Mimi (о´∀`о)

She apologized, saying she’d make up for your spilled coffee after a quick training session with some kid named Todo, and even said you could come along and spectate before she fulfilled her promise. And suddenly, your plans of bed-rotting after taking down two first-grade curses earlier didn’t seem so urgent anymore.

So, naturally, you followed along and watched her spar with her one and only student.

She made it look like an art form— maybe even a dance, honestly, given that her movements sang with graceful precision and ease. You’ve never seen someone blatantly laughing and having fun between traded blows like fighting was the world’s most entertaining capoeira; an Afro-Brazilian martial arts style that blends elements of dance, acrobatics, and rhythmic kicks, all of which she seemed to be pulling off every time she swept low to the ground to disarm Todo or playfully feinted to sharpen his awareness.

“You were staring pretty hard. You see something you like?” You remember she teased afterwards, all sun-bright skin layered in sweat and warm brown eyes that sparkled when you flinched, caught.

You rolled your eyes at the time, but there was never any hiding it: you were staring. And you’d always find yourself staring from then on.

The first time Yuki nearly made you crumple on the spot was before she and Todo even got into the swing of things; all she did was tie her honeyed hair back into a recklessly swinging ponytail, revealing the play of muscles in her arms, and you nearly dropped your already empty coffee cup again, because holy sleeper build. You had no clue she was packing all of that.

The second time, Yuki had whisked the bottom of her tank top up to wipe the glistening beads of perspiration from her Cupid’s bow, abs bunching below the line of her sports bra in a strained flex that sent a ripple down her torso (making your own stomach coil with something embarrassingly mushy), you had to stop yourself from outright dropping your pants on the field.

And the third time, when she finally called Todo off and slung a bag of heavy supplies over one sturdy shoulder before coming to join you— you had stopped trying to look away at all. In fact, you ogled her a little too blatantly, having given up on any sense of propriety. That’s exactly why she shot that comment your way.

Yuki carries herself with a paradoxical ease that’s equal parts strength and softness as if she’s in control of gravity itself. And in a sense, given her capabilities, she is. Years of discipline and training has carved definition into her; her thighs and biceps are sculpted slabs wrapped in smooth skin. Every line of her underscores that she’s someone who pushes her body as hard as she pushes her mind.

That strength, however, becomes something otherworldly when she invokes her cursed technique: Star Rage. By adding virtual mass to her body, Yuki could make her frame heavier, denser— like pulling a star down to earth and wrapping it in human form. It wasn't just brute force; it was the weight of inevitability, the feeling that resistance was futile because the cosmos itself leaned on her leash.

And the moment Yuki allows a flicker of her technique to bleed through, the ground beneath her always groans and bends as if struggling beneath a giantess. You’re strong yourself, a given in the field of sorcery, but seeing Yuki crush curses into dust without breaking a sweat… that’s something else entirely. You’ve seen her toss curses the size of trucks like they were rag dolls and shatter concrete with a singular blow.

It’s actually fucking insane.

Yet despite all that supernatural prowess that’s earned her the special-grade ranking, she’s still your Yuki: talkative, cheerful, all brawn and brilliance and bright laughter and never quite serious enough for her own good.

And she’s strong on her own, you know that. You’ve seen her fight before, seen the way her blows carry the weight of meteors even without activating her cursed technique, and you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought how is she even real? Better yet, how is she even mine?

A very particular thought concerning Star Rage creeps into your mind one lazy afternoon— an afternoon that was no different from any other— while the two of you are lounging in Yuki’s newest hideout, a renovated warehouse turned half-gym, half-living space just outside the city. It’s one of her many spots— she owns property all around Japan and across the country. You’re both killing time on a rare day off, which Yuki treats with the same enthusiasm she reserves for an all-you-can-eat buffet (she always fucks up the chicken burritos whenever you stumble upon said buffets).

The air is humid and humming, making even breathing feel like you’re still wading through the warm waters of the shower you just finished. Shampoo tickles your neck where the spray missed its mark, a faint reminder that you never quite rinsed Yuki’s favorite scent for her hair— crushed wildflowers and mandarin— off of your skin.

The warehouse itself still bears the bones of what it used to be. Steel pillars stand like sentinels between cables snaking across the floor between scattered gym equipment in the corner, the faint thrum of Junko Ohashi playing from a stereo stacked on a mismatched pile of books. It’s spacious, yet not in a way that feels empty; it feels lived in, like the air itself hums with Yuki’s presence.

Her touch has softened it: potted plants cling to the sills, their trailing stems swaying high above the woven mats that cover the scuffed concrete floor almost entirely. A singular cushy sofa is draped with thickly lined quilts with hanging lights strung like constellations just above, and a few steps away from the living space is the door bordering it from the bedroom and adjoining bathroom.

Sunlight filters through the warehouse skylights and the cracked industrial windows in hazy yellow sheets, carrying the buzz of summer cicadas from the swaying trees into the building. It slashes golden stripes across the floor and Yuki’s hair, turning the strands into spun metal. There’s the faint smell of exhaust from Yuki’s motorcycle parked just outside on the gravel path, too, but aside from that, there’s nothing.

It’s comforting to know you’re far away from everything. No curses, no higher-ups, no bigwig glimmering city chattering drunken sins in your ear. You’ve become so fluent with the sounds of the wild that hitting the crowded streets feels like plunging into neon static that your skin doesn’t know how to soak in properly when it's not the sun.

The breeze blanketing the room hauls playfully at her hair like a misbehaving child as Yuki leans back on one hand on the floor, tank top rumpled, steely calves stretched out on the rug. Entirely in her element, she rambles on and on about some new theory of curse evolution from around an absentminded mouthful of a watermelon-flavored sucker.

(She wears her power as casually as her shorts and tank top; like it’s just another thing she happens to have in excess.)

Nearby, you’re sitting cross-legged, chin propped on your palm. You aren’t really listening, even though what your girlfriend was saying was incredibly interesting. You’re mostly content to note how the corded lines of her left arm jumps beneath the guise of her buttery-soft lotioned skin every time she reshifts her weight.

With the calluses on her knuckles and the faint scars that traced her skin, she’s the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen, and would forever be. You harbor a kind of quiet awe for her that’s never really faded, and your pulse picks up to beat a steady hammer at the base of your ridiculously dry throat the longer you observe her.

“So pretty it’s unfair,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.

Of course, it’s that she catches. Yuki pushes off of her palm to fold her legs in a lazy cross that mirrors your own, elbows perched on her knees. Her fingers idly tap away at her thighs to keep time with the song floating through the warehouse. It’s a languorous kind of motion— unhurried, her body let loose, yet carrying that faint undercurrent of restlessness that always seems to hum beneath her calm exterior.

“Hm?” She tilts her head toward you, her brilliant grin already squinting her eyes together into tiny crescents like she’s heard the murmuring of your heart and she’s about to use it against you. “You say something, lover? Are you trying to butter me up now that I’ve fed you dinner?”

You let your head teeter back enough to rest it on the edge of the couch, attempting to hide your fluster behind a thin veil of nonchalance. “Maybe,” you sigh, an idea beginning to form that probably shouldn’t, “but I was just thinking of something,” you admit, taking a glance at her from beneath your lashes.

Yuki squints at you, suspicious in the way only someone used to your schemes can be. “Uh oh. Well, I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to suggest something stupid’ voice,” she lightheartedly accuses, her lollipop muffling the vowels that roll off her tongue.

“Not stupid,” you counter petulantly.

Her eyes glint, then, golden honey at the edges. “Okaaaay… Should I be worried, then?”

“Only if you’re scared you’ll crush me.” It comes out breathier than intended.

Yuki laughs— full-bodied and bright, her giggles shaking her shoulders. “Oh, so you wanna spar? You know I don’t pull punches, babe.” She winks.

“You already throw me around during sparring sessions. How much worse could it get?” You snicker. You glance up at the high ceiling so that her presence doesn’t fill your senses and drown you in her steady warmth before you can get the words out. “But no, not exactly. I was just thinking, do you think you could throw me around with those?” You nod at Yuki’s jacked arms.

An entirely rhetorical question. You’ve lost count of how many times she’s flung you around during spars (each one a dance you never quite lead, no matter how many times you tell yourself you will).

One second you think you’ve got her, your hand grazing her shoulder, your stance set— and the next you’re soaring over her shoulder, your vision spinning before she drops you flat on a mat hard enough to feel the echo in your teeth. It may bruise your pride a little (and your shoulders and back) when you’re beat, but it all flies out the window when Yuki grins down at you like she’s playing with her best friend and girlfriend rather than fighting.

And every single time, you find yourself staring up at her with that same stupid awe, her musical laughter cutting through the ringing in your ears as she crouches over you, sweat beading along her temple and the smug tilt of victory tugging at her mouth. When she offers you her hand to help you up, the calluses of her palm brushing your fingers, she’s always still smiling— wholly radiant in a way that makes you almost forget how hard she just floored you.

That question gets her attention in the way you expected it to. Yuki stops fiddling with the stick of the lollipop peeking from the corner of her mouth, blinking big brown eyes at you through the sunlight shrouding her vision. Confidence winks in the milky pool of her irises like her very own stars that’ve sunken into the orbit of her pupils. “Yeah, no doubt. I have before,” she says slowly, drawing it out like she’s weighing you for amnesia. “Why?”

You swallow. The easy truth in that doesn’t even wound you; it just makes more warmth puff from your core that’s already long heated from her mouth and fingers that descended on you earlier that not even your shower could wash away. You’re still aptly stretched; dreadfully empty. A glass that’s half full, aching to be tipped, to be filled until the rim quivers and everything spills over in her name.

“Even if it means using your CT? ‘Cause like—“ and you’re suddenly fumbling over the subject like a grandma spilling a carton of eggs— “y’know, the extra mass.”

But what you really wanna say is I want you flip me upside down and top me. You keep that part to yourself for now, though.

Yuki’s plump lips curl into that trademark half-smirk that always means you’re about to playfully squabble as she teases you mercilessly… or you’re gonna fuck. Or both. Either way, you’re more than a little hot between the thighs. “I see how it is now. You wanna see how much stronger your girlfriend can get with the help of Star Rage, huh? You wanna feeeeel iiiiit all up close and intimate?” She singsongs.

“Not like that,” you lie like a goddamned liar immediately, pointing at her as her grin widens. Then, because you’re embarrassed about how badly you actually want it, you deflect. “Don’t make it horny.”

Yuki’s laughter rings through the hollowed space of the warehouse like windchimes hit by a playful gust, the sound all cheery and mischievous. You definitely don’t make moon eyes at her upon being granted an utter blessing— her tank top clings to her ribs and abdomen (and most importantly her boobs) with each shaking chuckle.

The stick of her lollipop clacks satisfactorily between her teeth when she shifts it to rest in the pocket of her cheek to speak without an object in the way of her tongue. Though it makes her sound a little bit like a chipmunk, what with the hard candy puffing one cheek out enough to make every word come out slurry and warped when she does speak, “‘Don’t make it horny,’” she pokes, mimicking your tone with exaggerated dramatics, “says the massive pervert herself right after asking me to use my cursed technique to have my wicked way with her. You hear yourself? You’re either a masochist or you wanna play a little predator and prey, bu-nny.”

She may as well have pushed her thumb over one of those dog clickers for training with how swiftly you push off of the couch and rigidly right your shoulders. “There will be none of that, because that’s not what I said. Or meant. Or—“ You cut yourself off, because the way she’s tucking her hair behind her ear to eye you up makes the spouted falsities trip over each other like a magician’s misbehaving rabbits. Which feels fitting.

“Please, by all means, explain it to me then,” Yuki goads, raising her finely manicured brows like she’s already dismantled your entire defense. “You don’t know this, actually, but I’m secretly a certified scientist. Precision of language matters in my field. Go on, chop chop!”

“Yuki,” you groan, unimpressed by her sarcasm. Her earth-brown irises snapshots the twitch of your fingers where they still point at her, trembling just slightly, before you tuck them into your lap to keep them away from her growing smugness.

“Uh-huh?”

You exhale through your nose, a strangled noise bubbling up in the back of your throat that’s supposed to sound like a scoff but comes out more like a whimper of bashful surrender. “Forget it.”

She doesn’t move closer, just blinks readily at you before lowering her voice enough that it skims over your skin. “God, you’re cute when you dig your own grave. If you wanted me to forget it, princess, you shouldn’t have said it while looking at me like that,” she purrs prettily, rocking back and forth in her cross-legged position like a cat that’s just spotted a particularly juicy-looking mouse.

So you do the only thing you can do— escape.

You push yourself up, palms pressed to the woven mat for a beat longer than necessary— mostly to make sure your knees won’t give out from how flustered you are. You stand, brushing invisible dust from your shorts even though your hands don’t need something to do nearly as much as your dignity does. That slow-blooming warmth crawling up your neck isn’t the summer heat; it’s Yuki’s gaze following you.

“Okay, I’m dipping before you get any ideas,” you mutter to yourself, voice a notch too thin but thankfully pitched quiet enough that your girlfriend doesn’t catch on. You crouch to collect the empty bowls and cups from the low table between you, careful not to meet her eyes lest you fall for her siren-like charms.

The soft clatter of ceramic fills the air as you stack and gather them up a little too carefully, hoping the sound masks the tiny stutter in your movements— the smallest tell that you’re retreating, if only to give your embarrassment somewhere to hide. When you step around the side of the table with your arms full, a stray finger snags in the hem of your shorts to playfully jostle you, and you squeak out a laugh as you bat Yuki’s hand away with a nudge of your hip.

Yuki’s chuckles floats over like a teasing melody as you go darting away, dishes balanced precariously. “You’re a menace!” You call out, feet skittering across the floor a little too fast— definitely not running, definitely not affected. The hum of cicadas fills the space between your footsteps, their rhythm quickening suspiciously in tandem with your heartbeat. You can feel the way your panties cling a tad damply to your skin beneath your shorts.

“Takes one to date one!” She hoots back instantly, and that’s all it takes to shift the simmering playfully challenging tension to something somewhat softer, more intimate.

When you start giggling yourself and shoot a half-hearted glare over your shoulder to further share the good humor with her, you briefly freeze when you find Yuki unfurling from her lioness-like sprawl, rolling up on the balls of her feet. In that split second falter of yours, she tucks her fingers together, extending her arms wide above her head, and tilts her entire body to the side in a wave of falling golden hair with a crisp pop of joints cracking. An exaggerated groan flits from her crimson-glossed lips when she stretches enough that there’s an imperceptible ripple of muscle moving under her tank top.

Fluid and slow, like she’s a predator deliberately giving you time to create some distance knowing damn well that she’ll catch you with ease, eventually— and there’s no escape window here to even open and jump out of in time.

Shit. You’ve started something you won’t win. All you can do is get to the kitchen— which, in truth, is just a section of countertop, a sink that gurgles when it’s overworked, and a mismatched pair of cabinets that Yuki scavenged from a hardware store clearance sale and hammered into the wall— and decide if you’d rather be caught sooner rather than later. That’s the best you’ve got.

You place the dishes in the sink and exhale, biting your lip as if it’ll relieve the aroused throb growing a home in your core. This feels like some strange sort of foreplay, and not even the subtle push and pull kind. Just a very elaborate game of “how long can we pretend this isn’t going exactly where we both know it’s going?” before Yuki comes to collect what’s hers and indulges you in the same breath the moment you stop pretending to be busy.

Not that she gives you much time to even do so.

The sound of her foot pressing the pedal of the trash can at the edge of the kitchen space tells you that she’s already closer than you thought she was. It’s followed by a savory crunch of the lollipop finally splintering between Yuki’s teeth and the soft shhh of the garbage bag catching the stick she tosses in.

Something that doesn’t at all fit in with the natural melody of the warehouse is the sudden creaaaaak of floorboards beneath her feet— they’re bowing to her, as though they’ve become sentient and the floor’s suddenly realized it’s supporting something far beyond human. Even the metal struts of the warehouse give a faint groan in protest of the shift in the air that’s almost imperceptible until it isn’t.

Her cursed energy begins buzzing warmly, equivalent to a July storm steadily rolling in over the sea. There’s a subtle heaviness to it, a pull of gravity doubling, tripling, compressing the air down into a strip thinner than a paper. You sense it vibrate through the floorboards first, subtle but unmistakable, then it spreads like static at your back when she pads closer on graceful toes.

It makes the hair at your nape rise to attention. But what really makes you shiver is when Yuki blows a long breath over the back of your neck, just to amuse herself with the shiver that zings through you.

Her shadow eclipses yours as she swarms in, caging you in your spot. “Caught you,” she preens softly, snaking her arms around you from behind and fanning her hands firmly over the expanse of your midsection. The press of her palms is impossibly heavy as if she’s dragging the invisible weight of the atmosphere itself toward her, and you with it.

It has you teetering a little in place as you try to push against it in the opposite direction, just a token unserious protest. But the second she flexes her fingers and tugs you back enough that your spine meets the warm, plush wall of her breasts and the notch of her hips sliding into place against your ass (you nearly fumble the sponge when you reach for it to run it under the tap water), the density around you tightens. It’s more absolute than an entire fucking solar system.

“Cute,” she coos, then, “I think I get your interest. I mean, Star Rage’s what makes me a special grade sorceress, babes. Can’t just rely on good looks and charm, even though those are my natural assets.”

She’s half teasing still, but the way her voice swoops low— smug, raspier— burrows under your skin and takes up residence there. Every word radiates through the room like it’s carrying a fraction of the earth’s core. It’s dangerous.

“Mmhm,” you manage instead of the agreeable laugh you tried (and failed) to force out, the weak noise barely passing your lips as her body heat radiates over your back and sneaks into every muscle of yours. Suddenly even breathing feels like an effort. Like your lungs have to work harder just to pull air past the virtual mass that’s gathering around you.

Her clever mouth finds your shoulder first, brushing lightly against the slope of it before drifting higher. The kiss that follows lands against the base of your neck, her smile etched into it. You can just imagine Yuki’s face; honey-brown eyes drooped lazily and every fair line of her expression oozing intimate arousal. It makes your fingers flex around the sponge for one useless second before you pump soap over it—

— And you promptly fumble it for the second time when she settles more deliberately, pinning you gently between the counter’s edge and the warmth of her that seeps through your clothes. You’re acutely aware of every tall, pretty inch of the blonde beauty behind you. The state of your wettening panties is pathetic, frankly.

“See, the trick,” she murmurs, her nose brushing along the curve of your ear before she kisses just below it, “isn’t just about stacking weight. It’s about control of all this pressure and knowing how much someone— or something— can take before it breaks.”

That makes your cunt twitch and shudder.

Her hands slide over your curves to your hips, thumbs circling lazily over your hipbones to map the shape of you that she already knows so well. You can’t bite back your instinctual shiver. “It’s something I gotta be careful with, but I’ve learned to be more and more precise with the output over the years.”

“Does that mean that you’re basically holding me with the mass of a small planet right now?” You swallow hard, the sound of it almost embarrassingly loud in the kitchen.

“Mm, not really,” she hums thoughtfully, leaning in so that a strand of her hair brushes over your skin. There, Yuki plants a smooch just behind your jaw, slower this time, lingering enough that her breath warms the spot she leaves behind. “I’m more like a… compact star. Not quite supernova or blackhole material, which is basically what I get when I crank it up to one-hundred percent.”

The fact that she’s not even exerting anything close to her max potential— why does that turn you on? She keeps chattering, barely giving you time to go down a horny spiral, “But you have nothing to be afraid of, lover. Pinky promise.”

Her words sink into the space between your racing heartbeat and the hum of dusk’s life outside. Somehow, you can’t decide if what’s holding you is her cursed technique or the simple fact that you don’t really want to move. You chew your lip harder, scrubbing halfheartedly at the soapy bowl in your hands. “I never said that I didn’t trust you not to crush me,” you say eventually.

Yuki hums again. You feel it more than hear it vibrating where her chest meets your back. “Didn’t say you did, either,” she replies. It’s just shy of laughter, her words brushing over your skin like a breeze through warm air.

You try to focus on the dishes, on the faint squeak of sponge against ceramic, but your grip falters when her mouth opens against your neck again. Her cadence drops to a murmur so sinful it curls straight into your spine, “But I know what you really wanna say. I think it turns you on that I could hold you down and keep you beneath me all night if I wanted to,” Yuki purrs lightly, the words drawn out with a confidence that makes your pulse stumble.

There’s no malice in it— just affection wrapped in the thrill of teasing you, of testing the edge of how close she can get while knowing you explicitly before you push back.

Her tongue traces a slow line along your skin, and your next breath is caught halfway between a surprised noise and something dangerously close to a moan. That alone earns a quietly satisfied chuckle from her that’s almost carried away by the soft hiss of the running tap.

You can’t resist showing her the vulnerable column of your neck like a wild animal turned sweetly docile, head tilting to the side to grant her further passage. Yuki takes it in stride and mouths and nips indulgently at your skin until you’re squirming.

Fruitlessly squirming, might you add, since there’s a very attractive brick wall quite literally preventing you from making a wily escape.

“I plead the fifth,” you rasp, just to fuck with her. You don’t turn around. You just stand there, thighs embarrassingly clamped together to get some friction on your clit and hands still in the sink, pretending that the plate in your grip demands your full concentration even though you’re buzzy with arousal.

“Still pretending you’re not enjoying this?” Yuki teases, studying your reaction as much as she’s savoring it.

Her body finally presses in fully flush against your back, the pull of her cursed energy threading through like gravity’s hands have decided you belong exactly where you are. She grinds her pelvis into your ass, just like that, forcing your stomach further into the cold razor of the sink’s edge. Though you can’t feel an obvious press of her arousal, she sure is making a point to showcase her lecherous intent and interest.

You don’t even realize your fingers have gone slack until the next dish slips from your hands and clinks into the sink, startling you. Water runs in lazy rivulets over your fingers and swirls the pinkish suds down, down, down into the drain, the sound suddenly distant beneath the steady drumbeat filling your ears. You watch it all funnel downwards, distantly comparing your sanity to the disappearing streams.

Yuki’s chuckle is low and pleased, the sound of someone who knows they’ve just proven a point. The warmth of it spills across your skin like sunlight through the half-drawn curtains framing the window that looks out into the field beyond the warehouse. When she presses her lips to your neck again, it’s less of a kiss and more of a bid for attention— a touch that says ‘I’m here. You feel that, don’t you?’

You shakily wipe your hands off on the nearest dishtowel before pressing the digits to the lip of the sink until your knuckles whiten. “Yuki…” you warn, but your voice comes out closer to a softened plea than a protest with any sort of backbone behind it.

(Horny thought: Yuki could break your back anytime.)

“What’s up?” She hums with faux innocence. Boldly, she reaches past you to turn off the running water with an airiness that projects her confidence in knowing she owns the space you occupy.

The faint scent of the watermelon lollipop lingering on her breath and something wild— maybe her shampoo, maybe her— fills your head until you forget what you were trying to say. So you blurt out instinctively, your totally eloquent word choice making it sound as though you’re a child pleading to be carried away for nap time: “Bedtime.”

Yuki’s responding giggle that’s almost girlish in its higher-pitched excitement is the sound of someone who knows they’ve just won. It’s quick and bright, the summer sun incarnate, bringing some levity to the simmering tension.

It makes you almost afraid to look behind you; you know you’ll melt the second you spy Yuki’s signature lopsided beam that’s entirely doglike. The one that adorably scrunches up her nose and blonde brows and crinkles her dusky brown eyes until they’re half moons of umber fire, glowing at their edges where sunlight seeps through her pearly cracks.

“Wanna go to bed, huh? Guess I made quite an impression,” Yuki chirps, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster. Her hands creep up, heavy where they begin blatantly groping your tits in anticipation. Your knees nearly buckle at the pressure over your nipples, which stiffen accordingly.

Before Yuki can take this situation (read: you) into her own hands and sling you over her shoulder like you’re her bride in some deeply chaotic version of a fairytale wedding, you let your cursed energy wink, just once— and the kitchen folds and swirls in on itself in a dizzy whirl of light and sound. In the blink of an eye, you’re being dropped into the wide, open bedroom of the renovated warehouse.

Yuki shimmers into place at your back as intended. She lets out a sputtering snort of laughter that sings through you right before she releases you, allowing you to stumble a few steps forward into the edge of the bed. You don’t get very far from her; it feels like the air around you is threatening to suck you into her all-encompassing void.

Finally, bracing like you’re about to stare at the eternally beautiful Medusa and be frozen in place, you peek over your shoulder. Yuki’s blinking rapidly, standing tall and pressing her palm flat over her heart to steady herself. “Okay, wow,” she says, drinking in the familiar walls of the lofted bedroom, her blonde hair a little frizzed from the jump. “You always do that too fast. Next time, give me a countdown before you whisk me away. I nearly left my stomach back at the sink!”

“I thought you wanted the deluxe package,” you deadpan through your abnormally dry throat, making it extremely obvious that you’re checking her out.

“What does that include?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. She only smiles wider in a pull of her lips that flashes her pearly whites when she catches you; you nearly have to cover your eyes to avoid being blinded by the golden blaze of radiance oozing off of her.

Instead, you give her a playful side-eye. “First-class delivery. Door-to-door service. Occasional pussy and throwing my ass back at you action.”

“Scandalous,” Yuki sighs dreamily, drawing out the word like honey off a spoon and playfully fanning herself as she saunters over to cover the scent distance you put between the two of you. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

Around you, the bedroom feels like the warehouse’s secret heart. It’s less a separate room and more a pocket of warmth carved out of the industrial shell surrounding it, and though it’s not massive, it’s expansive all the same— mostly because of how intentionally Yuki decorated it.

The ceiling beams are exposed, crisscrossing like the ribs of some great creature, and from them hang strings of warm light bulbs and a few dried flowers bundled together in twine— lavender, baby’s breath, something that might’ve been wild roses once, and it subtly perfumes the air without being overpowering. Along one mossy green wall that you recently painted sits a dresser (covered with peeling stickers Yuki’s snagged from souvenir shops from around the world) cluttered with things that belong to you and Yuki.

There’s stray silver and gold rings that missed their designated dishes and hair ties on its surface. A few photo strips from some old booth are pinned to the corner of the mirror hanging above the dresser, housing memories of your smiles that came out blurred from the two of you laughing too hard.

The large window of the opposite wall is cracked open just enough for the afternoon air to sneak through. It carries in the low hum of nature’s breath, distant and lazy, and the rhythmic tapping of a wind chime.

Finally, there’s a bed that dominates the center of the space that calls your name. Beneath the wooden legs of the frame is a thick rug from Morocco, clearly thrifted but loved all the same. The bed itself isn’t precisely made up, but it’s comfortable looking in that careless, sleepily rumpled way, the sheets a pale cream gone a little washed from the sun that spills through the windows in the afternoon. A mountain of mismatched pillows crowds the headboard, patterned with simple lines or embroidered flowers.

Though your curated space is lovely, Yuki’s beauty far surpasses it. Now that you’re not staring pointedly at the dishes that have been abandoned in the sink, you properly take your girlfriend in.

Her body doesn’t look different— she’s still the same lean woman that you love in her tank top and cozy shorts that match your own— but there’s a palpable density to her presence now that Star Rage is active. The layers of invisible weight line Yuki’s edges in a faint shimmering outline that reminds you of heat distortion on concrete, thick and wavery in the air.

You barely have time to note the tightening of muscle before Yuki moves faster than she should be able to for someone who just multiplied her own mass. One second you’re standing upright, the next you’re being tackled backwards as she playfully pounces. “Yuki!” You yelp out with a peal of startled laughter, your body hitting the bed and getting swallowed up by the puffy comforter that absorbs the impact.

Yuki’s shadow falls over you as she leaps atop you in quick succession, knees pressing deep into the blanket on either side of your hips in a comfortable straddle. Taking advantage of your shock, she snatches up your wrists with a triumphant grin and pins them to the pillow above your head with one of her hands.

And oh, you can really feel the difference when you start trying to thrash back despite your giggles that weaken you— the extra mass of her cursed technique grounds her and pins you effortlessly. The substantial weight isn’t crushing but present, and you can tell how carefully she’s balancing that impossible density so she doesn’t hurt you.

Jesus. You’re so turned on that your brain is turning to static.

“Oh my god— what the hell!” You manage between laughter despite yourself. You arch up to shove your shoulders and chest into her without the use of your hands, but Yuki doesn’t budge an inch, laughing so hard herself above you that she nearly loses her balance on her own rather than due to your efforts. “You’re crushing me!”

Her voice rings out from between her glossed lips, bright and unrestrained. “You wanted to see what it was like if I added a little mass!” She crows, starting to tickle you in earnest now, making you shriek bloody murder at the silly race of her fingers across your vulnerable tummy.

“This isn’t ‘a little’ anything! I can’t— move—!”

“Exactly!” Yuki sings, positively delighted. “That’s the point.”

You twist futilely under her, the two of you dissolving into giggles like kids roughhousing on a lazy afternoon as Yuki keeps going, relentless and giddy. Through your mirthful tears that haze your vision, she’s radiant— blonde strands of hair falling loose around her face, framing her face like honeyed corn-silk ready for harvest.

Your girlfriend’s breathless and red-cheeked from the effort, and you’re trying to tell her to (unseriously) fuck off through your chortling that gives way to shallow wheezes toeing the line between hilarity and something more heated. It feels natural, what with how light yet tight-knit your relationship has always been. Getting to horse around with the woman you adore with all of your heart, without all the heavy stuff from the outside world, is… nice.

(Mass joke intended.)

The giggles you share taper off, Yuki still bending down enough that her humored exhales ghost across your mouth. Her fingers slow where they’d been merciless and the grin painting her rosy face softens as she watches you try to catch your breath below. Still, her weight remains firm, her other hand still caging your wrists.

“Is someone ready to tap out already?” Yuki pokes fun the second you slump back, teasingly smug.

“I’m just warming up,” you jest right back even though you’re beyond winded.

“You talk big game,” she murmurs, her tone suddenly too pointed to be more of that joyous play. The air between you feels charged, intoxicatingly so. “Still think you could take me?”

You start to scrounge up a coy answer for that loaded ass innuendo, but the words fumble in your chest when she replies for you— quietly, with her mouth descending over yours.

The corners of Yuki’s lips are still curved where they press into you, tasting sweetly of watermelon-flavored candy and something cinnamon-y. It’s like a dose of addictive, sugary heat poured straight into your lungs, impossible to breathe without wanting more. You’d let her win every time if it meant this. It kills all of your fight and turns you into malleable clay beneath her, dissolving into the easy pull of her affection.

She moves unhurriedly against you, her trail glistening over your mouth. Every time you meet, drawn into each other, there’s a rhythm to it— a glide of lips, a whisper of tongue, a faint scrape of teeth dulled by restraint. The impressions left by your pressed mouths leaves a bloom of gut-twisting warmth behind.

You can’t tamp down the moan that breaks free when Yuki bodily flattens herself atop you, chest to chest (making it a little hard to breathe) and stomach to stomach, and licks heavily into your mouth that bends open until she reaches where she wants. It’s hard to do anything but unconsciously obey— especially when she abruptly frees your wrists and guides your hands up to meet her.

She could take over completely if she wanted to. It’d be laughably easy for her, in all actuality, especially with Star Rage idling beneath her sunkissed skin. But she lets you feel like it’s your choice to stay beneath her, to allow her to guide your own touch— a display of casually confident dominance that sends a shudder through you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

Twining your wrists at the back of her neck, you arch into her more readily. Your tongues meet and trace, brushing against teeth, lips, and the roof of each other’s mouths with an intimacy that has every nerve ending humming. It’s lazy at first, then your joining grows with mounting urgency until all that exists is the burn of Yuki’s mouth on yours and the sudden wedge of a knee between your legs.

“Fuck,” you breathlessly curse into her, the word half-tangled by her tongue. Her cursed energy pours more heavily into her concentrated knee, pulsing like a heartbeat against your clothed cunt. Your legs spread, equal parts your own body’s response and the command of Yuki's sheer presence, and you grind into the give of her.

The clothed friction chafes sinfully over your clit— it makes your fingers uselessly curl at her nape. Your second moan, reedier this time, has Yuki peeling her mouth away from yours with a lewd shllick of saliva separating and breaking.

She placates you with a few quick, chaste pecks that allow her to linger a heartbeat longer. She’s propped above you, lips shimmering and kiss-swollen with the evidence of her play. Her brown eyes are half-lidded cups of espresso, scalding and humming with satisfied energy, blonde lashes lowered like the fall of dusk over her eyes. Yuki looks as wrecked as you feel, still needily rolling up into her as if you can’t bring yourself to stop now that she’s where you want her.

“You really are something else,” Yuki murmurs in a rasp that nearly makes you cream on the spot, her hands finding your circling hips to brush her thumbs along your hipbone in a steadying caress as you work against her. “Most people flinch when they feel this kind of pressure. But you like it, huh? Would this count as a violation of the ‘don’t make it horny’ clause?”

Your brain bluescreens for a moment until your earlier declaration of ‘don’t make it horny’ after expressing your interest in her using Star Rage against you pops to mind. You snort, trying to sound casual but failing entirely, “Yeah… I mean, I definitely like being overpowered way more than I probably should. But don’t let it get to your head.”

Yuki tilts her head, hooded eyes alight— you can see yourself in the glassy sheen, splayed out beneath her for the taking, your hair mussed and shirt askew. She chews her wrecked bottom lip, clearly enjoying the sight. “Too late,” she sighs huskily yet lightheartedly, clearly savoring your reaction. The playful heat is still there but it’s tempered just slightly by affection.

She lets her forehead press against yours for a beat before she ducks down, trails teasing kisses down your jaw and to your neck. She gently bites into you the same way she would a tangy and sweet slice of sun-warmed blood orange, pulling a gasp from your quivering throat.

A lazy swipe of Yuki’s tongue somewhat soothes the build-up of a pounding throb right as her once-encouraging hold on your hips grows firmer all of a sudden. Her cursed energy is crushed into her grip, holding you still. Whining a little, you try to buck up against her knee again in a desperate bid for friction, but Yuki only chuckles and pushes down harder, keeping you helplessly pinned. It makes you feel a little bit like you’re a trapped insect that she’s studying.

"You're really struggling now, princess," Yuki mocks teasingly between the kisses and plum-purple hickeys she decorates your neck with. The touch only makes your cunt squeeze harder around nothing and your legs thrash in almost childish frustration, so keyed up you could cry. "But you're not fighting me. You're just grinding under me like a dog in heat. Feels that good, does it?”

You can’t even respond— not when she sits her curved ass back on your thighs to further subdue you as she strips you of your shirt and tosses it to the floor next to the bed before you can blink. The brush of cool air is a startling gust against your sensitive flesh, leaving your skin prickled in its wake. You’re not wearing a bra— why would you in the comfort of the space you share with Yuki?— and she takes advantage of that immediately with a flick of her manicured finger over your springy nipple.

“H-hhhnn,” you hitch when her cursed energy sparks and she uses it to squeeze around your protruding buds. It hurts so good, her fingers steadily rolling them and groping the plush fat of your breasts.

“My girl’s got such pretty tits,” Yuki practically groans as her dark brown eyes dart up and down your body, from the frantically fluttering muscles in your stomach to your heaving chest, “and they’re so reactive, too.”

The slick heat pooling between your thighs and the sore yet pleasant ache in your chest has your brain short-circuiting. Yuki just hums at the way you choke on a sharp gasp at the pressure of her wandering hands, clearly delighted with how completely she’s got you under her thumb— literally, since her thumbs and forefingers give you one last teasing tweak before retreating.

Your body raises of its own accord as much as it can with the sudden addition of her palm splaying firm over your sternum, the titanic mass that she’s added to herself keeping you heeled. Her other hand slyly delves beneath the hem of your shorts and panties to touch inflamed, soaked skin, stirring the pot of your arousal. The sudden clean stroke of her fingertips parting your folds so that her thumb can come down in neat circles over your clit rips a needy cry from your throat, your entire body shaking from the stimulation.

"You're so soaked for me," Yuki whispers appreciatively in an almost cheery lilt, though it does nothing to disguise how she’s breathing just as heavily as you are as if she’s the one being touched. She doesn’t stop watching you thrash and buck into her touch, not once. "All this time, you just wanted me to crush you until you can’t think and use you as much as I want. Ugh, I could just eat you up."

"Yuki,” you whimper, hands scrabbling uselessly at her strong biceps that are strung taut, “please, please, oh my f-fucking god, please—“

"Please what, lover?" Yuki purrs prettily like a particularly cheshire feline, toying with the swollen button that makes your breath hitch violently, spreading your wetness in a sticky layer that coats her fingers and your already ruined underwear.

“Tell me exactly what you want. If you don’t, I could just keep you here ‘n play with this pretty pussy until she’s crying and making a mess. And fuck—“ she punctuates her words with a sudden crook of three fingers that slide into you all too smooth from being stretched out earlier. Your throat fractures around a wordless sob; it’s as maddeningly pleasurable as it was hours ago. “She’d like that, huh? Your cunt’s always greedy for me.”

Your eyes flutter as fragilely as a butterfly’s wings, tears pricking from the intensity of it all— being petted over, teased, trapped and utterly at your girlfriend’s mercy. Being with a woman like Yuki, who could do this all without breaking a sweat as she practically giggles over your neediness, is exhilarating.

Between stuttering noises that Yuki plucks from you with ease, you manage your best desperate keen, "Just fuck me, Yuki. Please. Need you ‘n your strap, hah, inside.”

That plea makes Yuki's lips perk up in yet another blinding smile. "Good girl, baby." Her fingers work deeper for a moment, curling just right until you're nearly cumming from just the sweet drag of them over your rippling inner walls.

You go bonelessly into the bed when she draws her hand out from your slippery entrance, out from beneath your clothes, and leaves your poor core yawningly empty and primed for more. She manages to make the act of licking and sucking your slickness that coats her fingers a sensual performance that quakes your knees.

Almost woozily, dangling on the edge of delirium, you blink wetly as you watch Yuki draw it in with obvious hunger. The world seems to shrink down to just the sound of her quiet, wet enjoyment, and the following ‘pop’ of her fingers being pulled from the suction of her mouth. It’s all too hot.

Finally clambering off of your lap, Yuki slinks backwards towards the edge of the bed, dragging your shorts and panties down with her descent. She flicks the fabrics aside to join your discarded shirt, meeting your gaze with a heavier one of her own. “You’re pretty every hour of the day, but especially when you’re like this,” she croons sweetly, lashes batting as she looks you over.

Heat rushes over you so quickly that it makes you impossibly more lightheaded. You halfheartedly tuck your legs a little closer to cover up your drooling cunt that’s already threatening to leak all over the sheets, but Yuki’s suddenly cooing that you’re just adorable and she practically flicks your thighs apart with all that wound-up strength, the motion so effortless it’s humbling. A fresh reminder that she could probably crush this entire building if she wanted to.

"Don't hide from me, that’s mean.” Yuki’s tone is half-endeared, half-command. “You’re the most gorgeous trap I’ve ever fallen into. A-woof.”

That startles you into weak laughter that breaks apart your embarrassment at its root, and she practically glows with satisfaction before wasting no second in peeling her own shirt off. Your mouth runs dry. Her tits bounce free, sitting pretty, and she steps off of the bed so that she can shed her bottoms, too. A fine thatch of trimmed blonde hair curls at the apex of her thighs like a veil of temptation.

Yuki does a little theatrical twirl at the end of the bed when she catches you ogling her, her chest swaying hypnotically. She’s all perfectly carved curves that her musculature only enhances, wide hips and bulging forearms and graceful leanness. Holy fuck. She reminds you of a lioness.

“Do you like what you see?” She giggles, fully confident beneath your forthcoming gaze, every bit the woman who knows her dangerously tempting power. Her stormy brown eyes, warm yet unpredictable, coax you in and dares you to bite.

You think your embarrassingly loud swallow as she bends to fish a little box out from beneath the bed is answer enough. Still, you answer as you drape your arm over your forehead to try and catch your breath before she really gets started, “‘Like’ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Oh, really?” Yuki lilts. She pulls out a harness for her hips with a gold-colored dildo already attached from the last time she ruined you, fake bulging veins underscoring its curve, and tosses the box aside. She steps almost lazily into the harness, taking her sweet time securing the straps of the harness and tugging them just tight enough to hold firm. “What would you say, then?”

You’re already trembling from the way Yuki had wrung you out, hair clinging to your damp forehead, but you swear you nearly shiver out of your skin when she presses a knee to the edge of the cushion. Totally relaxed, she pushes herself back onto the bed so that she can prowl your way on her hands and knees, hips swaying and dildo bobbing in a trance-like rhythm between her thighs.

“I’m obsessed with what I see,” you murmur, almost choking, voice barely audible. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, babe. You’re unreal.”

And oh, isn’t that enough to make the blonde beauty poof up with the arrogance of a peacock as she looms over you again, pearly whites bared in a grin so bright you swear that sunlight glints off of her teeth. “You’re so sweet to me,” she titters. “I know you probably wanna see my face while we fuck, then, and I know I’d loveeee to look into my pretty girl’s eyes as she melts for me in missionary, but—“

Yuki’s hands are on you before you can register the swift movement and the indenting press of her palms against your scalding skin, deceptively gentle fingers finding your shoulders. There’s laughter in her breath as she leans close, and then you feel the sudden shift of weight— her strength coiled and quick as a cat— as she flips you clean onto your stomach so swiftly that it spirals your vision, sending you face-down into the mattress with a soft oof. Cursed energy ripples again, doubling, tripling Yuki’s weight towering above, and she flattens you like a damn pancake.

One hand lightly slaps down between your shoulder blades to keep you from wriggling up— not that you want to, as you’re already mushing your face into the nearest pillow as she singsongs in your ear, “… but, I think I like taking you from the back even more, princess. Isn’t this better?”

“After all, you’ve been working so hard to hold yourself up for ages, bunny.” Yuki shifts, slinking to straddle the backs of your thighs and pressing her weight down enough that you can feel her steady thrum of Star Rage. It feels like the earth itself is embedding itself into the curve of your back, a weight not even Atlas could shoulder, but it’s oddly grounding. “But now you can just relax, breathe, and take it. You don’t have to do anything at all. You're pinned so tight under me, you couldn't move if your life depended on it. Don’t you like that?”

You melt bonelessly into the sheets with a helpless little nod, hips canting up a fraction in an arch the second her palm slides along your ass, the knobs of your spine, and up the back of your neck, pushing a few damp strands of hair aside as if to draw calm back into your body. You barely even flinch when a sudden wad of saliva lashes down between your asscheeks when she spits. Her textured fingers greedily peel apart the globes so she can watch it stream like molasses over both of your clenching holes.

But you do go rigid when a hand, buffed with cursed energy, comes out of nowhere and goes cracking down right over your puffy slit with an almost absentminded ease. It hurts just enough to frazzle and numb. “Yuki,” you whine from between drunk lips and a dumbly tangled tongue, gasping halfway through her name when the next slap passes harder over your ass enough to make the fat jump beneath the stinging slap.

Yuki has developed what can only be described as a professional-level appreciation for your rear end. If you so much as bend to tie your shoes, she’s right there behind you in seconds, tilting her head like an eager canine to better admire you and rubbing over the plush swell as if it’s the most natural place in the world for her touch to land.

She claims your ass is her favorite part of you, always quick to announce it with that little grin that curves like she’s constantly plotting ways to prove her devotion for her favorite vice. You’d be surprised how many times she murmurs for you to walk ahead of her on a random street as if she’s trying to hang back and get a better look at some storefront displays, but really, it’s just so Yuki can watch how your ass sits in your jeans and skirts.

So the fact that she’s squeezing and groping you like a mutt ready to mount is unsurprising, really; you can feel her gaze on the backside of you in this vulnerable position, heated and sultry, like a sunbeam tracing the shape of you just because it has the freedom to bleed wherever it wishes.

Your girl indulges for a moment longer until you start puffing out your impatience, hips giving a wiggle that you barely have the room to perform when she slides easily over your shoulders, her body blanketing yours. Fuck, if you’re not turned on to frankly concerning levels when a sudden cool, blunt press teases your clit.

“S-shit, ri’there,” you slur nonsensically, fingers tensing up the crumpled sheets below.

"Look at you... clenching on nothing already. My needy, needy girl,” Yuki observes in a throaty purr. You can just imagine her curling prettily over you, hips hinged so that she can rub the heavy head of her strap all over your sopping pussy, slicking the silicone up. It nearly slips in, only for her to tilt just right so that the tip indents your core that trembles open and closed for her, sliding wetly past where you’re fighting for it.

Your cunt’s doing all the begging for you at this point; contracting to push out more slick, trying to suck Yuki’s cock in that’s growing sleeker and sleeker with your abundant wetness. You swear, any more of this teasing rutting over your folds in maddening drags, and you’re gonna shrivel up from strap withdrawal and an overwhelming need that’s more harshly crushing than her cursed technique.

Blessedly, the circles she paints your debauched cunt with come to a head at your entrance, which she knocks the tip of the toy on. "Relax," Yuki said, leaning down to kiss your sweaty nape with a softness that made your chest ache despite the need tearing your body asunder. "I'll give you what you want. But you're not moving an inch."

When she finally begins her steady push, your body hungrily devouring the beginnings of her strap past its tight barrier and sinking no more than a centimeter inside, you squeak out a cry. You raise into it as much as the cursed pressure above allows despite her words, hips instinctively straining. You can’t stop yourself, and the helplessness that washes over you when she halts right there with a teasing ‘tut’ sends you deeper into a heated spiral.

“Oh, c’monnn. Is that dumb slutty head of yours not registering a thing I say? I said relax and don’t move—“ She punctuates her brightly chirped command with a sudden fluctuation of her cursed energy, bunched up muscles working as her fingers snag your hips. She bodily shoves you so deep into the bed with the virtual mass, hard enough that the bedframe moans weakly.

While every inch of you is raring to go, eager to throw your ass back into the cradle of her pelvis until her strap is meanly bruising your cervix, there was no way you could possibly accomplish the feat of fighting metric tons of gravity— Yuki holds the reins entirely, just as you wanted her to. That thought alone has you gushing sticky-sweet slick.

Melting into it is a given, so you do, letting your trembly limbs rest limply against the bed. You shiver, spent and weak, unable to do anything but take it exactly as she wants. Yuki coos a faint but undeniably sweet, “such a good girl, I knew you wouldn’t be mean to your Yuki,” while splitting you apart another few inches. Subdued all the while, your senses are entirely attuned to her cock seeping along your walls, which cling desperately to her toy like a sodden glove made of velvet.

The thick fullness of her finally lodges herself to the hilt, Yuki so close to you that you can feel the hanging edges of her blonde hair brushing along your shoulders like they’re strands of whispering wisteria. Your body being adhered flat to the mattress grants Yuki deeper reach, so snug within you that you swear you can feel her cock carving out a space in your guts.

You chew up and spit out a strangled cry, delirious with the pleasurable stretch of your weeping, engorged cunt around Yuki’s strap. "T-too much, it’s so fuckin’ deep, Yuki,” you moan into the silken pillowcase that steadily dampens with your pooling saliva.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Let it take you, princess," Yuki manages breathlessly, sweet as sin despite how unwaveringly she dangles your loss of control between her fingers. “You can handle it. My pretty girl always does."

Your breath wavers at the praise. Her weight withdraws a fraction as she rears her hips back in a slow, steady draw, savoring the sight of your folds convulsing around the toy. She pulls back enough that she threatens to slip free even with how fiercely your cunt wrings in rhythmic pulses to keep her close, then snaps her hips forward firmly enough that you swear she nearly breaks the bed.

This time, the air is punched out of you for an entirely different reason. Your wet gasp fractures into a moan that vibrates your lungs as Yuki rocks her hips down and forward, driving into you with steady strokes that carve you inside out. She’s deliciously entwined with you, her heat seeping into your own.

Each slick, impaling rut is only amplified by the sheer force she exerts to keep you pinned while tempering her output enough to keep the compression from fracturing your body. Her control over her cursed energy, even when she’s fucking into you like she’s got something to prove, makes you more frazzled with arousal— if that were even possible.

The prodding of her thick strap finally nails that spongy tightness inside you that makes your cunt instantly rush a fresh wave of wetness around and down the intrusion. Squealing desperately, you bite down hard into the plush give of the pillow to try and muffle the deranged litany of sounds starting to spill out of you to salvage even an ounce of dignity. But the effort dies halfway through.

“Right there, bunny? You’re, hah, squeezing so hard that it’s difficult to push forward— loosen up so I can reach, ‘kay?” Yuki croons summer-sticky instructions, patting your hips as if it’ll jostle you into following through. Trembling so hard your teeth grind together in their grip, you force your cunt to unspool a fraction, inner muscles releasing their tension.

Then you promptly shriek out a keening whimper when Yuki angles her hips and punches her firm cockhead right into the desired spot.

“Good girl, baby, you’re so cute obeying me so eagerly,” she grunts, sliding her hands up to capture the indent of your waist as she starts really fucking into you at a faster pace. Her fingers press hard into your skin, bruises threatening to bloom like ink on paper— she’ll kiss every single one later when she’s not busy demolishing every inch of you on her cock and drawing out those sweet moans that are a symphony to her soul.

“Feel that?” Yuki’s rolling her hips steadily, sweaty golden skin clapping filthily against your skin every time the globes of your ass round right into her upon rejoining with each other completely. She’s consistently kissing her mark without fail, the pointed pounds of her cock striking true sending you higher. “That deep enough for you?”

“Yes, y-yes, god yes, babe,” you reedily sob out, voice warbling with the thrusts that shake your body to and fro. You’re slipping over the sheets with how sweat-drenched you are, being driven closer and closer to the slamming headboard. “Right there, right there, dun’ stop.”

Her cursed energy rolls outward in response— the heaviness recalibrating, then narrowing down to the drive of her hips and the strap as another extension of her body. Increasing pressure from Star Rage strengthens her thrusts, making you wail loud enough to cover up the obscene shhlicks of your cunt hungrily slobbering down her strap. There’s no doubt that Yuki’s entirely in control of the current, you and even gravity itself bending to her will.

Yuki takes pride in knowing you this intimately and being the only one to render you to this state. She’s memorized the exactness of your every twitch and breath, how you get so overwhelmed sometimes that you start trying to skitter away like a particularly cute mouse fleeing a lion. There’s been countless times where she’s had to wrangle your flailing limbs as her tongue slurps over your clit, your body overloading so intensely because the edge of bliss is so sharp that your body forgets what to do with itself.

And there’s nothing more she loves than watching you fall apart as you struggle to handle her generous, giving endeavors in the realm of pleasure.

So when you claw harder at the sheets with a sudden burst of desperation, tendons straining and sweat slicking off your fingers that fruitlessly try to get a good enough grip that’ll maybe allow you to haul yourself away, she laughs like this is a fun chase for her, endeared and delighted and overflowing with cuteness aggression all at once, and wrenches you back.

You babble out a string of nonsense curses when Yuki claps a hand down over your unbruised asscheek; the other swells a fine, glossy red from her earlier spank, like the blush of a fresh June strawberry. The swat of her hand stings pins and needles into your rear, molten lava coiling hard beneath your skin and in your gut.

(If you weren’t slightly embarrassed at the thought of your friends and fellow sorcerers seeing your puffed up skin, you’d be asking her to direct that controlled force on more visible stretches of your body. Purely so you can press on them tomorrow when they’re more tender and feel the aching burn of pleasure-pain that takes you right back to this moment— stuffed full and entirely at Yuki’s mercy.)

"Awww, where do you think you’re trying to go? You’re adorable, bunny, but this isn’t, h-heh, how this works,” Yuki crows, dripping fondness and mockery all at once. Her raspy voice thrumming over the back of your ear as she cranes impossibly closer makes your brain fizzle out. "You wanted to know how strong I was, so you’re gonna stay caged under me juuust like this. You’re not leaving until I let you; hell, I know you don't even want to."

She nails you right in the head with that correct observation, making you moan helplessly— the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. But it’s too much, the drive of her strap in and out of your convulsing walls that eagerly drip your nectar for her too good, a maelstrom of debauchery that has you slurring mewls, has Yuki puffing and groaning when the base of the strap presses deliciously against her own clit.

Before your body can forget what resistance of the overwhelming buzz of bliss even means, you writhe like a bucking bronco, cheeks tight with flushed heat and eyes spinning in their sockets from pleasure. No matter how hard you twist, though, there’s no budging the cursed mass that’s more restraining than iron shackles.

In a blink Yuki’s suddenly dropping like a barbell over your rippling back muscles, letting just enough of that crippling force— a force no normal body could possibly hope to generate— pour into the hold to keep you helpless in the sweetest way. The sultry lines of her body mold to her own and her breasts squish into your back, swaying in place as she cants her hips forward over and over again with the might of a star. You swear you’re so close that your ribs entangle, the bones getting caught on each other’s.

The strength behind it makes your cunt quiver around her hefty, fat cock in a needy rhythm— it weeps thicker, too, when one of Yuki’s strong arms curls around your chest, hauling you neatly back against her. The other slides up, her forearm bracketing just beneath your jaw until the crook of her elbow rests snugly at your throat and tightens in a hugging embrace.

Her chokehold’s not suffocating, just firm enough to remind you who’s got you and who’s most definitely not letting you scamper away without an orgasm beneath your belt.

With her new grip, she gently tugs up and urges your face out from the pillow you’ve been crying and dribbling globs of saliva into so she can hear every pretty little noise as she wrecks you thoroughly. She could patiently listen to you babble nonsense all day, a dreamy beam curving her lips all the while— hell, she has before. Yuki swears up and down that your voice is the loveliest sound in the world, especially when you're barely stringing sentences together because of her cock.

You wheeze out a high, needy noise that sounds more animal than human, more from surprised arousal than shortness of breath. Her breath fans hot against your cheek as she leans in closer, chin catching on your jostling shoulder, “Caught you again,” she chuckles in a wrecked, scratchy rumble, her grin audible in her tone, “you really are my favorite little escape artist.”

You can feel her heartbeat buzzing against your back, wild in its thump thump thumps, and bizarrely it’s that— more than the restraint— that makes you stop fighting the bliss she’s drumming into the marrow of you. Her strength curls around you like a living tether, a comforting tether in the face of the swirling, distorted flecks beginning to blot your vision.

You’re trapped between two black holes; the ecstasy and Yuki herself, all wound up with her cursed technique that rushes like prickling lightning over you. You don’t know which spot of blackness you want to sink into more, but your quavering voice sings your answer for you— “Yuki, Yuki, y’r fucking me so good, Yuki,” you cry out.

With your body molded and pressed exactly where Yuki wants you, cunt soaking the sheets, your thighs and Yuki’s, paired with the near-punishing slaps of her hips into your smarting ass as she buries her thick strap inside of you in a relentless mantra, she tugs your head back to face her a little better, whispering, “lemme see my bunny cry f’me.” There, she spills her honey-sweetness into your awaiting orifice— praise, praise, golden and good praise.

"You're perfect, princess. Such a good fucking girl," Yuki damn near whines out, still drilling in and out of you at a pace that screams she’s an athlete trying to win an Olympic fucking gold for fucking you. Each bump ‘n sway sends her clit pressing into the harness holding her strap, friction washing over her hard. “My strong, stunning girl pinned under me… s-shit, ‘m obsessed with you. Take my cock, baby, juuuust like that. Doing so well for me.”

She’s driving you crazy. “You’re so deep, oh fuck— god, yes yes y-yes, ah!” You manage through your constricting throat. It’s so hard to keep up with Yuki when she’s fallen into a frenzy that orbits around servicing you, fucking you so thoroughly that you can’t tell left from right.

She bites her lips— still just barely smooth with her gloss that you all but mauled off of her and the remnants of your saliva and her saliva combined— as she observes the play of your face. Your tongue lolls helplessly from between your hinging maw. Eyes prettily rolled back and their edges brimming with moisture, saliva racing down her bunched, corded arm, you’re the most sinful sight she’s ever seen.

How could she not be addicted to ruining you?

"I can tell you’re gonna cum soon,” Yuki rasps out, tossing her sweat-heavy blonde strands back with a purposeful tilt of her head. “You really love being pinned, stuffed, and used, don’tcha? Cuuute. You wanna let go for me, baby? Wanna make a mess of your Yuki’s cock?”

Your high-pitched keens and whines that thread from between your teeth in a shivering string is answer enough. The waves of sensation leaves you weaker, more undone, while Yuki's strength never wavers, holding you completely in place.

Yuki laves hotly at your cheek, swiping up your tears that finally leak free with her tongue, before dipping her face into your neck. "That's my girl," she pants from exertion and the pleasure of crumbling you like this. Her voice is softer now but no less commanding.

She kisses, licks, and gently nips at your throat even as she pounds you mercilessly into the squeaking mattress, murmuring against your skin, "So beautiful like this... letting me ruin you sweet. You don’t even realize how gorgeous you are when you give in and let me fuck you the way you deserve. You have no idea what that does to me.”

The contrast of pounding force sawing through your quivering channel, the blunt tip of her strap bullying your cervix with how deep she is, mixed with her earnest words— it unravels you entirely. You cling to Yuki's words, trembling hands hanging weakly onto her biceps at the same time as your body snaps clean under the dual weight of cursed energy and overwhelming pleasure.

You convulse— your thrashing muffled by Yuki’s stagnant power— as release tears through your nerves and blots out everything except for Yuki, Yuki, Yuki, your voice entirely raw and frayed as you sob out whiny noises between panting breaths. You can barely moan, just breathing out whatever you can like you’re fighting to hold on. The dizziness of the slight asphyxiation from her arm snaked around your throat makes your haze of pleasure impossibly more staggering.

And still, your girlfriend doesn’t let up. Though she slows considerably to let you ride it out, she grinds as deep as she can get, milking you for every measly pulse of your cunt, for every rush of slick, cloyingly sweet stickiness. Her lips ghost over the place where your pulse flutters hardest in a flurry of gentle-touched kisses.

"That's it, baby," Yuki rasps in an almost singsongy manner, bright as a clear sky with satisfaction. “Shake for me, fall apart again,” she whispers huskily in your ear, finally slackening her hold around your throat and chest.

Without her support, you tremble weakly, dazed and entirely fucked out and so glad that you brought up Star Rage that you barely register what she’s saying until she continues, “You've still got more in you— l know you.”

You hiccup out a laugh, going bonelessly with the flow as she pulls her strap out and languidly rolls you over. Your entire body is sore from being trapped in place, thighs smeared with release and your vision curling in a dreamy haze of heat.

Above you, Yuki kneels between your legs. A few strands of blonde hair are plastered to her flushed face. Her body, still faintly ringed golden with Star Rage’s activation, is flushed pink with pleasure and exertion. Lean muscle tumbles under her skin like lazily fluttering lightning peeking out from behind a storm-slick sky when she leans in, her grin blinding. “Ready for round two?”

You’re gonna be here all night.

a/n: i need to write more of yuki so bad brah... writing this made me feel deranged in the best way possible

masterlist

a/n: oh I’m so miserable I’d love to have somebody’s bicep around my head one day somebody let me know if it's worth it :(( also this is kinda short because I had this idea and HAD to get it out

“Satoru, what the hell is this?” The man only smiled wider, cerulean eyes sparkling as if he had just created the greatest scheme known to mankind. “That,” he beamed, “Is a foolproof, state-of-the-art method to test how much you really like me.”

You groaned, watching as the two idiots giggled amongst themselves like high school girls.

“I don’t have time for this,” you muttered mostly to yourself, shaking your head. Satoru piped up, “Oh, come on, just for me?” His eyes widened, giving his best effort at puppy dog eyes. Suguru joined in, “Just do it so he stops asking me what his best qualities are.”

With one last exasperated sigh, you folded. “Alright, fine! You better not get upset with the outcome.” The two men cheered rather loudly, earning an annoyed “shh!” From the librarian.

You grabbed your pen, drawing a wonky box with the title “personality.” Satoru watched with hopeful eyes as each letter appeared.

“No looking.”

Satoru and Suguru turned around, attempting to sneak glances over their shoulders every few seconds.

Finally, you cleared your throat, announcing that you had finished. You slid the paper back to him just as discreetly, and Gojo practically snatched it away.

☐ back

✔︎ biceps

☐ pretty face

☐ personality

Geto burst out laughing, strands of hair falling free from his bun with the force of it, while Satoru looked somewhat distressed. “I — wha? I thought you loved my personality,” he whined, lips curling into a frown. You began to pack up your belongings, but he wasn’t done yet.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Satoru stared at the paper as though the answer would somehow change. “You seemed to have misunderstood the assignment.” You stared at him for a moment. “No, no, I don’t think I did.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.” He jabbed a finger at the paper, “See, now you wrote down personality yourself, which was correct — kudos! But you forgot to tick it.” Suguru intervened, “Maybe if you didn’t act like… well, you, you would’ve gotten personality as your best trait.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, “That is offensive! I’ll have you know I have a very attractive… everything!”

He turned back to you, “Seriously?”

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “What can I say? I have my priorities.”

You whine a little in protest even though the reference makes your lips tick. "But you guys made me so comfortable already..."

And they truly have.

The bath had been waiting for you before you'd even thought to ask for one. Actually, the idea was planted in Satoru and Suguru's heads the moment you texted that you were dead-tired and grimy to the group chat from the back of Ijichi's car. You had been the only one to head out on a mission today, Satoru spending the day teaching and training the first years and Suguru mirroring him with the third years— Satoru had weaseled his way into a full hands-on day with his students, claiming he needed somewhat of a break, and Suguru spent most of his time teaching rather than hunting curses anymore, anyways.

(You and Satoru have been on the offensive with the higher-ups for years to nail down this arrangement for Suguru. Sure, Suguru still took on the occasional mission when everyone else was stretched thin by their own duties, but for his mental health’s sake, it was best that he stuck to guiding and nurturing the current generation.

You never want to see him as hollowly depressed as he was after everything that went down when he was a student.)

When you'd finally wandered into your shared house with knotted shoulders and your thumbs aggravatedly digging out the soreness from your temples, both your boyfriends snatched you up at the genkan and herded you like wildly insistent border collies to the master bedroom's ensuite, which had been transformed into a luxury spa during your twenty minute commute.

Towels were folded up in their warmer, candles swaying happily, the massive tub brimming with fragrant bathing oils and mineral salts— literally the whole nines. All the tiny things you'd long forgotten mentioning you preferred for a long soak were present, that information lovingly archived inside two impossibly attentive minds.

Before you could burst into happy tears at the lengths they went to for you, Suguru helped peel away your clothes before passing you off to Satoru, who offered both hands the moment you stepped toward the siren call of the water on sore legs, smoothly bowing as though escorting you into a ballroom instead of a bathtub.

Between them, lowering yourself into the steaming water (which was the fucking perfect temperature, holy hell) was less like climbing into a bath— another chore to hustle through before bed when you were already so worn-thin— and more like mindlessly handing yourself over for what they both dubbed your 'princess treatment.'

Suguru's smile is a ray of gentle light coloring his words, "Are we supposed to apologize for being good boyfriends?"

"Yeah. And you have to live with the consequences," you sigh, slumping further back into Satoru. The water rocks with you.

"You hear that?" Satoru says to Suguru over your head. You feel his chin nestle into your crown, arms loosely coiling at your waist. "She's blaming and threatening us."

"This is what happens when we go out of our way and draw us all a nice bath, huh," Suguru kisses his teeth, theatrically disappointed in you and what his and Satoru's efforts have come to. "Shame. I guess we won't be doing this ever again."

That finally gets your eyes to crack, blinking past the steam shrouding your slivered vision. Suguru watches the both of you with a sleepy beam curling the corners of his mouth, midnight lashes dampened and beading at their tips from the humidity. In spite of his long hair being wound up in a picture-perfect bun straight from Pinterest— his thorough wash-day took place yesterday and he's in no hurry to rewash his hair all over again— the baby hairs coiling at his nape and hairline are helplessly frizzy, fallen victim to the moisture in the air.

Suguru's gorgeous, a fallen angel meant to tempt you into the salacious temptations of the forbidden— much like the equally stunning blue-eyed beauty cuddled up to your behind, fluffed up white hair as refreshing as winter's first snowfall and his innate charming smile ten times more devastating than the cursed techniques sown into his very DNA.

"Hey," you protest, somewhat impressed by how he's twisted this situation to his benefit. "I didn't say all of that…"

A big warm palm finds a home on your shoulder, the callouses at the base of Satoru's fingers dragging a satisfyingly scratchy path over your skin. "I didn't agree to that either. Who's gonna appreciate all our hard work and dedication to pampering her if not, well, our princess?" Satoru wonders aloud, each richly pronounced syllable traveling in a velvety rolling rumble through his chest to your back.

Suguru cocks a brow, though he soaks up the reminder with a smoothly executed drag of the wooden bath tray closer to the corner of the tub's edge. Fancy crystalized bottles rattle, winking rainbow prisms across the walls; the oceanic waves of Satoru's irises, the deep earthiness of Suguru's.

You see them in everything, the two men coloring the world you traverse in a gallery forever curated in their likeness, to the point that you couldn't name a single thing on this planet without your lovers tinting your glasses.

Sometimes, you wonder whether the sky was always that boundless, cotton-candy blue, whether the nature crawling dense coils up Tokyo Jujutsu High's mountain campus had always carried such comforting shades of chocolate-brown, or if loving them has simply trained your eyes to always pay homage to Satoru and Suguru. Whatever the case, you're ridiculously smitten.

"Appreciation isn't the point, Satoru," lightly sniffs Suguru.

You wish you could see the stupid grin smeared across Satoru's countenance as he counters, jokingly, "It absolutely is."

"It really isn't," Suguru deadpans, looking to you as if to say get a load of this guy. You giggle.

"I don't know about you, babe, but I wanna be praised for my generous deeds," Satoru announces. "It hits like a line of coke after a long day."

Suguru slowly nods his assent. "That is true… though in your case, I'd say that cake is more your style than coke of all things."

"Snoooore," you loudly mime, deadpanning.

Satoru's laughter sears through your skin, beating a hearty rhythm between your shoulder blades. Suguru fans his fingers over his mouth as he joins in on Satoru's chuckling, amusement blossoming in the air. "Alright, alright. The deluxe princess treatment package is on its way now, promise," Suguru sing-songs with a little flap of his hand, finally easing up now that he's found a way back on track. "Satoru, you'll wash her hair and I'll do her body?"

"For sure," he chirps.

Ah, how nice it feels to lounge around like prized, celebrated royalty without a care in the world while your boys work a plan to pamper you.

All it takes is a simple curl of Suguru's black-painted finger for Satoru to obediently thrust his hand past your head, palm paralleling the ceiling as Suguru pops the glass stopper of a bottle and drizzles a generous heaping of shampoo into his hand's cup.

Satoru loops his arms around your front and works the shampoo between deft palms before your eyes, vanilla and camellia blossoms wafting up to your face, which you dip towards the comforting smell with a hum. It's Suguru's favorite shampoo— you're always surprised when he shares some of it and his conditioner with you, given how he treats it like the holy grail that he alone was blessed and entrusted with.

(Even funnier how he flat out refuses to let Satoru get his hands on it. Not that the white-haired sorcerer cares all that much anyhow; he uses a 3-in-1 shampoo and calls splashing tap water on his face a 'proper face wash.' You'd think a man so prideful about his vanity would splurge on products to properly care for himself and his Adonis body— the same way he buys from luxury clothing brands on the daily— instead of winging it like a head-in-the-clouds college fratboy, but alas…

You've gotta give it to him though: his genetics are killer. Curse Satoru and the goddamned perfectly pretty Gojo bloodline. It's not fair for the rest of you 'simpletons' who actually have to put in the work to groom and maintain yourself in order to look even half as unfairly attractive as he does on a random Thursday morning. The universe shamelessly plays favorites, and Satoru is its dazzling golden child.)

"Tilt your head back for me," he murmurs, long fingers immediately finding your hair— already sufficiently wet— the second you obey.

Humming an absent tune that lulls you into closing your eyes once more, Satoru gathers up all your hair, his usual boundless energy replaced by surprising patience. You can envision the way he's likely got his tongue peeking slightly between his teeth as he smooths the shampoo down your head, working up a rich, pearly lather from your crown to your ends with painstaking care exactly as Suguru once taught him.

Nobody from Jujutsu Tech— not Shoko, not Ijichi, not even any of the students— would expect such gentleness from the strongest sorcerer alive. The same man that tears into curses with calculated, almost joyous violence and blows them apart with a well-placed Red and a dry “oopsies,” is unbelievably tender in his task of shampooing the outer layer of your hair before diving to your roots, firm yet gentle. Reverent, really.

His nails glide along your scalp in purposefully light scrapes that send shivers down your spine. A contented sigh escapes you before you can stop it. "Satoruuuu…" You subconsciously roll the r in the same purring cadence that Suguru speaks his name in.

"Yooo, chill," Satoru splutters behind you, sounding alarmed by who knows what.

Suguru fills in the blank with a suggestive smile and thinning of his eyes: "Moan my name next, baby. I'm feeling left out."

Ah. Curious, you shuffle your hips back further into the cradle of Satoru's pelvis, glad to feel a distinct lack of engorged arousal insistently pestering your back; he's as flaccid as the day he was born. Your foot goes splashing water Suguru's way next. He catches your ankle beneath the surface and chuckles sunnily beneath the playful heat of your half-hearted glare.

"You're such a hater," he chastises.

"Excuse me for trying to enjoy my bath and the princess treatment you both promised me while you two horndogs try to make something out of nothing," you say dryly, though the pretense of sarcasm is rendered null by the next (accidentally) suggestive noise that floats its way past your lips when Satoru tugs a strand of shampooed hair just shy of too roughly.

"I didn't mean to do that, sorry!" Satoru jumps to apologize, presuming you'll give him shit for it and kick him out. But the joint snickers that both men promptly share over your head informs you that they're not exactly remorseful; and they're not even trying to play it sly.

"There's gonna be floggers and pillories in my online shopping cart by the end of the night if you two keep it up," you warn even though you're chuckling yourself. "That, or a sounding rod for you to share."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," Satoru and Suguru innocently chorus.

Devils, the two of them.

But you're not any better, for you praise them in the sweetest purr possible, "Thank you. Good boys," and you all too joyfully reap the color budding across their already bath-flushed cheeks, tipping your head back against Satoru's shoulder to see his properly.

Suguru and Satoru: 1.

You: also 1.

You'll break that tie soon.

Fingers still wrapped in a delicate snag around your ankle, thumb sweeping over the protruding bone, Suguru one-handedly pumps a decent dollop of body wash into his palm, making a fist and dragging his fingers through it to warm it up a tad. "Lift your leg a little higher for me, sweetheart," he instructs, voice no louder than twinkling rain shimmering in silvery ribbons from the sky.

Conscious yet uncaring of the fact that you're already flashing him your most private parts (both your boyfriends have literally seen it all in every sexual and non-sexual scenario possible), you do just that, trusting that Satoru's solidity will keep you from sliding forward on your ass and submerging your face. Your hip flexor and quadricep tighten in a show of undemandingly easy dexterity— the movement of the latter has Suguru's eyes flicking down to watch as though you're his favorite film made human.

He scrunches his legs up in order to fit into the 'v' your own make. Shifting his grip to the back of your calf, he paints your skin in fragrant body wash from your foot, kneecap, to the crease connecting hip to thigh, coating you thoroughly and treating you to an impromptu massage along the way, thumbs kneading tenderly into muscle.

You're practically purring once he's done with your left leg. Suguru eases it back into the steaming bathwater and rinses you off with sweeping strokes of his broad hand until the jasmine-scented suds melt into the surface. Then, without breaking the tranquil rhythm you'd both settled into, he gathers your right leg in his grasp and starts anew from your foot upward, every motion as meticulous as the last.

You don't startle an inch when Satoru picks his task up again whilst Suguru works his soothing magic up your shin. Circles that bloom sweetness through your body are drawn into your scalp with the pads of Satoru's fingertips, thumbs gliding behind your ears before sweeping upward along your crown, coaxing the rich lather deeper through your roots.

His fingertips dance across your hair in broad, enthusiastic circles, working the shampoo in with enough vigor to make your head tip slightly. It's embarrassingly effective in making you lose track of where one minute ends and another begins. The little remaining tension loosens from your body like water through a sieve.

"Oh my godddd," you moan, blissful, completely swept up in their pampering that comes without a price. You melt between Satoru and Suguru without thinking, trusting the secure cradle of their bodies as completely as breathing itself. "This is exactly what I needed. This is heaven."

"You deserve only good things, especially tonight," Suguru murmurs affectionately, gently dunking your right leg and rinsing that one off, too.

"All the time, really," Satoru agrees. He leaves your hair once he's sure each strand is thoroughly lathered up. "Seeing you turn into a cute little puddle is the best bonus I could ask for. Just let us take care of you, yeah?"

He returns to you with a wooden rinse pitcher that Suguru hands to him. He cups warm bathwater into it, stray droplets sprinkling across the bath's surface when he pulls the pitcher free with an audible gulp of water. Anticipating what follows, you tip your head back and stay still as Satoru pours the first cascade of water over your head to cleanse you of the fragrant foam, his free hand shielding your forehead to keep it from spilling over your face.

"You wanna know a neat trick I thought of?" Satoru asks, voice overflowing with prideful excitement. You and Suguru rumble low noises from your throats at the same time, encouraging. "If Blue allows me to pull buildings apart at minimum output by drawing everything towards the impossibility, then it makes sense that if I put the tiiiiniest possible output into Blue—" you feel a tempered spike of cursed energy that makes the dampened hair at your nape prick to attention, "—the field of attraction is weak enough that I can siphon water from hair."

Before the dirtied water can rejoin the pooling bathwater lapping over you all, it peels from your hair like a clean, satisfying strip of tape as though the laws of nature, too, submit to the wonder that is Gojo Satoru.

You feel each saturated lock of hair lighten by degrees more than you see it. Suspended at your sides where you can spy it from the corner of yout eye, the extracted water gathers into a lazily revolving sphere no larger than a melon, pale with diluted shampoo that swirls in pearlescent ribbons beneath the bathroom's amber light. You can tell that Satoru's flicked his fingers behind you when it all goes gliding into a bucket by the tub— he probably thought to put it there in advance, you realize— with a muffled sploosh. Suguru whistles, impressed.

"There!" Satoru chirps, grin crystal-clear in his voice as though he'd unveiled the world's greatest scientific breakthrough instead of an absurdly overengineered bath hack using one of the greatest cursed techniques in history. "No gross rinse water in the tub."

"That was cool, Toru," you gush.

Suguru's laugh slips free in a quiet puff. "Good idea, baby."

The dual praise has Satoru radiating like an overjoyed sun behind you. "Right? Right?" He boasts with no modesty whatsover, chest jutting proudly against your back.

"You'll have to do that for my hair sometime, too," Suguru sighs longingly, tilting his head with a charmed look on his face. He's so cute. "I could use one of my curses, but Blue'll save me so much time. My hair's getting even longer than it already is, if you can imagine."

"Please never cut it," you and Satoru pipe up in genuine agony.

Suguru titters, enchanting brown eyes creasing in a blinding smile, brighter somehow for it. "Relax, you two. I won't. Aside from trimming split ends— knock on wood." He raps the wooden bath tray with his knuckles.

The exchange coaxes an involuntary smile of your own, the stretch of your lips so overly fond that your cheeks ache. It is so wonderfully, unmistakably the three of you— Suguru's easy indulgement forever balanced alongside Satoru's irrepressible enthusiasm and your habit of matching them both exactly where they stand.

Suguru re-lathers his hands to work on your abdomen, muscles fluttering in delicate butterly wings behind the bountiful garden of your skin at the ticklish feeling of his slickened touch; Satoru ladles another pitcherful over your head and repeats the process of gathering and discarding every soapy drop with Blue. Suguru glides soap up the valley between your perked breasts and beneath them as well, even massaging your tits without a lick of sexual intent; Satoru gives you one last rinse before passing curious fingers through your hair until the strands slide cleanly through his hands, gently teasing apart the few stubborn knots left over. The bathwater gently rocks against your ribs whenever they both shift, focused on their individual tasks but nonetheless in tune with one another.

By the time Suguru finishes off your front by washing your collarbones and shoulders and Satoru's just teased apart the few stubborn knots left over in your hair, your hair hangs sleek and impossibly clean, you're feeling squeaky clean from head to toe, and the bathwater around your bodies remains as clear as when you'd first slipped into it, aside from the body wash that's sluiced off of you.

You feel as though they’d somehow washed away not only the day's sweat and oils, but every bothersome thought that had settled there alongside them. You could seriously fall asleep any second without realizing you'd slipped into unconsciousness.

"Look at us working together in sync," Satoru lilts, signaling for the conditioner over your shoulder. Suguru hands it off from the bath tray without missing a beat. "The G.G. Salon is taking off."

"G.G.?" You ask, faint laughter already bubbling through your nose before he even elaborates. You're anticipating something so stupid that it's somehow funny.

"Get gucked," Satoru supplies, only to shriek a soprano's pitch and jackknife his leg through the water when Suguru aggressively pinches Satoru's big toe. "Yeesh, can't a guy joke around here? I meant the Gojo-Geto salon."

Suguru smiles serenely.

They make quick— but not rushed— work of the rest of your treatment. Suguru reaches between yours and Satoru's bodies to bathe your back while Satoru conditions the ends of your hair with the creamy fixture.

Clearing your hair of conditioner after it soaks in is easy as it was for Satoru with the shampoo. He splashes water along your back to finish off Suguru's work, and Suguru leans in to nuzzle a brief kiss against your forehead, lips lingering for only a second before he settles back against the tub's rim again, the picture of handsome relaxation. A moment later, Satoru cranes his head to smooch the side of your neck as if unwilling to be left out, then ducks past you to peck Suguru's mouth.

No words are needed in the wakeful peace that draws a curtain over you; you, Satoru, and Suguru seemingly come to a silent agreement to soak in the jasmine-fermented bath a while longer, all of yours eyes closed in bone-deep gratification. Heat loosens muscles and peels the firm grip of old aches and pains stemming from battles old and new, determined to ease your bodies that've been carved out from years and years of sorcerery. You only clamber out when the bathwater is cool enough to be drained, yours and Satoru's and Suguru's fingers and toes pruny from the extended soak.

The tired little shiver that quakes you when the air hits your damp skin is noticed immediately by Suguru, who quietly directs Satoru to empty the bucket of dirtied water down the tub before turning to you with towels straight from the tower warmer. He wraps one loosely around your hair and gently squeezes away the excess water.

His sweetened cooing of how cute you are when you're all sleepy and doted-on makes you duck your head into his touch if only to hide your face from the loving searchlights of his eyes. You allow Suguru to similarly wrap your body up in a second towel and you gleefully burrow into the fluffy comfort of it.

Satoru zips to your side in literal seconds with two more towels bunched under his arm, blue eyes alight and completely comfortable in his nudity. "My turn," he announces.

"Didn't you have plenty of turns in the bath?" Suguru amusedly points out in a lowered tone. "She's already dried off, anyways."

Satoru pokes his pretty pink lips out in a pout, sulky as a cat denied its dinner. "I want another."

"You always want another," you hum, eyes half-closed and about ready to conk out on the tile of all places. A plane could crash outside and you wouldn't even be fazed, your mind too up in the clouds and doped up on the princess treatment your boyfriends gave you to care.

“Well, I like taking care of you both,” Satoru admits with some sheepishness, scratching his shorn-short nape that you're sure is soon to be warmed pink as you and Suguru look at him with hearts for eyes. "Can't blame a guy for being in love, yeah?"

You really can't; not when you're just as stupidly infatuated with them both. Especially when, adorably, he surprises you both by turning to Suguru and toweling him off with great attention, making your dark-haired partner flush an even ruddier red than the hot water gave his body. For all of Satoru's impossible strength and impossible speed, his hands fuss with deliberate care as they work the plush fabric around Suguru's waist, folding one edge neatly over the other before tucking it securely against his hip. Then Satoru guides a stray bang that fell loose from his bun behind his ear, fingers lingering sweetly.

Suguru blinks once, twice, as though momentarily caught off guard by the simple gesture. "... Thank you, Satoruuu,” he purrs warmly.

The words are accompanied by a smile so soft it melts years off of Suguru's face, leaving behind only the boy who'd once looked at you and Satoru with that same impossible tenderness after late-night konbini store runs and shared umbrellas beneath summer rain as you all ran back to campus after shared misions— long, long before that accursed village sent him into a year-long spiral. Affection settles visibly into every elegant line of him, warming his browned eyes until they resemble polished amber.

Color rushes into Satoru's ears as he's blasted with the full superlunary rays of Suguru's love, almost shying away from his exuberant beam. "Don't mention it," he mutters, already smiling despite himself as he finally slings his own towel around his hips.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, sleepy and airy, and both pairs of eyes snap toward you with such immediate fondness. Your heart gives such a smitten start that it damn near ping-pongs off your ribs.

And then you open your unfiltered mouth, "You're both so cute. You two act like you guys haven't explored each other's holes for literal years."

Their expressions slacken into ones of pained amusement immediately. "Sweets, I love you so so sooo bad, but do you ever think before you reduce years of heartfelt intimacy to digging out each other's asses?" Satoru snorts.

"Please don't say it like that," Suguru bemoans, propping one hand on his towel-wrapped hip while the other drives a thumb into his creased forehead. Even so, he's openly snickering, even moreso when he slaps Satoru's chest. "Are you under the impression that you're any better?"

Satoru touches his heart with theatrical offense. "I've never said anything outrageous as her."

"You literally just did?" Suguru points out, exasperatedly tickled.

You attempt to muster a joke to chip in with, but a yawn stretches your jaw instead, eyes watering as exhaustion overtakes any dignity you might have had left.

"Awww," Satoru breathes out an impossibly stricken coo. "She's gonna fall asleep standing up like a horse."

"I was thinking the same thing," Suguru murmurs, tilting his head at you.

"I am awake and alert and alive," you mumble automatically.

Clearly, neither of them believes you for even half a second. Suguru chuckles beneath his breath before stepping forward, large hand finding the small of your back through the towel. "Looks like the delirium's getting to you, huh, angel? You've had a long day."

Satoru immediately appears at your other side. "For sure. Let's go get dressed and go to bed." Without ceremony, he bends his knees and scoops you into his arms bridal-style as though you weigh nothing at all. You let out the weakest little noise of surprise imaginable before instinctively curling against his warm chest, your cheek finding the familiar place beneath his collarbone.

"I c-can…" Your own yawn slashes the sentence in half, making Satoru throw his head back laughing as he turns towards the bathroom's entrance, "… walk."

"Oh, sweetheart," Suguru rumbles out a laugh.

"I can,” you grumble.

"You just lost consciousness mid-sentence."

"Mmmf," you say intelligently.

Suguru reaches over to straighten the towel atop your head one final time, brushing his knuckles fondly across your temple. "So spoiled," he whispers.

You hum contentedly, already halfway to sleep. "Your fault."

"Our fault," Satoru corrects, carrying you toward the door with Suguru walking beside him, shoulder brushing his every few steps. Then, as an aside to Suguru, "To be fair, we kinda made her expect this."

"I think I deserve princess treatment everyday," you exhaustedly pipe up, words dragging as you gradually drift off.

Satoru and Suguru exchange looks over your lolling head. So cute.

“Hey there, pretty girl.”

“What's up, chocolate?”

Eye roll. The biggest eye roll in the history of eye rolls.

Whenever these two idiots came your way, you had to roll your eyes. They were pretty loose with their tongues for people who were in an active relationship with each other. But it was none of your business. That was just the way they were.

Your best friends Suguru and Satoru have been dating for a while now. When they announced they were dating, you were truly happy for them and, to be honest, not even surprised. That's because you had no idea what their relationship would mean for your friendship. It meant you would be exposed to everything they were going through.

Be it fighting over who loves the other more or even getting into an actual fight where you would have to console each of them separately, them talking about the movie they were going to watch later and how they were going to make everyone jealous by making out at the movies, talking about the positions they were going to put each other in after… Yeah, it was a mess. A weird and hot mess. But you loved them dearly, so you couldn't do anything about it. Another thing you frowned upon was the fact that both men kept on flirting with you whenever they could, whether it was flirting or teasing you. Even when they were on their own. But you didn't think much of it. It had started before they had even started dating, so maybe it was just a force of habit. A habit that would never die down, you feared.

After you rolled your eyes at their antics, they sat on either side of you, Gojo resting his head against yours (he would rest his on your shoulder, but the height difference wouldn't let him) and Geto wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. One thing about them: they were the touchy-feely type. And boy, they weren't shy about touching you. Wherever they were. Whenever they wanted to touch you, they would. Which was weird to you. Because you knew for a fact that if someone were to be as close to your boyfriend as they were to you, you'd let the world burn.

But it was their relationship and their rules. Not your circus, not your monkey is what you would usually tell yourself. It was their relationship; you were sure they had their own rules set in stone. So it had nothing to do with you. They could do whatever they wanted to. It was none of your business.

When Gojo nuzzled against you, you twisted your face in disgust. Catching up on your behaviour, he glared at you, nuzzling into your skin even further. You will love me today he muttered, the pout in his voice evident.On the other side, his boyfriend laughed, letting go of you to look at the menu resting in front of him. “Have you ordered anything yet?” You shook your head no, peeking at the menu. You had arrived a few minutes before them, so you hadn't really thought about ordering anything just yet. He handed you the menu, and you skimmed through it.

As soon as you and Satoru had decided on what you wanted to have, Suguru stood up to go order up front since it didn't look like any waitress was coming your way any time soon. While you were gone, Gojo asked you if you had missed them, seeing as they had gone on a trip together. They had invited you, but you had declined respectfully. Your exact words were, ‘’I don't need to see you getting at it.”

Their response? ‘’You could join us.”

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