scarlet

“…yes,” you whimper.

“Then fucking arch it.”

You sniffle. “Okay.”

He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.

“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.

It has his attention now.

The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.

“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.

“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“

“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”

“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.

“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.

“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”

His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”

“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”

“I… I don’t know—“

“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”

“Please.”

“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”

And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.

"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”

Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.

“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”

Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.

He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.

“Are you ready to go again?”

“Sa…toru,” you slurred, eyes hazy and sparkling with tears—not from your heart getting broken, but rather from how fucking deep his cock was inside you, kissing your cervix affectionately with every thrust.  It brought an undeniably deep satisfaction at the sight. “I-It’s too much…”

Satoru instantly moaned at your whine, ducking in to let you burrow your face into the crook of his neck, as he pressed his nose against your head, smelling your shampoo and the faint smell of sweat that formed on your skin from how long he's been fucking you. His large hand wrapped around your head tightly, the other on your hip, keeping you there as he kept snapping his hips to search for your hot, sopping, messy cunt.

This was real.

This was fucking real. Shit, shit, shit—

“Fuck, princess… stop clenching so tight. Feels too”—he gasped, eyes turning wide as you tightened around him impossibly more that made him roll his eyes back—“good…”

This was the third—no, maybe fourth—time he brought you to his dorm room to fuck you mindlessly to drive Suguru out of your pretty mind. This was the third time inviting you to his bed, next to Suguru’s dorm, to comfort you as he went off to another hotel with no doubt another slightly older woman in his arms.

The other one time was when you invited him over to your dorm, and the memory of your bashfully lowered eyes and soft voice as you tenderly led him to your room was enough to prompt him another pathetic whine as he thrusted so roughly into you that made you see stars.

So yes, this was the fourth time that you were in his arms to have his cock deeply nestled inside, wrapped by your heavenly walls, and the third time he was able to make his girl come tonight. He silently thinks in his pussy-drunk mind, that no matter how many times the two of you fuck—make love—he would forever be questioning whether this was real, if you were real because no way does he have his dream girl in his arms right now, letting him fuck you to an oblivion.

And some sick part of him liked to imagine that you were still in love with Suguru. The thrill of knowing that he was fucking you, making you feel so good that you couldn’t help but think of him as you stared at his blue eyes instead of a pair of purple ones. But by the looks of the way your brain was fucked dumb, your lips only dribbling his name repeatedly, was an enough of an indicator that you weren’t thinking of Suguru anymore.

“Satoruuuu!!!” you screamed as you came undone, muffled against his neck. That effectively brought him back from his pussy-drunk reverie as he grinned down at you.

“Sorry, baby…”

He pulled out with a gasp, pulling off the condom with a snap as he stroked around his cock. You were about to whine when another moan slipped out of you when his thick, long fingers curled inside of you, his thumb rubbing quick, tight circles around your clit to prolong your pleasure.

“I’m going to c-come.” He swallowed. “Can I come on your face? Please, baby? You’ll look so fucking pretty with my cum.”

You nodded eagerly, managing a faint reassuring smile that twisted at his heart painfully with affection as he cupped your face and kissed you senseless, thumb caressing your cheek as the other hand continued to stroke his cock to prompt his impending release. His lips gently suckled on your tongue while giggling deliriously with pathetic whines, prompting you to clench tightly around his fingers.

“Satoru!”

And that was it—thick, white spurts of cum splattered across your face, making you gasp at the sticky sensation on your skin. Satoru grinned at the sight, cooing softly yet his fingers harshly fucked you dumb, the quelching sounds incredibly filthy that almost made his cock hard instantly.

As you came your nth time of the night and breathed heavily from your climax, your eyes widened at the sight of him ripping another condom, and rolled it on his pretty cock.

Satoru chuckled at your surprised face, leaning in to press a quick kiss on your lips before pulling back, grinning at you fervently.

“Don’t think we’re over just yet, sweetheart.”

The next morning, when you came out wearing Satoru’s overly large t-shirt with heated cheeks and a horrifying amount of hickies across your neck and collarbone, and a Satoru that had his lips curled into a dopey grin at your side, with a nervous Suguru that was rubbing his neck awkwardly by his door… you only could hide behind Satoru, hands gripping the back of his shirt, and a cheek pressed against his broad back, as the white-haired boy laughed full of satisfaction and fucked up elation.

“Um… fun night?” Suguru asked, his smile uncharacteristically awkward as he looked at Satoru and glanced at you curiously.

“Yeah, too much fun,” Satoru said with a grin, laughing when you scrunched his shirt up more, nails digging into his back like last night to shut him up—fuck, he was going to get hard from just that. “How was your night, Suguru?”

Maybe it was cruel to ask that when he didn’t really know if you still liked Suguru or not, but his cocky ass just couldn’t help but ask, knowing that he fucked your mind out last night, and he that he can and would continue to do it for the rest of his life, because that means that you would only think about him at that precious moment.

“Uh… yeah… I guess,” Suguru murmured as an answer, his eyes still glued to you. Since when did you look so cute? Suguru could acknowledge that he was acting like an asshole right now, knowing that he was starting to have interest in you after Satoru has swept you off of your feet and dicked you down a little too good.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he stepped a little to the side to hide you completely, holding the door. “Anyways, we’re going to have amazing morning sex from now, so go fuck yourself.”

Satoru grinned when he heard you let out a loud gasp at his words as he slammed the door right in front of Suguru’s face, before spinning around to face you.

Cradling your face in his large hands, he kissed you senseless as he pushed you towards the bed, tongue lolling out with yours as he lapped at yours like a pathetic mutt. His cock twitched at the sound of your surprised giggles, and he couldn't help but let out an unabashed moan.

Breakfast could wait for a little while…

suguru's pov!

he wants to pin you to the wall the second the door slides shut, yank your panties aside, and bury himself to the hilt in one thrust. he wants to fuck you until you’re crying, until your voice breaks on his name, until you’re so full of him that it leaks down your thighs when he pulls out just to push back in again. he wants to mark you until there’s no part of you that doesn’t smell like him, feel like him, remember him.

the meeting drags. another elder speaks. naoya’s vision swims at the edges—strange, because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but he doesn’t care. his skin feels too hot, too tight. sweat beads at his temple despite the cool air in the hall.

he clenches his jaw. he can wait. he has to wait. just a few more minutes and he can dismiss them, stalk to the servants’ wing, kick your door open, and take what’s been driving him insane for days.

the room tilts.

he blinks—hard.

“young master?”

the elder’s voice fades to something distant. naoya tries to stand but his knees buckle. he catches himself on the edge of the table. the room spins faster. black spots dance at the corners of his vision and his head pounds.

“naoya-sama? are you okay?”

he straightens, barely, and tries to push off the table. but then the world tilts and darkness swallows him whole.

---

he wakes in fragments.

cool air on his face. the faint scent of cedar and yuzu. the low creak of wood. his chambers.

he’s on his futon with blankets tucked around him. his head pounds in time with his pulse and sweat clings to his skin, cold and clammy despite the fever heat still burning under it.

a soft rustle. he forces his eyes open. and then he sees you kneeling beside him, with your hair tied back and your expression pinched with worry. in your hands is a small porcelain basin of water and a folded white cloth.

you dip the cloth, wring it out and then lean forward. the cold press of damp fabric against his forehead makes him hiss.

“you’re awake,” you whisper. “you collapsed in the hall. the guards carried you here. i… i told them i’d stay with you.”

he tries to speak—manages only a rough croak. “how long?”

“a few hours. it’s past midnight.” you wet the cloth again, fold it and then press it back to his skin. “your fever spiked fast. i made willow bark tea. you should drink when you can sit up.” he reaches up and catches your wrist before you can pull the cloth away again. your eyes widen.

“why?” he mutters. “why stay?”

you blink. swallow. “because you’re sick,” you say simply, like it’s obvious. “and because… it’s you.” he holds your gaze—longer than he means to.

the fever makes everything feel distant and too close at once. your cool fingers against his burning skin. the faint scent of laundry soap and you. the way you don’t flinch under his stare, don’t look away even when his grip tightens on your wrist.

he wants to pull you down. wants to bury his face in your neck, breathe you in, take whatever comfort you’re offering and twist it into lust and something possessive. instead he lets his hand fall back to the futon—too weak, too tired.

“tea,” he croaks.

you nod and turn to pour the tea. you help him sit and he hates how much he needs it. hates how good it feels when your body presses close for that moment. he drinks—slow sips, grimacing at the taste—while you hold the cup steady.

when he finishes you take it away, set it aside, and want to get some more but he catches your hand again, almost gentle. “stay,” he says. not an order. not quite.

your breath catches. then you nod and settle beside him on the futon, knees tucked under you, hand still in his. his thumb brushes once over your knuckles, somewhat absent, like he’s testing the feel of it and watches you through the fever haze.

as you shift uncomfortably under his gaze and then move to adjust the damp cloth on his forehead, and the fabric of your yukata slips—just a fraction. the collar gapes open on one side and reveals the gentle curve of your shoulder.

you don’t notice at first. you’re focused on folding the cloth fresh, dipping it into the cool water and wringing it out. but then you feel his stare—hot, heavy, unblinking—and you freeze. your eyes flick to his. he doesn’t look away.

slowly, he lifts his free hand. fingers trembling faintly from the fever, but steady enough. he hooks one fingertip under the fallen edge of your yukata, right at the shoulder. the silk is thin, warm from your body. he drags it down, inch by agonizing inch, baring more of your shoulder, of your upper arm, the soft swell where breast meets chest.

the fabric pools at your elbow. cool air kisses your skin. your breath catches. “master naoya,” you whisper. “you’re sick. you need to rest—”

“i don’t care.” the words come out rough.

his hand doesn’t stop. he traces the newly bared skin with the backs of his knuckles, feeling the gooseflesh rise under his touch. your nipple pebbles beneath the remaining fabric; he can see the faint outline through the silk and swallows hard.

“i’ve wanted this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “every fucking meeting. every boring hour. thinking about you under me. around me.” his fingers slide lower, hooking the edge again, tugging just enough to bare the top curve of your breast. “and now you’re here. and i’m burning up. and i still want you.”

your cheeks flush dark. you don’t pull the yukata back up. instead your hand—the one he’s holding—squeezes his fingers once, tentative.

“then let me,” you breathe.

he exhales, then his hand moves again—slipping the yukata fully off the other shoulder now. the silk falls down your arms, leaving your upper body bare to the cool night air and his hot gaze. your breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths; nipples tight under his stare. he cups one breast. thumb brushes the peak. you gasp and arch faintly into his palm. naoya groans low in his throat.

“beautiful,” he rasps. “fuck. you’re so—”

his hand squeezes gently, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger in lazy circles. you shiver. he switches to the other, kneading gently, testing the soft weight, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it hardens further under his touch. your breath hitches every time he pinches and he drinks in the helpless sounds you make, the way your back arches like you can’t help it.

he takes his time. minutes stretch. the fever makes everything hazy and slow; there’s no urgency tonight, only this burning need to feel you, to map every inch he’s fantasized about while trapped in endless meetings.

“so soft,” he mutters. “been thinking about these for days. how they’d feel. how they’d look when i—”

he doesn’t finish. instead he drags his hand lower. slowly. fingertips tracing the underside of your breast, down across your stomach. he nudges the remaining fabric of your yukata aside with the back of his hand until it falls open completely. cool air hits more of your skin. you gasp and your thighs press together. but he doesn’t let them stay closed.

his palm slides between them, nudging them apart until your legs part for him. the heat of you radiates against his fingers before he even touches you. when he does—when two fingers glide along your slit—he finds you soaked. slick coats his fingertips instantly.

“already this wet,” he breathes, almost accusing. “just from me touching your tits?”

you bite your lip and try to stifle the moan that wants to escape. it doesn’t work. the sound slips out anyway when he parts your folds with two fingers and drags them up to circle your clit. slow. teasing. barely enough pressure to make you tremble.

“naoya—” your voice cracks on his name.

he groans at the sound and then he lets one fingertip slip inside. not deep. just the very tip, barely past the first knuckle. he doesn’t push further. he simply holds it there, letting you feel it without giving you more, while his thumb hovers over your clit—close enough that you can feel the warmth of it, but not quite touching.

your hips push forward, chasing him, wanting more of him, all of him—but he doesn’t let you have it. instead he curls his finger ever so slightly, then pulls back until only his fingertip rests at your entrance again and circles. in, barely, out, barely.

“naoya, please—” you say, embarrassed at how bad you want him.

“so fucking desperate,” he breathes. “dripping down my fingers before i’ve even really touched you, huh?”

he watches your face the entire time—eyes locked on yours—drinking in every inch you move, every moan, every time your hips roll in desperate circles trying to take more. but then he pulls his hand away and you whine at the loss.

“ride me,” he says. not an order exactly—more like a need he can’t hide anymore.

you hesitate for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking down to the very obvious bulge of him—a dark spot already blooming at the tip from how long he’s been hard—then back to his face.

he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “have you done this before?”

you swallow and nod once.

“then come here.”

he reaches down and tugs the tie of his yukata open. his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing out along the shaft, already leaking steadily from the slit. it twitches against his stomach the moment it’s exposed, a fresh bead of precum welling up and sliding down the underside.

he doesn’t touch himself this time, instead his hand returns to your hip, guiding you closer. “come,” he says. “ride me. slow. i want to feel every inch.”

your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. you shift, mindful of how weak he still is, and straddle his hips, knees sinking into the futon on either side of him. the slick head of his cock brushes your inner thigh, leaving a sticky trail.

you reach down—fingers trembling—wrap them around his base and your breath catches. oh shit, he’s big. thicker than you imagined, veins throbbing under your palm, the head already slick and swollen. you tremble harder, guiding him slowly, heart pounding as the sheer girth presses against your entrance, stretching just the tip inside with a wet, burning pressure that makes your thighs shake.

“that’s it,” he breathes, hands settling on your hips. “take me.”

you sink down—slowly—feeling every thick inch stretch you open. naoya is so thick that the first real press of him makes your breath hitch sharp in your throat; your walls have to part around him inch by torturous inch, fluttering helplessly, trying to accommodate the blunt girth that feels impossible at first.

you tremble above him—thighs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance—unable to drop all the way down as the stretch burns sweet and overwhelming. you pause there, needing a long moment just to adjust, to let your cunt soften around the fat head and the thickest part of his shaft.

naoya groans low beneath you, head tipping back against the pillow while he feels every tiny clench, every flutter of you trying to take him. his hands settle on your hips as he watches you struggle so prettily.

“look at you,” he says. “shaking like a virgin all over again. can’t even take me properly yet, can you?”

each shallow lift and sink makes your breasts bounce gently, drawing his gaze like a magnet. he stares—unblinking, fever-bright—watching the way they sway with your careful movements. he smirks, even as his own breath stutters from the tight heat gripping him.

“bet your last lover never made you pause like this,” he murmurs. “probably had a little prick—barely filled you at all, did he? no wonder you’re trembling so hard now. poor thing’s never had anything this thick splitting her open.”

the words hit like a slap—hot shame and heat flooding your cheeks—but they only make your cunt clench harder around him. another inch slips inside on a wet, slick slide. naoya hisses through his teeth at the sudden squeeze, fingers digging into your hips.

“that’s it,” he breathes. “keep going. take your time. i want to feel every second of you struggling to fit me.”

you do—slow, agonizingly slow—lifting just enough to feel the drag of him along your walls before sinking back down another fraction. and naoya can’t tear his eyes away. his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts now, teasing the sensitive skin while you work yourself lower, lower, until finally—finally—your ass meets his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt. you both freeze for a heartbeat, your cunt stretched wide around his thickness.

naoya’s head falls back again; a long, low groan rumbles from his chest. “fuck… there we go,” he mutters. “took me so well. look how pretty you are—sitting on my cock like you were made for it.”

his hands slide up—cupping your breasts again, thumbs flicking the nipples once, twice—making them bounce in his palms while you whimper and clench around him.

“now ride me,” he says. “slow. let me feel how tight that little cunt is.”

you start to move—tentative at first, hips circling, lifting only an inch or two before sinking back down—and naoya watches every second: your trembling thighs, your tits, the way your face twists with pleasure.

you slowly increase the pace and ride him harder, faster while he cups your breasts, thumbs flicking the swollen peaks once, twice, making them jiggle harder in his hands. then, without warning, he delivers a light slap to the underside of one—sharp enough to sting sweetly.

“keep going,” he rasps. another slap—this one to the other breast—lighter but deliberate, watching the way it jiggles and flushes under his palm. “look at these tits bouncing while you ride me. so fucking pretty.”

the sting blooms into heat; your cunt clenches hard around him in response. you whimper and pick up the pace just a fraction more, rolling your hips deeper, grinding down until your clit drags against his pelvis with every full drop. he slapped your tits again, then squeezed, then slapped once more—each sharp crack of his palm sending heat straight to your core.

naoya’s breathing turns harsher, chest rising and falling fast despite the fever. one hand stays on your tits while the other grips your hip now, helping you take him harder, faster. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the small room, mixing with your soft cries and his groans.

“fuck—take it,” he mutters, slapping the side of one breast again, watching it bounce and redden. “ride me like you mean it. milk me with that tight little cunt.”

you do—hips rolling faster now, thighs burning, cunt dragging around his thickness as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter. your tits bounce with every descent—slapped, squeezed, tormented until they’re flushed and sensitive and aching in the best way.

naoya’s control frays. his hands leave your breasts to grip your waist, holding you down as he grinds up into you. despite the fever burning through him—skin slick with sweat, breaths coming too fast and shallow—his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force. he drives into you hard, deep, relentless—each upward thrust slamming in with a wet smack that echoes in the small room. the thickness of him stretches you wider on every stroke, the head battering against your cervix until your vision whites out at the edges.

a loud moan rips out of your throat, before you can clamp a hand over your mouth. fast, punishing, hips pistoning up from beneath you even as his body trembles with exhaustion and heat. every thrust forces another cry from you.

“quiet,” he growls through gritted teeth. “they’ll hear you—fuck—they’ll all hear how good my cock feels in you.”

you try. you really try. your free hand flies to your mouth, biting down on your knuckles, but another hard upward slam punches a muffled scream past your fingers anyway.

“can’t—can’t stop—” you gasp between moans, voice cracking. “too—too fast—naoya—” but he doesn’t slow down.

if anything he fucks up harder; bury him to the hilt over and over. your walls flutter and spasm around his thickness, clenching so hard he hisses through his teeth.

“let them hear,” he rasps. “let the whole fucking estate know who’s ruining this tight little cunt. who’s making you scream like this.”

another loud cry tears from your throat as he slams up deep, holding you down on him for a long second so you feel every throbbing inch buried inside. your thighs shake violently around his waist; slick drips down his shaft, coating his balls, soaking into the futon beneath him.

and you’re gone. cock drunk, mind melted, body nothing but a trembling vessel for him now. the last coherent thought you had shattered somewhere between the next brutal thrust and the way he held you pinned, forcing you to feel every thick, throbbing inch stretch and claim you. now there’s only heat, only fullness, only the relentless drag of him inside you as he keeps fucking up into your limp body.

you can’t fight it. can’t even try.

your arms hang useless and your head falls forward, hair sticking to your damp forehead, then back as another deep slam punches a moan from your throat. echoing off the thin walls like you don’t care who hears anymore—because you don’t. you’re too far gone to care.

“gonna—fuck—gonna come—”

you feel him everywhere. feel his cum everywhere when he comes. the first thick pulse hits deep—hot, heavy, flooding your core in a sudden rush. you feel it bloom inside: warm spurts coating your walls, painting every inch, filling the tight space until there’s nowhere left for it to go. another pulse follows—then another—each one throbbing against your sensitive inner walls, stretching you further.

feel his head press against your cervix with every spurt of his release until you can feel the excess already leaking out: slow, sticky trails seeping around his shaft where he’s still buried inside you, dripping down your inner thighs in warm strands.

and naoya doesn’t stop. even after he’s come, he keeps going. hips snapping up, using your slick, oversensitive cunt like it’s his personal fucktoy. your walls flutter weakly around him—too exhausted to clench properly—but still so wet, so open, so perfectly ruined for him.

“look at you,” he mutters. one hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other slides up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so he can see your face—eyes glassy, mouth slack, drool slipping from the corner of your lips. “fucked dumb already. just a pretty little doll for me to use.”

he exhales roughly through his nose.

then he moves.

strong hands grip your waist and flip you, dropping you face-down onto the futon. your cheek presses into the damp fabric; breasts flatten beneath you; ass lifts instinctively as he manhandles your hips up just enough. he doesn’t give you time to brace.

he drives back in—hard, deep, brutal—one long, punishing thrust that buries him to the hilt again. the thick length forces its way through your already cum-stuffed cunt; the pressure is obscene. his earlier release gets pushed out around his shaft in a sudden, messy gush. it leaks out in spurts, splattering wetly against your inner thighs, dripping down onto the floor in fat, sticky drops.

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. just keeps fucking into you like he’s trying to carve himself deeper, like he wants to fuck his release right back inside until there’s no room left for anything else.

naoya’s mind fractures in the haze between thrusts—fever thoughts cutting through the lust.

an illegitimate child.

the words surface unbidden, the way they always do when his body betrays him with want instead of control. a brat with his blood and your softness. no name, no clan standing, just another stain the elders would use to sharpen their knives against him. scandal. weakness. proof he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants around a servant girl.

unfortunate.

dangerous.

he should stop. should pull out. should spill on your back, your stomach, anywhere but deep inside where it could take root.

but he doesn’t.

he can’t.

not when your cunt is feeling so good around him—greedy, slick, milking every drop he’s already given you like it’s starving for more. not when the wet squelch of his cock plunging back into the mess he’s made is the most perfect sound he’s ever heard. not when your body trembles beneath him—limp, cock-drunk, ass raised just enough for him to drive deeper—and every sob that spills from your swollen lips is a plea he can’t ignore.

fuck the risk.

fuck the consequences.

right now the only thing that matters is the heat of you wrapped around him, the way your walls spasm every time he bottoms out, the obscene splash of his cum being forced out only to be fucked right back in with the next deep thrust.

he wants to keep filling you.

keep marking you.

keep claiming every inch until there’s no part of you that doesn’t drip with him.

fever be damned.

so he does.

he fucks you through the night.

naoya zenin has never cared less about tomorrow.

a/n: i’m sorry guys....

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.

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