning spasms.

“that's right—good girl—let it build,” he praises, tugging your hair just a little harder to arch you more, his other hand sliding around to grip your hip, fingers digging in to hold you steady as he keeps that slow, relentless pace. “you're doin' so fuckin' good—whinin' 'bout how sensitive you are but still pushin' back for more. i know it's too much, baby—i know—but you're gonna get through it. gonna come again for me, aren't you? gonna soak my cock and squirt all over this couch like the desperate little thing you are.”

his words push you closer, the praise wrapping around the sensitivity like fuel, making every thrust feel like it's scraping raw nerves in the best way. he picks up the pace just a fraction—still gentle, still fucking you through it—but enough to make your ass jiggle with every slap of his hips, enough to make fresh tears spill down your cheeks as the coil tightens impossibly fast. your cunt clenches hard, walls milking him in rhythmic pulses, slick building and building until—

“toji, fuck—coming—i'm squirting. . . oh god—”

it hits like a flood—sharp and sudden, your whole body seizing up as you squirt hard around his cock, clear fluid gushing out in messy spurts with every thrust, soaking his thighs, his balls, dripping down onto the couch in hot, wet puddles that spread dark stains across the faux leather. you scream into the air now—head pulled back by his fist in your hair, throat raw and exposed—the sound high and broken, “yes, yes—toji—fuuuck. too much—too good—” as he keeps moving, keeps grinding deep through the squirt, prolonging it until you're shaking violently, legs trying to close but held open by the position, ass up and trembling.

“fuck yes, good girl. . . squirtin' all over my couch like that,” he groans, voice thick with pride and hunger, his thrusts never faltering, cock throbbing harder inside you as your release coats everything. “that's what i wanted—look at this mess, my good little student payin' with her pussy and makin' it rain. you're doin' perfect, baby, keep goin', let it all out.”

he fucks you through the entire thing—gentle but insistent, dragging out every last spasm until your body's limp and spent, still twitching weakly around him, slick pooling beneath you on the couch, dripping down your legs in sticky trails. your whines turn soft and breathless, sensitivity peaking into something almost unbearable, but his praise keeps you grounded.

finally, he slows—still buried deep, cock pulsing hot inside you—but his thrusts ease into shallow rolls, letting you catch your breath as he releases your hair, hand sliding down to rub soothing circles on your back, the other still gripping your hip like he owns it. the room spins slow around you, body boneless and buzzing, the afterglow mixing with the promise of more as he leans down, lips brushing your shoulder.

“that's my girl,” he murmurs, voice soft now, almost tender. “you did so good. now breathe—'cause i'm not done fillin' you up yet.”

he’s still buried deep, hips flush against your ass, cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your oversensitive cunt as the last tremors of your squirt ripple through you. your body is limp and shaking, cheek smushed sideways against the couch cushion, drool pooling under your open mouth, hair tangled and sweat-soaked from where he’d fisted it earlier. every shallow breath you take makes your walls flutter weakly around him, milking him in soft, involuntary pulses even though you’re too wrecked to clench on purpose anymore.

toji’s breathing is ragged now—short, harsh exhales through his nose that fan hot against the nape of your neck. his big hands are braced on either side of your hips, knuckles white against the faux leather, veins bulging along his forearms as he holds himself perfectly still for a long moment, letting you feel every thick inch of him pulse inside you. the room is quiet except for the wet, sticky sounds of your combined breathing and the faint drip-drip of your release still leaking from where you’re joined, pooling in dark, glistening spots on the couch below.

“fuck,” he rasps, voice cracked and low, almost reverent. “look at you—still twitchin’ around me even after all that. pussy’s greedy as hell, baby. still tryin’ to keep me in even when you’re cryin’ it’s too much.”

you make a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half moan—too exhausted to form real words. your thighs tremble violently where they’re spread, muscles jumping every time his cock gives another lazy throb deep inside you. the overstimulation has turned everything raw: your clit is swollen and hypersensitive, brushing his balls with every tiny shift; your walls feel bruised and tender but still fluttering like they can’t decide whether to push him out or pull him deeper.

he leans down slowly, chest pressing to your back, the weight of him pinning you harder against the couch. one hand slides up your side—rough palm dragging over sweat-slick skin—until thick fingers wrap around the front of your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there.

“gonna come,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel and heat, hips starting to roll again—slow, deep grinds that make you gasp sharp every time he bottoms out. “been holdin’ back so long—fuuuck—your pussy’s too good. too wet. too tight. gonna fill you up, princess.”

your breath hitches. “toji—wait—”

but he doesn’t wait.

he doesn’t even ask properly.

“can i come inside?” he growls low, the words more demand than question, hips already picking up speed—short, hard thrusts now that punch the air from your lungs and make the couch creak under you both. “gonna come inside this pretty cunt—gonna pump you so full—”

you open your mouth to answer—yes, no, please, anything—but the word never makes it out.

he slams in one last time—deep, brutal, hips locking flush against your ass—and groans long and rough into your hair as he starts to come.

it’s thick.

it’s too much.

hot, heavy spurts flood you immediately, so copious you can actually feel the pressure build inside, feel every pulse of his cock as he empties himself deep in your core. rope after thick rope paints your walls, filling you until there’s nowhere left for it to go. the excess forces its way out around his shaft—creamy white leaking from where you’re stretched tight around him, dripping in slow, sticky trails down your inner thighs, splattering onto the couch cushion below in messy little puddles that mix with your own release.

“fuuuuck—take it, take every drop. . ” he grunts through clenched teeth, hips stuttering as he grinds through his orgasm, milking himself dry inside you. each shallow roll makes more leak out, the wet squelch loud and filthy in the quiet room, the sensation of being so full—so overflowing—making fresh tears slip down your cheeks even as your cunt clenches weakly around him, trying to keep it all in.

you whimper brokenly, body trembling under the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the sheer volume of his release spilling out of you and ruining the couch even more. it’s dripping steadily now—thick strands connecting his balls to your swollen folds every time he shifts, pooling beneath you in a warm, sticky mess that soaks into the already-stained leather.

he stays buried deep for long seconds after the last pulse, breathing hard against your shoulder, cock still twitching inside you like it’s not ready to stop. one hand slides down between your thighs—fingers spreading your folds so he can watch his cum leak out in slow, obscene rivulets, thumb brushing over your oversensitive clit just once, making you jerk and sob.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and satisfied, almost awed. “filled you so full it’s pourin’ out. my good girl. . .takin’ all of it like you were made for it.”

he finally eases back—slow, careful—until his softening cock slips free with a wet pop. a thick gush of cum follows immediately, spilling from your gaping hole in a hot, creamy rush that drips down your thighs and onto the ruined couch, the sight so filthy it makes your face burn even through the haze.

he steps back just enough to admire it—hands spreading your cheeks again so he can see the mess he made: your pussy puffy and red, fluttering weakly, cum leaking in slow, viscous strands that stretch and break as gravity pulls them down.

“perfect,” he breathes, thumb swiping through the mess and pushing some of it back inside you like he’s marking his territory one last time. “now you’re really paid up, princess.”

he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough whisper.

“stay just like that a minute. let it drip. then i’m takin’ you to the back. gonna roll you the fattest joint you’ve ever seen. somethin’ special. somethin’ that’ll have you floatin’ so high you forget your own name.”

you can only nod weakly against the couch, body boneless, thighs shaking, pussy still twitching and leaking his cum in slow, lazy drops as the aftershocks hum through you.

he chuckles soft—almost fond—and gives your ass one last gentle pat.

“good girl. you earned it.”

toji exhales slow and ragged, still catching his breath as he finally pulls back enough to look down at the mess he’s made of you. your ass is still up, face half-buried in the couch cushion, thighs trembling and slick with sweat, your pussy swollen and gaping slightly from how thoroughly he’s fucked you open. thick ropes of his cum are leaking out in lazy, creamy dribbles—sliding down your inner thighs in slow, viscous trails, pooling on the already-ruined leather below in warm, sticky puddles that glisten under the dim back-room lights.

he lets out a low, appreciative hum, one big hand smoothing down the curve of your spine like he’s petting something precious.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wrecked. “look at this—pussy’s still twitchin’, pushin’ more of me out like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

before you can even try to move—or whimper another plea—he drops to his knees behind you.

the couch creaks as his weight shifts. rough palms slide up the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider again, thumbs hooking into the soft flesh just under your ass to hold you open. you feel the heat of his breath first—hot and damp against your oversensitive folds—then the flat of his tongue.

he licks a long, slow stripe from your clit all the way up to your leaking entrance, collecting the thick mixture of his cum and your slick in one deliberate pass. the texture is obscene: warm, salty, bitter-sweet, coating his tongue as he groans deep in his throat at the taste. he doesn’t swallow. he just keeps going—lapping at you like he’s cleaning every drop, tongue dipping inside your fluttering hole to scoop out more, swirling around your swollen clit in lazy circles that make your hips jerk despite how spent you are.

“toji. . . fuck, sensitive—” you gasp, voice cracking, trying to squirm away but his hands clamp down harder, pinning your thighs in place.

“stay,” he growls against your cunt, the vibration making you whine. “let me clean you up, baby. you made such a pretty mess—gonna taste every bit of it.”

he works methodically—broad strokes of his tongue dragging through your folds, sucking gently at your entrance to pull more cum into his mouth, lips sealing around your clit for a second just to hear you sob. the sounds are filthy: wet slurps, soft groans from deep in his chest, the occasional drip of excess that he catches before it falls. your thighs shake harder, oversensitive nerves firing off sparks every time his tongue flicks over your clit or pushes inside to chase another thick glob of his release.

when he’s satisfied—when your pussy is glistening clean but still puffy and flushed—he finally pulls back. his lips and chin are shiny with the mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. he doesn’t swallow. instead he rises slow, knees cracking faintly, and reaches down to help you shift.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now.

strong hands slide under your arms, lifting you gently off the couch like you weigh nothing. your legs are jelly—barely able to hold you—but he doesn’t let you fall. he turns you around, sits on the edge of the couch himself, then pulls you down onto his lap so you’re straddling him properly this time, facing him, knees planted on either side of his hips. your skirt is still rucked up around your waist, cum-smeared thighs sticking to his sweatpants, but he doesn’t care. one arm bands around your lower back to keep you close, the other hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw.

your faces are inches apart now. you can see every detail: the sweat beading at his temples, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth, the way his pupils are blown wide and dark with something that looks almost like reverence.

he leans in slow—giving you time to pull away if you wanted to—and kisses you.

it’s not gentle. it’s deep and possessive from the first second. his tongue pushes past your lips immediately, carrying the thick, salty-bitter taste of his own cum mixed with your slick. he feeds it to you deliberately—slow sweeps of his tongue against yours, letting you taste every drop he’d gathered from between your legs. the flavor coats your mouth: warm, musky, faintly metallic, the unmistakable evidence of how thoroughly he’d filled you. you make a small, helpless sound into the kiss—half moan, half whimper—as he tilts your head to deepen it, tongue curling around yours to make sure you swallow every bit he’s offering.

his hand tightens on the back of your neck, keeping you right there while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him so you can feel the softening weight of his cock pressed between you, still slick with the remnants of both of you.

he breaks the kiss just enough to speak against your lips, voice low and gravel-rough.

“taste that?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip, smearing a last trace of cum across it. “that’s what you do to me, princess. that’s what you earned.”

you’re too wrecked to answer—only nod weakly, lips tingling, mouth full of the taste of him, body still humming with aftershocks and the slow drip of what’s left inside you. he kisses you again—slower this time, almost lazy, like he’s savoring the mess he’s made of you both.

when he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard, one hand still cradling your face.

“stay right here,” he says quietly, almost soft. “gonna get that joint rolled. gonna make sure you float so high you forget how sensitive this little pussy is right now.”

he presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth—gentle, almost sweet—then eases you off his lap onto the couch beside him, tucking your skirt down absently like it matters.

“don’t move,” he adds with a crooked grin, standing on legs that are still a little unsteady. “you’ve earned every fuckin’ puff.”

you’re slumped on the edge of the couch now, legs pressed together like that’ll somehow stop the dull, delicious ache between them. your skirt is smoothed back down—mostly—panties readjusted but still damp and clinging uncomfortably, cotton soaked through with the mix of both of you. every tiny shift makes your sore pussy throb, a reminder of how thoroughly toji stretched and filled you, how much cum he pumped inside until it leaked out in thick, creamy rivers despite your body trying to keep it all. your thighs are sticky, skin still flushed and sensitive, and when you cross your legs it sends a fresh, traitorous pulse straight to your clit. your legs tremble faintly when you try to stand, so you stay seated, phone pressed to your ear, trying to sound normal.

shoko’s voice crackles through the speaker on full blast because your hands are too shaky to hold it steady.

“what the fuck is taking you so long?” she drawls, lazy and annoyed, the unmistakable clink of ice in a glass in the background. “you’ve been gone for like two hours. did he rob you? did you get lost in the weight room? blink twice if you need rescue.”

in the background gojo’s voice cuts in, loud and obnoxious as always. “she’s probably negotiating with her tits out. classic y/n move. did you flash him yet? show the goods for the discount?”

geto’s quieter laugh follows, warm and amused. “she’s fine. probably just haggling. or getting high without us. rude.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to keep your voice even even though your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks and you can feel another slow trickle of toji’s cum leaking out, soaking into the already-ruined fabric of your panties.

“i’m not flashing anyone,” you snap, voice a little too high, a little too breathless. “and i’m not getting high without you assholes. he’s just… slow. packaging shit. you know how dealers are.”

shoko snorts. “uh-huh. sure. you sound weird. out of breath. did he make you run laps or something?”

gojo cackles. “laps on his dick maybe—”

“shut the fuck up, satoru,” you hiss, cheeks burning so hot you’re grateful no one can see you right now. “i’m fine. i’ve got the stash. i’m coming back in a few minutes. and don’t be a bitch about it—this is your fault. you’re the one who ran out the day before our presentation and sent me into shinjuku like some sacrificial lamb because ‘he likes new girls’ and ‘you’ve got tits he hasn’t seen yet.’ so sit your ass down, sip your wine, and wait.”

shoko laughs—low, smug, unbothered. “okay, okay, princess. just hurry up. gojo’s already eaten half the pizza and geto’s about to start the second season without you.”

“we’re not starting without her,” geto says mildly in the background. “she’s the only one who remembers the plot anyway.”

“then tell gojo to stop being a gremlin and save me a slice,” you mutter. “i’ll be there in—”

the couch dips beside you.

toji drops down heavy and casual, like he didn’t just ruin you against a wall and on this very couch ten minutes ago. he’s shirtless again, sweatpants slung low, that same lazy, predatory grin curling his mouth as he sets the small black box on the cushion between you. he flips it open one-handed, pulls out several dense, glittering nugs—deep purples and greens flecked with crystals—and starts dropping them into a couple of small ziplocks with practiced flicks of his thick fingers.

your breath catches. he’s close enough that you can smell him again—sweat, musk, sex, the faint citrus of whatever cleaner he uses in this grimy gym—and feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. your sore pussy gives a weak, traitorous flutter at the proximity, a reminder of how full he’d been, how much he’d left inside you.

shoko’s still talking. “—and if you don’t bring at least an eighth i’m not letting you hit the indica. you know the rules.”

toji glances at you sideways, eyes glinting with amusement as he seals one bag, then another. he leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, voice dropping to a murmur only you can hear while shoko rambles on.

“tell her you got more than an eighth,” he says quietly, lips barely moving. “tell her you earned the premium shit. the stuff that makes you see colors.”

you swallow hard, thighs pressing together again as another slow drip escapes you, warm and thick against your folds.

“i’ve got it,” you say into the phone, trying to sound annoyed instead of wrecked. “more than an eighth. premium. the good shit. i’ll be there in a few minutes with the fucking stash. stop bitching.”

shoko starts to say something else—probably another smartass comment—but you don’t wait.

you hang up.

the second the call ends you let out a shaky breath, shoulders slumping. your legs are still trembling faintly, pussy sore and swollen, every shift reminding you of the stretch, the fullness, the way he’d fucked you through your orgasm until you squirted all over his couch. and now you’re sitting here leaking his cum while he casually packs weed like nothing happened.

toji chuckles low, sealing the last bag and sliding the small pile toward you—three fat eighths, easily, plus a couple extra grams in a separate little packet that looks different, darker, stickier.

“special stash,” he says simply, tapping the extra one. “like i promised. the one that makes your whole body float. makes your pussy clench just from breathin’ it. shoko’s never touched this shit.”

he leans back, one arm slung across the couch behind you, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“you gonna be able to walk outta here, princess?” he asks, voice teasing but not cruel. “or you need me to carry you to your shitty civic?”

you glare at him—weakly—cheeks still flushed, legs still shaky, but you manage to snatch the bags and shove them into your purse with trembling fingers.

“i can walk,” you mutter, even though you’re not entirely sure. “just… give me a second.”

he grins wider, eyes dragging down your body like he’s remembering every position he had you in.

“take your time,” he says, voice dropping low again. “you earned it.”

you stand—slow, careful—thighs sticking together, a fresh trickle of his cum sliding down your inner thigh as you do. you ignore it. ignore the way your cunt throbs in protest. ignore the way toji watches every shaky step like he’s already planning round two.

you’re halfway to the door when he calls after you, casual as anything.

“next time you need more,” he says, “don’t send shoko. come yourself. cash or no cash.”

you don’t answer.

you just push through the door into the humid night air, legs trembling, pussy still leaking him, purse heavy with the best weed you’ve ever held—and the knowledge that you’re absolutely, irrevocably fucked.

in every sense of the word.

you stumble out of the gym into the thick july night, the door clanging shut behind you like the final punctuation on whatever the fuck just happened. the air is still sweltering, sticky against your skin, but it feels cooler than the humid back room you just left. your legs are jelly—every step sends a dull, throbbing reminder through your sore pussy, the sticky warmth of toji’s cum still leaking slow and thick into your panties, soaking the cotton until it clings uncomfortably between your folds. you have to pause once, leaning against the brick wall outside, breathing shallow through your nose as another trickle escapes and slides down your inner thigh. you press your legs together harder, trying to trap it, but it only makes your clit twitch in protest.

your purse feels heavier than it should—three fat eighths plus that extra special packet of the dark, sticky shit toji called “the one that makes your whole body float.” you can already smell it faintly through the ziplocks: sweet, earthy, with that sharp citrus edge that promises oblivion.

the civic is parked crookedly half a block away. you make it there on shaky legs, slide into the driver’s seat, and immediately regret it—the cracked faux leather is cold against the backs of your thighs, and sitting down presses everything sore and swollen right where it hurts most. you hiss through your teeth, shift your hips, try to find a position that doesn’t make you whimper. it doesn’t exist.

you start the car. the ac blasts lukewarm air that does nothing for the heat still radiating off your skin. your phone buzzes in the cup holder—shoko again. you ignore it, put the car in drive, and crawl through traffic like you’re ninety years old.

by the time you pull up to the apartment complex, your thighs are sticking together worse than before, and every bump in the road makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning. you kill the engine, sit there for a second with your forehead on the steering wheel, breathing slow. you can still taste him—salty, bitter, musky—coating the back of your tongue from that filthy kiss. your lips feel swollen. your whole body feels branded.

you grab your purse, step out carefully, and hobble toward the building like you’ve just run a marathon in heels you don’t own.

the door to shoko’s place is cracked open—music leaking out, low bass and laughter. you push inside.

the living room smells like pizza grease, weed residue from last week, and shoko’s signature cheap rosé. gojo’s sprawled on the floor in front of the tv, controller in hand, yelling at the screen. geto’s cross-legged on the couch, scrolling his phone, looking amused. shoko’s in the kitchen doorway, wine glass dangling from her fingers, one eyebrow already arched like she’s been waiting to dissect you.

they all look up at once.

gojo’s the first to speak, grin splitting wide and evil.

“holy shit. you look like you got hit by a truck. or fucked by one.”

shoko snorts into her glass. “told you. two hours? that’s rookie numbers for toji. what’d he do, make you lift weights first?”

geto doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head, dark eyes scanning you slowly—your flushed cheeks, the way you’re standing a little too carefully, legs pressed together, the faint tremor in your hands as you clutch your purse like a lifeline.

you force a scowl, hobble over to the couch, and drop down beside geto as gracefully as you can manage. the impact makes you wince—your pussy clenches involuntarily around nothing, a fresh gush of cum-soaked slick seeping out. you cross your legs tight, pray it doesn’t show through your skirt.

“here,” you mutter, yanking the ziplocks out of your purse and tossing them onto the coffee table. three fat eighths land with soft thuds, plus the smaller special packet that glints darker under the lamp. “premium. coma slut and whatever the fuck that extra shit is. happy now?”

shoko’s eyes widen. she sets her wine down, leans forward, picks up the special bag like it’s holy.

“wait. this is—the heavy one? the one he only gives out if you—”

she cuts herself off, looks at you again. really looks. at the way your mascara is smudged (you’d tried to wipe it in the car mirror but gave up), the faint red mark on your neck you hadn’t noticed until now, the way you’re sitting like every movement hurts in the best-worst way.

gojo crawls over on his knees, snatches one of the regular bags, cracks it open, inhales deep.

“smells like money and bad decisions,” he says cheerfully. then his eyes flick to you. “you smell like sex and gym mats, though. spill.”

“i don’t smell like anything,” you snap, too fast. your voice cracks on the end.

geto finally speaks, quiet and amused, not looking up from his phone.

“you’re walking funny.”

shoko’s grin turns downright demonic.

“oh my god. you didn’t just get the discount. you got the full toji experience.”

“shut up,” you hiss, cheeks burning. “he was just… slow. packaging took forever. that’s all.”

gojo cackles so hard he falls backward onto the carpet. “packaging. sure. with what? his dick?”

shoko picks up the special packet again, holds it up to the light.

“this shit? he doesn’t give this to anyone. not even me. and i’ve been buying from him for two years.” she looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “what the hell did you do to him?”

you snatch the bag from her fingers, shove it back into your purse like it’s evidence you need to hide.

“nothing. i just—talked to him. negotiated. like a normal person.”

geto finally sets his phone down, leans back, arms crossed, smiling that calm, knowing smile that makes you want to die.

“you’re glowing,” he says simply. “and you smell like latex and regret. congratulations.”

gojo sits up, eyes sparkling with chaos.

“did he call you princess? did he make you say thank you? did he—”

“i’m going to the bathroom,” you announce, standing too fast. your legs wobble, pussy throbbing in protest, another slow drip escaping down your thigh. you clamp your legs together, ignore the way shoko’s eyes flick down and her grin widens.

“sure,” she calls after you. “wash his cum off your thighs and come back so we can smoke your hard-earned pussy discount.”

you flip her off without turning around, hobble down the hall, lock yourself in the bathroom, and sink onto the closed toilet lid with your head in your hands.

your phone buzzes.

unknown number.

you open it.

one message.

toji: next time bring cash. or don’t. either way, door’s open.

you stare at the screen for a long second, heart thudding, sore cunt giving one last weak flutter at the memory.

you delete the message.

then you screenshot it anyway.

because you’re already thinking about next time.

and you hate that you’re already thinking about next time.

you splash water on your face, fix your mascara as best you can, and head back out to the living room where your friends are waiting to roast you alive.

you’re fucked.

in every sense of the word.

and the worst part?

“s-sukuna,” you moan, voice breaking as tears prick the corners of your eyes, spilling over and streaking down your flushed cheeks. “fe-feels li-like i’m gonna pee, ‘m so sen-sensitivee.”

sukuna just chuckles, breathless and rough, his voice low and dripping with that cocky confidence that makes your stomach twist. “uh-uh, that’s the feeling we want, baby. just let go, yeah? let go for me, don't be shy.”

he snaps his hips harder, the obscene wet smack of skin on skin echoing in the cramped frat house bedroom, the air thick with the musky scent of sex, sweat, and the faint bitterness of cheap beer clinging to sukuna’s breath. his hands grip the back of your thighs so hard you know you’ll bruise, his calloused fingers digging into your soft flesh as he angles himself even deeper, hitting that spongy spot that makes your brain go fuzzy.

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming freely as the overstimulation wracks your body, every thrust pushing you closer to that edge you’re both chasing. satoru’s hands shake where they hold your calves, his glasses slipping down his nose as he watches, wide-eyed, lips parted like he’s witnessing something divine.

“shit, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, thick with awe and something else—something desperate. “you’re takin’ him so well—look at you, fuck.” there’s a hitch in his tone, like he’s torn between pride and being painfully turned on, his hard-on pressing insistently against your lower back through his sweats, hot and throbbing.

sukuna’s grin is sharp and feral as he glances up at satoru, his best friend since they were kids—though you still don’t get how that works. sukuna was a bully back then, satoru's bully specifically, always picking on the lanky, pale kid with the weird blue eyes and the too-bright smile. you’ve heard the stories from your boyfriend late at night, curled up in his dorm bed, his head on your chest as he laughed about it—how sukuna used to shove him into lockers, steal his lunch, call him names until one day, something shifted.

maybe it was his relentless optimism, the way he never fought back but never broke either, always coming back with a grin and a dumb joke. or maybe it was the day satoru caught sukuna crying behind the school, about his twin brother dying, and instead of telling the entire school that sukuna's a pussy, satoru sat there, quiet, offering him half a candy bar.

whatever the hell it was, they’ve been inseparable since, a weird bond that makes no sense to anyone else but works for them.

now, sukuna’s the frat president, the campus’s resident bad boy with tattoos crawling up his arms and a reputation for fucking anything that moves, while satoru's the nerdy astrophysics major who still wears digimon tees and spends too much time on reddit. and yet, here they are, sharing you in this sweaty, dimly lit room like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“been holdin' out on me, man,” sukuna pants, voice rough as he smirks at satoru. “your girl’s a fuckin’ champ. takin' every inch— shiiiit. pussy’s grippin’ me like a vice—fuckin’ perfect.”

he slows his thrusts just enough to make you feel every rung of his piercing, the cold metal dragging agonizingly slow against your fluttering walls. you cry out, head lolling back against satoru's shoulder, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin.

“s’too much,” you whimper, voice slurred, body jerking with every brutal thrust. “suk—sukuna, sa—satoru, i—i can’t—”

but he cuts you off with a deep growl, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to meet his crimson ones. he licks away fallen tears and keeps his his gaze locked on you. “none of that shit, baby. you can. you’re gonna fuckin’ squirt for me, aren't you? gonna make a mess all over me and your nerdy little boyfriend.”

his words are filthy, dripping with a dark hunger that makes your toes curl. you feel satoru's breath catch behind you, his grip tightening on your legs like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.

“she’s close, sukuna,” satoru says, voice hoarse, almost breaking as he watches your face contort with pleasure and pain. “i can feel her shaking—fuck, you're so beautiful like this, pretty girl.”

he’s not wrong. you’re a wreck, body glistening with sweat, tears staining your cheeks, lips swollen and red from biting them so hard. your hair’s a mess, sticking to your damp skin, your chest heaves with every ragged breath.

sukuna’s eyes flicker between you and satoru, something dark and possessive in his gaze, like he’s getting off on both of you—on the way you’re falling apart and the way satoru’s watching, helpless and horny.

“yeah, she is,” sukuna grunts, slamming into you harder, faster, the bed creaking so loud you’re sure it’ll break. “c’mon, baby, give it to me. show your pretty boy how fuckin’ sloppy you can get.”

the pressure in your core builds impossibly tight, a hot, pulsing knot that makes your thighs quiver and your breath hitch. satoru’s whispering in your ear now, soft and desperate, his voice a stark contrast to sukuna’s roughness. “you can do it, baby, i know you can. just let go—wanna see you fall apart for him. please? for me?”

it’s too much—sukuna’s relentless pace, the way his piercing catches just right, satoru’s sweet voice in your ear, his hands holding you open like an offering. the coil in your core snaps, and you scream, body convulsing as you squirt, a gush of wet heat soaking sukuna’s cock, his abs, the sheets, everything.

your vision goes hazy, tears streaming freely as your body spasms, completely overwhelmed, every nerve ending on fire. sukuna groans like he’s won a fucking war, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chases his own release.

“fuck yeah, that’s it, sweetheart—fuckin’ drench me,” he growls, burying himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, filling you until you feel it leaking out around him. he grinds into you, riding out his orgasm with a string of curses, his grip on your hips bruising.

satoru’s practically whimpering behind you, his grip on your legs faltering as he watches sukuna empty himself inside you. “holy shit,” he breathes, voice cracking with reverence, his glasses fogging up from how hard he’s breathing. “holy shit, baby, you did so good.”

sukuna pulls out slowly, his cock still twitching, cum dripping from your overstuffed pussy and pooling on the sheets. he smirks at satoru, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “goddamn satoru. lucky guy, your girl's a fuckin' fountain. you learn somethin' yet?”

satoru nods, eyes glued to the creamy, glistening mess between your thighs. “y-yeah...think i got the gist.”

he snorts and leans down, kissing your tear-streaked cheek with a gentleness that feels almost wrong coming from him, before looking back at satoru with a glint in his eye. “you wanna clean her up or should i?”

satoru doesn’t hesitate, sliding out from behind you to kneel between your trembling legs, his tongue darting out to taste the mess you and sukuna made. you moan softly, too fucked out to do anything but let him, your body twitching at the soft, wet drag of his tongue against your oversensitive folds. sukuna chuckles, leaning back on the bed, one arm propped behind his head as he watches satoru lap at your dripping pussy like a man starved.

“good boy,” he mutters and you’re not sure if you heard that right, but it doesn’t matter. you’re slipping into a hazy, blissful afterglow, caught between the two men who’ve just ruined you in the best way.

but it doesn’t stop there. sukuna’s not done, not by a long shot. he shifts, sitting up, his eyes locking onto satoru’s as he licks his lips, still glistening with your release.

“oi, dork,” he says, voice low and teasing, a dangerous edge to it. “you’re doin’ a real good job down there, but you’re missin’ somethin’.”

satoru pauses, looking up, his face flushed red, glasses askew, a string of your slick still connecting his lips to your skin.

“what?” he asks, voice rough like he’s barely holding it together.

sukuna grins, leaning forward, his hand reaching out to grip satoru’s chin, tilting his face up. “you’re not tastin’ me yet, idiot.”

your breath catches, a new wave of heat flooding through you as you realize what sukuna’s implying. satoru’s eyes widen, but there’s no protest, just a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper—as he lets sukuna guide him closer.

“c’mon, don't get all shy in front of your girl now,” sukuna murmurs, his thumb brushing over satoru’s bottom lip, smearing your slick and his own cum across it. “you wanted to learn some shit, right? gotta get the full experience.”

satoru swallows hard, his throat bobbing, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he leans in, tentative at first, his tongue flicking out to lick at the mess on sukuna’s cock, still half-hard and glistening with both of your releases. sukuna groans, low and guttural, his hand sliding into satoru’s white hair, tugging him closer.

“fuck, yeah. that’s it,” he mutters, hips twitching slightly as satoru’s tongue moves, cautious but eager, lapping at the mixture of you and sukuna like it’s a fucking delicacy. you can’t look away, your body still trembling from your own release, but the sight of satoru—your sweet, nerdy boyfriend—going down on sukuna’s cock has you clenching around nothing, a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your core.

he glances up at you, his blue eyes hazy behind his foggy glasses, and there’s a spark of pride there, like he’s pleased with himself for pushing his limits.

sukuna chuckles, his grip tightening in satoru’s hair. “quick learner.” he teases, there’s a hint of fondness in his tone, buried under the roughness that makes you wonder again about their history—how two people so different could be so fucking close. but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because sukuna’s pulling satoru off his cock with a wet pop, dragging him up to kiss him, hard and messy.

you watch, wide-eyed, as their tongues tangle, sukuna’s hand gripping the back of satoru’s neck like he owns him. satoru’s moaning into it, his hands clutching at sukuna’s shoulders.

when they break apart, sukuna’s grinning, his eyes flicking to you. “your boy’s got potential, sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “but don't think i'm done with you yet, baby.”

and before you can process it, he’s grabbing you, pulling you onto his lap, your oversensitive pussy brushing against his still-hard cock. you gasp, hands flying to his broad shoulders, but he just laughs, low and rough, as he positions you over him.

“gonna fuck you over and over,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “fill you up some more. make that pretty cunt squirt all over me again. and satoru's gonna show you what he's learned, isn't that right?”

KAMOSWRLD 2025 ©

masterlist!

satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.

behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.

you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.

your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.

you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.

last night.

shit.

what the hell happened last friday night?

twenty-four hours earlier, you didn’t even want to go.

you were in your room, hoodie on, glasses slipping down your nose, halfway through a 20-minute video essay you didn’t even care about when nobara kicked your door open. she didn’t knock. she never knocks. just marched in, grabbed the remote, and said, “we’re going out.”

you blinked at her. “out where?”

“party,” she said, digging through your closet like she lived there. “frat house. you’re overdue for a bad decision.”

you laughed like she was joking. she, in fact, wasn’t.

somehow you ended up in the passenger seat of her car twenty minutes later wearing a skirt you didn’t know you owned and a shirt that didn’t fully cover your bra straps. your lip gloss felt too shiny. your shoes felt too loud. and your heart wouldn’t stop trying to escape your ribcage.

you’ve been to maybe three parties since college started. all of them sucked. you usually end up nursing one drink in the corner and sneaking out before midnight. but nobara had a hand on your back the whole walk up the driveway, her voice in your ear—“just have fun, babe. don’t overthink it. be hot and nonchalant and mysterious or whatever.”

you weren’t mysterious. you were anxious. the music was too loud, the lights were too red, and everything smelled like beer and expensive body spray. you were trying to find the kitchen when you saw them.

satoru first. standing on the couch, red solo cup raised like a toast, yelling something stupid while everyone around him cheered. white shirt, chain around his neck, laugh echoing off the ceiling. he looked like he was born to be worshipped. too pretty to exist. too loud to ignore.

then sukuna—leaning against the wall, drink in hand, tattoos half-covered by a hoodie he clearly didn’t care about. not smiling. not yelling. just watching. sharp eyes scanning the room like he was already bored of everyone in it. except you.

because when you walked in—he looked straight at you. didn’t blink. didn’t look away. just tipped his chin up like he’d been waiting for you to show.

you broke eye contact first. obviously.

you tried to disappear into the crowd after that. pushed your way to the drinks table. grabbed something pink and half-melted and sweet enough to taste like nothing. you were gonna sip it and then sneak home, like always. but then someone tapped your shoulder.

you turned.

satoru. he was smiling. full force. bright as a fucking floodlight.

“hey,” he said, tipping his cup toward you. “you’re in my bio class, right?”

you nodded. he grinned wider.

“i knew i recognized those glasses.”

you blink up at him. “what?”

satoru grins like you’re the punchline of a joke he hasn’t told yet. he’s a little too close, too confident. he’s taller than you remember. shinier. and definitely not drunk—not yet.

“bio 102,” he says. “you sit three rows behind me. glasses. purple highlighter. you take notes like it's a race.”

you blink again.

“you looked up once,” he adds, “when i dropped my pen. you didn’t hand it back.”

“you didn’t ask,” you mumble.

he laughs, head tipping back like you’re the funniest thing in the room. “fuuck, you’re cute.”

you try to step around him. you really do. but his hand comes out casually, just two fingers on your wrist, not even tight—barely there. “don’t go. i was gonna ask if you wanted a drink.”

you hold up your half-finished cup.

he eyes it. “that’s not a real drink.”

“it’s pink.” (we all know what happens w satoru and the pink juice wink wink)

“exactly,” he says, like that proves his point.

you should walk away. you should say you’re here with someone, that you’re leaving soon, that you’re not good with crowds, whatever. instead, you let him guide you toward the kitchen. he doesn’t touch you again, but he keeps looking back—like he expects you to bolt.

you don’t.

he pours something clear and probably vomit-inducing into a new cup. hands it to you. nudges the rim toward your lips like he’s feeding you. you take a sip just to make him stop looking at you like that.

and that’s when you feel it. another presence.

he doesn’t speak. just moves in behind you.

you look up. it's ryomen sukuna.

you know him. everyone knows him. he doesn’t go to class but always shows up on the group project grade. he’s the one with the face tattoo, way too many facial piercings, the pinky ring, the reputation. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t try. he doesn’t need to.

he looks at you. not up and down—at you.

your stomach flips.

“you’re staring,” satoru says to him, grinning.

“she’s staring first,” sukuna says.

you flush.

“am not,” you murmur, mostly to your drink.

sukuna takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup. something darker. leans against the counter beside satoru like he’s always been there. doesn’t say anything else for a while, just listens as satoru keeps talking—to you, about you, near you. teasing, charming, stupid little jokes about class and how you’re “the girl who never makes eye contact but always knows the answers.”

you’re so busy trying to keep up with satoru that you almost don’t notice the way sukuna keeps watching. like he’s figuring something out.

you shift under the weight of it.

satoru notices. “you good?”

you nod.

he leans in, voice dropping like he’s letting you in on a secret. “we’re just fucking with you. you don’t have to look like we’re gonna eat you.”

you laugh, weak. “that’s not what i thought.”

but sukuna tilts his head. smirks.

“isn’t it?”

you tell yourself you’re only staying for one more drink.

but satoru hands you another cup—something golden and bubbly this time, and he makes a dumb comment about the ratio of soda to liquor like it’s a science experiment. you laugh. actually laugh. and he looks so pleased with himself you forget to be anxious for a second.

sukuna doesn’t talk much. doesn’t try to charm you. but he’s still there, sipping slow from the same cup like he’s not even trying to catch a buzz, just waiting. he leans on the counter beside you like he’s carved into it. every time someone passes by, he shifts subtly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that they don’t brush you. he doesn’t say anything about it. doesn’t say much at all. just watches you sip your drink like he’s waiting for your lips to slip on the rim.

twenty minutes pass. maybe more. you’re warm now. fuzzy at the edges. everything’s a little funnier. you say something dumb—some offhand comment about how guys like them don’t talk to girls like you—and immediately want to sink into the floor. but satoru just throws his head back and laughs like you told a great joke.

“what kind of guys are we, then?” he asks, grinning. “be specific.”

you open your mouth. close it. shrug.

he leans in, voice lower now, almost smug. “you think we’re hot.”

“i never said that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

before satoru can say anything else, comes a voice entering the kitchen you barely recognize.

“there you fuckers are.”

toji.

black tee, smug expression, red solo cup in hand and probably half a blunt tucked behind his ear. he doesn’t look tired or drunk or like he’s been searching for anyone. he looks entertained. like walking in on this exact moment was the highlight of his night.

“we’re doing spin the bottle,” he says. “living room. you’re playing. bring your little friend.”

you blink. “i—what?”

“you,” he nods at you like this is obvious. “with the glasses. you’re cute. come on.”

“she doesn’t have to play if she doesn’t want to,” satoru says, casually. easy smile, one hand thrown over the back of the couch like he’s just stretching.

“she’ll play,” sukuna says. and when you turn to look at him, he’s already standing.

you should say no. should stay in the kitchen and pretend you didn’t hear. but your legs are moving before you finish the thought. satoru’s already guiding you to your feet with a light touch to your waist, and toji’s halfway out the door like he knows you’ll follow.

maybe it’s the drinks. maybe it’s the way both of them look at you like you’re something shiny and new. maybe it’s the fact that your brain is no longer fully in charge of your body.

you follow.

the circle is already half-formed when you sit down—knees brushing satoru’s, shoulders tense, your cup refilled without you realizing it. the living room’s dim except for the kitchen light bleeding in and the warm orange glow from a string of fake neon signs. someone’s playing music low through a speaker, but most of the sound comes from the people—laughing, yelling, groaning dramatically at the dares.

you try to sit small, like you don’t want to take up space, but satoru flops next to you, legs spread, knee touching yours like he’s done it a hundred times. sukuna’s across the circle. still. watching. he hasn’t looked away from you since you sat down. his hand rests on his knee, thumb tapping the rim of his cup, slow. deliberate.

the bottle spins.

someone gets dared to take their shirt off. someone else gets dared to suck a shot of whipped cream off the nearest neck. the energy is climbing. looser. heavier. your skin feels too hot, your drink too sweet. you’re about to excuse yourself—bathroom or air or anything—when the bottle stops.

and it’s pointing at you.

toji grins like he’s been waiting for this all night.

“truth or dare, sweetheart?”

you freeze. you want to say truth. you should say truth. but then your eyes flick to sukuna—silent, sprawled out, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knows what you’re going to pick.

“dare,” you say, so quietly it barely counts.

toji doesn’t even hesitate. “make out with sukuna. thirty seconds.”

you swear your soul leaves your body. the room erupts—oohs and groans and someone already pulling out their phone to record, probably. you sit frozen, wide-eyed, heart hammering so hard it makes your palms go numb. you open your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to run—but then sukuna’s voice cuts through it all.

“you heard him,” he says, lazy and low, legs spread wide. “c’mere.”

you could say no. no one’s forcing you. the game’s stupid. you’re drunk. you don’t owe anyone anything.

but he’s looking at you like he already knows you won’t say it. like he knows your thighs are clenching just from the idea of putting your mouth on his.

and he’s right.

you crawl toward him slow, cheeks on fire, limbs not entirely steady. he doesn’t move to meet you—just watches, dark eyes hooded, waiting until you’re kneeling between his legs. someone says “time it,” and someone else shouts “go,” and then—

his hands come up to cup your face. and he kisses you.

not quite soft. not careful. but not rough either—just firm. he licks into your mouth without hesitation, like it’s his, like he’s doing you a favor letting you taste him in front of everyone. his thumb strokes your cheek as his tongue slides against yours. your head spins.

you forget about the circle. forget about the rules. the sounds. the countdown. all of it.

you melt into him like it’s instinct.

he kisses like he knows how sensitive your mouth is. like he’s testing it. like he’s trying to figure out how you’d sound with his fingers inside you, his cock rubbing slow against your soaked panties.

when his teeth catch your bottom lip, you whimper.

his thumb presses under your chin. “thirty seconds,” someone says, breathless.

he doesn’t stop right away. just drags it out one more second—one last filthy kiss, spit-slick and hot—before pulling back and wiping your lip with his thumb like he owns you now.

you’re still kneeling. still trying to catch your breath.

he looks down at you, half-lidded and smug. “better than your little library fantasies?”

you don’t answer. your thighs are shaking.

you crawl back to your seat like your legs don’t fully work, face on fire, mouth tingling. you don’t even register that satoru’s hand is already on your leg again until it squeezes.

“how you feeling, baby genius?” he whispers, leaning in close, voice brushing the shell of your ear.

you can’t think. can’t breathe.

and you haven’t even gotten to his turn yet.

you’re still trying to collect yourself when the bottle spins again.

you’re not even paying attention this time—your lips are swollen, your pulse is all over the place, and sukuna’s looking at you like he could eat you alive and wouldn’t even need a drink after. you barely register the laughter until you hear someone say it:

“satoru. skinny dip. fountain out front.”

you blink.

satoru grins like they just handed him the crown. “that’s it?”

“naked,” toji adds, lazy. “no boxers. no sneaky shit.”

“in and out,” someone else chimes. “minimum fifteen seconds.”

“you guys are so unoriginal,” satoru sighs dramatically, already standing up and peeling his shirt over his head. “and jealous.”

your brain short-circuits.

his shirt hits the floor and you immediately look away. not fast enough. his torso is unfair—clean cut, gleaming just slightly under the lights like the universe put a filter on him. someone whistles. someone else yells, “show us the dick, satoru!” and he just blows them a kiss.

“you coming?” he says, suddenly looking straight at you.

you freeze. “what?”

his smirk is a little mean. “to watch.”

the group erupts again.

your mouth opens. no sound comes out.

“she’s already wet,” sukuna mutters, loud enough for just you to hear.

you slap his arm. he doesn’t flinch. just grins into his drink.

before you can even decide what you’re doing, you’re on your feet, following satoru and half the party outside. the night air hits you like a wall—cool, loud, full of moths and porchlight and the smell of someone grilling hot dogs at midnight.

the fountain isn’t big. it’s barely a fountain. just a decorative pool of water with a little statue of a cupid pissing into it. but satoru treats it like a fucking stage. he kicks his shoes off dramatically, tosses his pants at someone filming, and then—without hesitation, drops his boxers.

someone shrieks. you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.

he’s so casual about it. like he does this every weekend. he’s smirking, fully naked, body stupidly perfect, and doesn’t even cover himself as he steps into the fountain and sinks down with a splash. water flies everywhere. someone cheers.

he doesn’t look away from you the whole time.

fifteen seconds pass. no one’s counting. he’s reclining, arms up on the stone rim, hair wet, abs glinting. like he’s posing.

he points at you.

“you’re next, baby genius.”

you nearly collapse.

you’re still standing there like your feet forgot how to work when someone yells it.

“nah, nah—she has to get in too.”

the crowd goes feral immediately. laughter, clapping, someone chanting your name even though you’re pretty sure they don’t actually know it. you feel your stomach drop straight through the concrete.

you shake your head. “i—no, i don’t—”

“c’mon,” satoru says, still lounging in the fountain like he belongs there. water dripping from his hair, eyes bright, grin lazy and dangerous. “you already came all the way out here. don’t leave me alone.”

“that’s not fair,” you say weakly.

toji laughs. “spin the bottle rules. dare’s a dare.”

you look back toward the house. then at the fountain. then at sukuna, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken—just watching you with that same heavy look, arms crossed, like he already knows how this ends.

he tilts his head and shrugs. “you don’t have to.”

your heart stutters. because he says it like he means it.

but then satoru reaches out, palm resting on the stone edge of the fountain, fingers spread. open. inviting. “only if you want to,” he adds, quieter now. “no pressure.”

everyone’s watching. waiting.

your cheeks burn. your chest feels tight. and you realize—disturbingly—that part of you wants it. wants to do the stupid thing. wants to feel reckless and hot and seen for once.

you kick off your shoes.

the cheering explodes again.

you don’t strip. you don’t have to. you step in with your clothes, heart racing, water cold as hell around your ankles, then your calves, then your thighs. you gasp involuntarily and satoru laughs.

“easy,” he says, shifting closer. “i got you.”

you wade in until you’re crouched between his knees, water lapping at your hips, the already tight skirt you came in, clinging uncomfortably. he’s still looking at you like that—like you’re the best part of the dare.

someone starts counting. ten seconds. fifteen. you lose track.

the night feels unreal. the water. the noise. the way sukuna’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second. the way satoru leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“it’s kinda cold,” you lie.

he smiles. “sure.”

when the time’s up, no one says anything. no one tells you to get out. the crowd starts thinning. the attention fades. people wander inside. someone yells about shots in the kitchen. music shifts.

you’re still in the water when sukuna walks all the way out, alone now, hoodie gone, sleeves pushed up. he raises an eyebrow at the sight of you sitting in satoru’s lap like it’s normal now. like you’re not freezing and soaked and overwhelmed.

“you gonna stay out here all night?” he says, lighting a blunt with one hand.

you should say no. should get up. dry off. call a ride.

instead you look at satoru.

“my room’s closer than hers,” he says to sukuna, totally calm.

sukuna doesn’t respond. just turns, heads back inside.

and you follow. no one tells you to. you just go.

you trail dripping footprints through the hallway. past the living room. up the stairs. the music downstairs fades into something quieter.

satoru opens the door to a room that smells like laundry and cologne and something sweet—like vanilla or body lotion or both. sukuna’s already there, leaning on the dresser like he never left. he watches you walk in. watches you shiver.

you don’t know who shuts the door behind you.

but it clicks shut.

satoru’s still shirtless from the dare, only a towel wrapped around his hips. his chest glows in the warm lamplight, damp and flushed. his hair sticks to his forehead. he looks at you like he’s still in the fountain. still waiting for you to come closer.

but it’s sukuna who moves first.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smirk. just pushes off the dresser slow, and walks toward you like he’s already seen the ending. he stops when there’s maybe a foot between you—maybe less. his eyes drop to your chest.

your shirt is soaked. you forgot. or maybe you didn’t.

the fabric sticks to your skin like a second layer. completely see-through now. your bra’s thin and pale pink and practically invisible under the water. you cross your arms over your chest without thinking.

sukuna’s eyes flick back to yours.

“don’t,” he says, low.

you freeze.

he reaches out, slow, and curls his fingers around your wrist—gentle. not forcing anything.

satoru’s behind you now. close enough to feel. he doesn’t touch you yet. just speaks, soft and teasing at your shoulder. “you’re freezing, baby. let’s get this off, yeah?”

your throat’s dry. you nod once.

sukuna lifts the hem of your shirt.

he moves slowly. peels it up, over your hips, your stomach, your ribs. the wet fabric clings, heavy, dragging across your skin like it doesn’t want to let go. your breath stutters when it passes over your chest. you feel satoru’s hand come up to help—fingertips brushing the small of your back as he eases the fabric over your head.

you’re standing in nothing but your soaked skirt and a nearly transparent bra.

you feel stripped. exposed. and somehow, still completely safe.

neither of them say anything.

sukuna drops the shirt behind him without looking. his hand stays on your waist.

“you’re shivering,” he murmurs.

“get her a towel,” he says to satoru without looking away from you.

satoru grins. “gonna warm her up yourself?”

“maybe.”

he disappears into the bathroom, and you’re left alone with sukuna in the silence. your breathing’s too loud. his hand is still on your bare waist, thumb brushing the damp curve of your skin. your eyes flick up to his mouth. he notices.

“tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice low, eyes unreadable.

you don’t.

he doesn’t rush.

his hand is still on your waist, steady, thumb brushing in lazy strokes like he’s feeling out your heartbeat. your skin’s still damp. cold in places. your bra clings to you like an afterthought. his eyes drag down your chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, and back up to your face like he’s debating how far he wants to take this—or how long he wants to make you wait.

you can’t look away.

he leans in slow.

your breath catches. your lips part. it’s instinct—your body tipping into his before your mind can catch up. your fingers twitch at your sides. your knees feel useless.

he doesn’t kiss you right away.

he hovers.

so close you can feel the heat of his breath. the scent of his skin—smoke and soap. his hand slides up, fingers curling around the side of your neck, his thumb settling just beneath your jaw.

“you gonna let me in, baby?” he murmurs, so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you.

you nod. maybe. you think you do. you don't even know if you say it out loud.

but he hears you. he closes the distance.

his mouth presses to yours slow—lips warm, soft at first, patient. he lets it sink in, lets you feel every part of it. the weight. the heat. the way his thumb strokes your cheek just once, like you’re something precious and breakable.

then he tilts his head, kisses you again—deeper. hungrier. his tongue brushes yours, and your hands catch in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor.

you make a sound into his mouth—small. desperate.

he groans low in his chest and pulls you closer by the waist, bare skin sliding against his palm, damp and warm and perfect.

you don’t even notice satoru coming back until you hear his voice, from behind you: “you guys started without me?”

you break the kiss, dizzy, flushed.

sukuna doesn’t look away from you. “we were waiting,” he says.

satoru’s already grinning.

his hair’s damp. he’s holding the towel, half-forgotten, like he only came back to see the look on your face—lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide, sukuna’s hand still wrapped firm around your waist like he hasn’t decided to let go yet.

satoru steps closer. “cute,” he says, almost to himself.

he drops the towel onto the bed and leans in, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him with just enough pressure to make you shiver.

“can i kiss you too?” he asks, like you’re not already leaning into it. like you didn’t just gasp into sukuna’s mouth thirty seconds ago like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

you nod. shaky.

his smile softens. “good girl.”

he kisses you slower.

softer, sweeter—lips warm and plush and gentle like he’s trying to erase every thought from your head that isn’t him. his other hand ghosts over your hip, barely touching, like he’s seeing how little he has to do to make you tremble.

and god, you do.

he licks into your mouth like he has forever. groans when you arch closer without meaning to. mutters “fuck, you’re already so responsive” against your lips like it’s the best part of his night.

behind you, sukuna’s hand slips lower.

settles heavy on your hip, fingers dragging slow across the waistband of your soaked skirt before slipping it down your legs. you gasp into satoru’s mouth again. he smiles against you.

his hand moves lower too.

over your stomach. brushing the edge of your bra. not quite touching, not yet—but he’s watching your eyes flicker, your chest rise, your mouth part again like you’re already begging.

you don’t say stop. you say nothing.

you don’t remember how you got to the bed. you just remember hands.

satoru’s fingers brushing the back of your thigh. sukuna’s palm steady between your shoulder blades. the way the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were down—spine meeting the sheets, breath catching in your throat like you weren’t ready, even though you were already so far gone.

satoru leans over you first. he kisses you again—deeper now. not slow. not teasing. his mouth is open and wet and needy, tongue sliding against yours with this kind of hungry sweetness that makes your head spin. he kisses you like he missed you. like this is what he’s been waiting for all night. like he’s already thinking about how you’ll sound when you fall apart.

his hand cups your cheek, cradles your jaw, thumbs at your lip when he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice low and thick.

you nod. can’t speak.

you feel sukuna behind him. feel the mattress shift at your side, his fingers brushing your leg.

his hand slides up the inside of your thigh, knuckles grazing your damp skin as he drags them toward your soaked panties. satoru kisses you again, just as sukuna’s fingers press against the thin fabric.

you jolt.

satoru swallows the sound.

sukuna groans right by your ear. “fuck,” he mutters, like it hurts him. “she’s soaked.”

you are. humiliatingly so. your panties cling to your cunt, useless. your hips twitch, breath shaking, and your fingers curl in the sheets before you can stop them.

sukuna rubs over the fabric once. slow.

satoru breaks the kiss to look down at your face.

“pretty girl,” he breathes, smiling. “so sensitive.”

you whimper.

you’re still kinda clothed, and yet somehow, you feel like you’re already bare. your bra clings to you, still wet. your panties stick between your legs. your thighs keep tensing on instinct, but sukuna just spreads them further with one hand, keeps his other on your pussy like it belongs there.

and then he says it.

“you ever been touched like this before?”

your whole body goes still. you can barely shake your head.

satoru’s smile goes soft. sukuna’s grip tightens.

“yeah,” sukuna says, voice low and firm. “i didn’t think so.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until satoru kisses your throat.

he’s smiling against your skin, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his lips trail down to your collarbone, wet and open-mouthed, then lower, over the curve of your bra where your nipples are already peeking through the damp fabric.

he groans against you. “fuck, baby,” he murmurs, teeth grazing lightly. “you’re begging and i haven’t even touched your pretty tits yet.”

you’re not begging. not out loud. but your hips twitch with every breath. your fingers keep curling in the sheets like they’re trying to anchor you to something. and sukuna—god—sukuna’s still between your legs, eyes fixed on the way your cunt throbs through the soaked cotton like it’s a problem only he gets to solve.

his fingers hook the side of your panties. tug slow. not off. just aside.

you gasp—sharp, high. the cool air hits your pussy before he even touches you, and it’s almost too much. your thighs close on instinct.

his hand pushes them open again.

“keep ‘em spread,” he says, quiet but commanding. “you wanna be good, don’t you?”

you nod.

satoru’s already mouthing over your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the fabric, lips wet, humming like he’s so proud of you for being this worked up. then he tugs the cup down with one hand, exposes your breast fully, and sucks.

you cry out. can’t help it.

and that’s when sukuna slides two fingers through your folds. not in. not yet. just a drag, collecting your slick and groaning under his breath.

“fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, thumb pressing just under your clit. “you ever been this wet for anyone before?”

your head shakes. your voice breaks.

satoru kisses the top of your breast, breathless with a grin. “course she hasn’t. nobody’s ever touched her right.”

“they will now,” sukuna mutters, and then—he circles your clit with two fingers.

your back arches. your hips jerk. your mouth opens, no sound coming out. satoru keeps sucking gently on your tit, fingers curling under the other one, pinching, playing, lips dragging sweet over sensitive skin.

“you like that, sweetheart?” sukuna murmurs, pressing a little harder, teasing little circles that make your thighs tremble. “gonna let me make you cum just like this?”

you nod. voice gone. breath gone.

satoru kisses up your chest, back to your mouth, and laughs softly against your lips when you moan. “so responsive,” he breathes. “you gonna fall apart already, baby? you’re shaking so much.”

sukuna doesn’t warn you. he doesn’t have to.

his fingers are already slick with you, slow circles on your clit turning into something needier, something that makes your toes curl and your breath catch in your throat. he leans in closer, body crowding between your knees like he’s settling in for a meal, and his voice drops lower.

“breathe,” he murmurs, “gonna slip in nice and slow, alright?”

you nod. it’s instinct. desperate. like your body already knows this is happening and just wants to make it easier for you.

his middle finger pushes in first, deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. your walls clench around him immediately, like your body can’t tell if it wants more or less, and you gasp into satoru’s mouth like you’re trying to disappear inside him.

“there it is,” sukuna mutters, like he felt the second he hit your limit. “tight little pussy's never been fucked, huh?”

you shake your head.

satoru smiles against your lips. “you’re doing so good for us, baby. look at you. takin’ his finger like you were made for it.”

you’re not sure what you’re doing—moaning or whining or begging—but it spills out of you anyway. your hips lift. your thighs twitch. and then sukuna adds a second finger.

you break.

it’s too much. not in a painful way, but in a way that steals your breath. you’ve touched yourself before. you’ve fantasized, dreamed, squirmed through sheets alone in the dark—but nothing like this. nothing that makes your whole body burn and your brain go empty.

satoru’s lips find your jaw, then your throat, nipping lightly, breathing praise straight into your skin.

“you feel it?” he whispers. “feel how good he’s making you feel?”

“mhm,” you whimper, eyes wet, thighs shaking. “too good—feels too—”

“nah,” sukuna says, voice rough, “this is nothing, sweetheart. just wait till you’re stuffed full.”

his fingers curl. you jerk.

the heel of his hand grinds against your clit while he fucks you slow, deep, like he’s learning your body one stroke at a time. and he’s good at it. too good. he groans low under his breath when he feels you clench around him—“fuck, she’s pulsing”—and satoru kisses you through it again, moaning against your tongue.

“you’re gonna cum, huh?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “go on, baby. let us see what it looks like.”

your legs are shaking. your fingers dig into satoru’s shoulders. sukuna fucks you with those two perfect fingers like he owns your pussy now, like it’s his to break open and ruin. and you don’t want to stop it. you don’t even know if you can.

you cum hard. shuddering. gasping. mouth falling open against satoru’s, back arching like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin. sukuna groans low when he feels it—feels your cunt squeezing him, dripping, messy.

“fuck, that’s pretty,” he mutters.

you go boneless.

satoru laughs. “one down,” he says, brushing your hair back. “think she’s got a few more in her.”

sukuna’s still got his fingers between your legs. just there—wet and warm, two thick fingers resting inside you like a reminder of everything he just did. his palm is soaked. your thighs are trembling. and the way his thumb strokes lazy circles just beneath your clit feels like an unspoken threat. like he knows exactly how close you are to cumming again, and he’s not in a rush to let you.

satoru kisses your cheek, then your jaw, nudging your face toward his with his nose. “hey,” he murmurs. “you still with us?”

you blink up at him, dazed. “mhm,” you manage. it’s barely a sound.

he grins, all white teeth and messy hair, and presses his forehead to yours. “good,” he says. “because i’ve been waiting all night.”

you gasp softly when sukuna finally pulls his fingers out. you feel empty—needy again, even though your body’s still buzzing from the last orgasm. you don’t get a chance to complain, though, because satoru’s already shifting between your thighs, cock heavy and flushed and dragging over your inner thigh as he lines himself up.

“you’re so wet,” he whispers, voice reverent. “fuck, angel, you’re dripping for us.”

he pushes in slowly. your head tips back with a gasp, eyes fluttering. he’s thick. not just full but deep—his hips rolling forward inch by inch, spreading you open so slow it makes your toes curl. you’re already stretched from sukuna’s fingers, already wrecked, but this is different. better. more.

satoru shudders. “shit—fuck, she’s tight—”

you clutch at his forearms, hips twitching up instinctively. he sinks in the rest of the way with a soft groan, forehead still pressed to yours.

“feel that?” he whispers. “all the way inside you, baby. you’re taking me so good.”

and you are.

he starts to move. slow at first, rocking into you like he has all the time in the world. his cock drags against your walls, hits something deep that makes your breath catch, and you cling to him harder, legs spreading wider, thighs sticky against the sheets.

behind him, sukuna watches.

he’s propped on one arm, the other hand resting on your waist again—thumb stroking mindlessly, eyes glued to the place where satoru’s cock disappears inside you. “watch her face,” he mutters. “watch how she moans when you fuck her just right.”

satoru adjusts his angle and fucks in deeper.

you cry out—your back arching up into him. he grabs your thigh and presses it up against your chest, hips pressing deeper, harder, filling you to the brim. it’s almost too much. but it’s also perfect.

“you’re close again,” satoru pants. “aren’t you, baby?”

you nod frantically, unable to speak. satoru doesn’t stop. just leans down, kisses you messily, and fucks you through the second orgasm he knows is coming.

“yeah?” sukuna says behind him. “let her mouth do something.”

satoru hums. “mm, she can take you?”

“we’re about to find out.”

you blink, still dazed, as sukuna shifts beside you—kneeling just past your head now, cock thick and heavy, already flushed from watching you get split open. he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his hand rest in your hair, fingers threading through, thumb stroking along your cheek.

“you wanna be good for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice low. “open up.”

you do.

your lips part, shaky and soft, and sukuna groans when you let him guide his cock to your mouth. he starts slow—just the head, warm and salty on your tongue, the weight of him heavy as he eases in. his hand tightens just slightly in your hair, his other hand resting over your breast, palm rough and familiar.

“fuck,” he hisses. “that’s it. keep your lips soft, just like that.”

satoru is still fucking you—slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt with every thrust. his hand is on your thigh, holding you open, thumb brushing where you’re stretched around him like he wants to memorize how you feel. and now sukuna’s in your mouth, hips rolling forward as he pushes deeper, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue, your lips stretched wide.

“jesus,” satoru pants, watching the way your throat works around sukuna’s cock. “look at her.”

you can barely breathe—but you don’t want to stop.

sukuna groans, hips stuttering forward again, cock slick with spit as you try to take more. “fuckin’—knew you’d suck dick like this. look at you.”

his grip in your hair tightens. his hips rock a little deeper, eyes dark as he watches your mouth stretch around him, cheeks hollowed out like you want to make him lose control. and you do.

satoru slows his thrusts. not out of mercy—just to watch. his hand slides to your stomach, palm splayed out over the skin there, feeling the way you tighten every time sukuna groans. “she’s clenching on me,” he says, laughing. “you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

sukuna’s cock slides deeper again—your nose brushing his pelvis, your throat tightening around him. he moans, sharp and low. “fuck, baby. you’re not gonna let me cum down your throat, are you?”

satoru laughs. “nah, not yet.”

he fucks into you hard enough to make your cry vibrate around sukuna’s dick. “she’s not done down here either.”

you’re still panting when sukuna slides out of your mouth, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s proud of the mess he made. your jaw aches, throat sore, but you don’t complain. not with satoru still buried inside you, hips grinding slow and deep like he’s trying to draw every last moan out of you.

then satoru pulls out.

“switch,” sukuna says, voice low and rough.

he’s already behind you by the time you blink, hand slipping beneath your stomach to help guide you over—face down, ass up, hips angled perfect as he climbs onto the bed and gets between your legs. his palm spreads across your lower back, pressing down. “stay just like that,” he mutters.

and then he’s pushing in.

you whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as sukuna bottoms out in one slow, thick stroke. your whole body jolts—his cock stretching you wider than satoru’s, deeper somehow, the burn of it curling sharp and sweet up your spine.

“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you’re tight. already stuffed full of him and still—” he cuts himself off with a groan, hips snapping forward harder.

your gasp turns into a choked moan.

and satoru? he doesn’t miss a beat.

he’s standing at the edge of the bed, lazily stroking himself as he watches sukuna fuck you. “you’re really takin’ it, huh?” he says, grinning as he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. “you wanna help me out too, pretty thing?”

you nod, dazed.

he steps in closer, guides your mouth open again, and you let him slide in—your lips wrapping around him just as sukuna slams forward. the thrust rocks you onto satoru’s cock, and suddenly you’re the perfect toy between them—sukuna driving into you from behind, satoru groaning as you suck him slow and messy from the front.

“jesus,” satoru hisses, voice strained. “she’s drooling all over me.”

sukuna grunts, fucking you harder now, his grip bruising at your hips. “she likes it,” he growls. “look how sloppy she’s getting. you close again, baby?”

you try to answer, but your mouth’s full—your throat clenching around satoru as tears prick the corners of your eyes. he pets your hair, soft and smug. “think that’s a yes.”

sukuna fucks you rougher, angled just right—his balls slapping wetly against your thighs, each thrust hitting deep enough to leave you shaking.

“gonna cum,” he growls. “gonna fill this pussy up.”

and you’re close too—closer than you should be, with your mouth stretched around satoru and your body trembling from the force of sukuna’s thrusts.

you don’t know which one of you finishes first. but you swear the world blanks out when you do.

sukuna’s thrusts slow. his grip bruising tight at your waist as he fucks in deep one last time—spilling into you with a low, feral groan, hips grinding as he makes sure it stays. you feel it. every pulse of it. hot and thick.

you moan, weak and breathless, around satoru’s cock.

he slides free from your mouth with a hiss, fingers dragging down your spine as he watches sukuna’s cum drip out the second he pulls back.

“holy fuck,” satoru murmurs, eyes blown wide. “look at that.”

you feel it leaking instantly. warm and slow down your inner thighs, smeared across the insides of your knees. you collapse forward with a shaky gasp, face pressing into the sheets as your legs give out. your body’s trembling. ruined.

sukuna groans behind you, dragging his fingers down the seam of your ass—spreading you just enough to watch it spill from your pussy. “fuck, baby,” he mutters. “you made a mess.”

satoru’s hand strokes your hip. “can’t believe you took us both like that,” he murmurs. “so proud of you.”

you can’t speak. can’t move. everything’s hot and slick and glowing under your skin, every nerve buzzing with aftershock.

sukuna flops back beside you, arm tucked under his head.

satoru climbs onto the mattress next, snuggling up behind your back like it’s nothing. like this is just how the night ends. like this is normal.

you’re still catching your breath when someone reaches for the blanket. and everything fades to black.

present day

you wake up warm. that’s the first thing. warm and sore and weirdly… safe. the blanket’s tangled somewhere around your knees, one of your socks is still on, and your mouth tastes like cheap vodka and lip gloss. your head’s pounding. your eyes won’t open all the way. your body aches in places you don’t even have names for. but you’re not alone.

there’s an arm around your waist. a heavy, bare thigh pressed behind yours. someone breathing against the back of your neck. slow, steady, like they’ve been asleep for hours. and in front of you—there’s another body. taller, sprawled out, hair messy, cheek smushed into the same pillow as yours. his arm is under your head like you’d been holding it.

satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.

behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.

you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.

your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.

you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.

“hello?” satoru mumbles again, this time with a small yawn.

you nod, but it’s half-hearted. your voice cracks. “yeah.”

his eyes open slowly—bright and unfocused. they flick down, and then trail lower, past the blanket barely covering your thighs. a lazy smirk starts curling at the corner of his mouth.

“you sure?” he says. “’cause you look kinda… wrecked.”

you groan, pressing your face into the pillow. he laughs, like he already knows every thought running through your head.

“don’t bully her,” sukuna’s voice cuts in behind you. deeper. raspier. his hand spreads wider on your stomach, palm flexing just slightly. “she took us like a champ.”

you feel your entire body go hot.

“please stop talking,” you mutter, still hiding.

“but you were so loud last night,” satoru hums, like he’s just remembering. “i think i’m still hard, actually.”

you make a noise of protest—small and pitiful—and try to roll over, but sukuna’s arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place.

“don’t move,” he murmurs, low against your neck. “not done cuddling yet.”

“not done embarrassing me yet, either,” you grumble.

satoru grins. “what’s to be embarrassed about? you were kind of amazing.”

you peek out from under the pillow. “kind of?”

he tilts his head. “okay, like… very amazing. ten out of ten. would absolutely do again.”

“same,” sukuna adds, lips brushing your skin. “if she wants to, that is.”

you go quiet.

and for a second, it’s weird. real. like the whole thing might shift into something too heavy. but then satoru breaks it.

“so, like—do you want waffles or a protein bar? i’m starving. and my legs don’t work.”

you snort. “waffles, obviously.”

he grins, like it’s the best answer you could’ve given. and sukuna just hums again behind you, nosing at your hair like he’s already dozing off again.

and maybe you’re still sore. maybe your mouth still tastes like tequila and glitter and someone else’s skin.

but you don’t feel weird.

you feel—okay. and that’s somehow the scariest part of all.

perm tag list @icreamcake @sketchbonked @paintedperidot @lucacangettathisass @puppiemilks @icebearcucumber @emmaaas-posts @sxtoabi @theclosetismadeofglass

"just for a bit."

you buzz him in without even saying hello.

toji doesn’t knock. he pushes the door open with one hand, the other holding a plastic bag like he’s showing up for something innocent. like this is completely normal.

his eyes rake over you the second he steps inside. your legs bare, hair down, one of nanami’s button-downs hanging off your shoulders like it doesn’t fit right. like it wasn’t meant for you—and maybe that’s the point.

he closes the door behind him slow. leans against it. "you always answer the door looking like that?"

you cross your arms, suddenly too aware of how little you’re wearing. his gaze drags down your body like it’s already his. he lingers at your thighs.

"you came here for what?"

toji steps closer. his shirt stretches over his chest, sleeves tight around his forearms.

"you."

he drops the bag on the floor and keeps walking. doesn’t ask, doesn’t touch. not yet. just gets close enough for you to smell his cologne—something sharp and warm and heavy, like leather and smoke.

"he treats you soft, doesn’t he?"

you flinch—heart racing, you're unable to move.

"get out."

"you like it softer?"

his hand lifts to touch your cheek. you don’t stop him. you hate how warm his palm is. hate the way your body leans into it without thinking.

"you don’t know me," you whisper.

toji tilts his head. his thumb drags down your jaw. his voice drops.

"nah, sweetheart. i know exactly what kind of girl you are."

and then he kisses you.

he doesn't rush. he lets it stretch. lets the air hang tight between your bodies until you lean in first. and when your lips meet, it’s not gentle. it’s not hesitant. it’s weeks of tension snapped all at once—open-mouthed, filthy, your hands in his hair and his tongue in your mouth before you can think twice.

he palms your ass through the shirt, dragging your hips into his, groaning into your mouth when he feels the heat soaking through your panties.

"you’re already fuckin’ dripping? just from a kiss?"

he lifts you like nothing. hands under your thighs. carries you through the apartment and drops you on the couch like a doll. his hands are everywhere—up your shirt, over your tits, fingers flicking across your nipples.

"let me see what he doesn’t," and he yanks the shirt open. buttons scatter across the floor.

"you really opened the door for me like this? no bra, no shame? filthy little thing."

his mouth is on your tits before you can answer. biting, sucking, tugging until you’re writhing under him, breath coming fast.

then lower, mouth sliding down your stomach. he forces you hold your knees back.

"spread wider. want that pretty pussy lookin’ up at me."

and then—fuck, his tongue.

he eats you out like he’s starved. tongue deep. nose buried. licking and slurping like a man possessed, shaking his head into your cunt to make you scream. two thick fingers slide in and curl up hard, and you shatter.

your moans break into a sob. your hips buck. something sharp and wet builds.