jj barnes

uraume notices before you say anything. they always do. their fingers close lightly around your forearm, steering you with that same eerie calm they bring to everything, already redirecting you toward the bar as if avoiding disaster is simply another item on tonight’s itinerary.

“champagne,” they say, voice smooth, unconcerned. “immediately. i am not in the mood to socialize.”

you let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, grateful for the excuse. “that makes two of us.”

“good. then we can stand in the corner and judge people in peace.”

“now that,” you murmur, letting them guide you away, “is a good idea.”

the ballroom opens wider as you move through it, waiters slipping past with silver trays, conversations folding over each other in bright, meaningless fragments. somebody laughs too loudly near the staircase. the orchestra hums from somewhere above the low roar of voices. the whole place glitters. the whole place feels unbearable.

you manage three steps.

then four.

then something cold and electric crawls up the back of your neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched, of a gaze landing so hard it feels almost physical, like a hand at the nape.

you don’t need to turn to know.

still, against all better judgment, you glance over your shoulder.

and there he is.

already looking.

no—not looking. fixed on you.

his girlfriend is saying something to him, her mouth moving, manicured hand resting on his sleeve, but he’s not watching her. his gaze has cut clean across the room and found yours with that damning ruthless precision that has always made you feel like prey to this infuriating man. there is no mistaking the recognition in it. no mistaking the sudden sharpened interest. like the rest of the room has gone dim around the edges.

you hate the way your body reacts first.

that ugly little jolt low in your stomach. that humiliating skip in your pulse. that horrible awareness of your own skin.

you break eye contact first and face forward again, jaw tight.

uraume lifts a brow without looking at you. “he saw you.”

“i gathered.”

“he is still looking.”

“don’t tell me that.”

“i wasn’t going to,” they say mildly. “but you’re walking like a startled deer.”

you exhale through your nose. “i’m fine.”

“you are many things. fine is not one of them.”

the champagne arrives the second you reach the bar. uraume takes a flute. you take one too, mostly for the comfort of having something to hold, cold glass pressed into your palm, bubbles rising in frantic little streams.

you tell yourself to breathe. that this means nothing.

you tell yourself that he is here with someone else, and you are not free either, not really, not in the ways that matter. your life is messy enough already without dragging him into it, without letting those dangerous glances become words, without letting words become something far worse. you’ve done a decent job, so far, of keeping things inside the lines.

mostly.

probably.

until now.

you lift the glass to your lips and take a sip, cool and dry and crisp enough to sting. uraume says something about the floral arrangement near the staircase looking like it cost more than a small car, and you hum in agreement, but your attention is peeling at the edges because you can feel it, still.

that stare.

a burning. patient. hunger.

you make the mistake of glancing toward the mirrored wall behind the bar and catch his reflection there. distorted by distance, by crystal and candlelight, but unmistakably him. tall. immovable. watching you over the heads of half the city’s elite as though he has already decided the rest of the evening belongs to him.

what is annoying is that there is something so shameless in it, in the way his attention stays on you anyway, in the way he doesn’t even bother to hide it. his expression is unreadable from here, but you know him enough to understand it. that heavy lidded focus. that dangerous little stillness. the look of a man who’s seen something he wants and thinks he’s already won it

your fingers tighten on the stem of your glass.

uraume takes a measured sip of champagne, then tilts their head slightly. “do you want to leave?”

the question hits you right where it hurts. yes, part of you thinks immediately. yes, before he comes over. yes, before he smiles at you like he knows things about you he should not. yes, before he says your name in that low voice that always sounds halfway to a delectable sin.

but another part of you, the worse part, the weaker part, the embarrassingly human part, stays silent.

you swallow. “no.”

uraume gives you a long look. “interesting…”

“don’t.”

“i said nothing.”

“you implied something.”

their mouth curves, just barely. “and i was the one who wanted to avoid socializing.”

you laugh under your breath, thin and strained, and set your glass down for a second because your hand is beginning to betray you.

paradise doesn’t last long,

you look up.

and sukuna is moving.

and not quick either. that would be too easy, too merciful. he moves with dreadful calm through the crowd, saying something to the woman beside him that makes her turn toward another couple. he leaves her there with the confidence of a man fully accustomed to being forgiven for his absences, and then he starts crossing the room.

straight toward you.

uraume follows your line of sight, then sighs like this is all very inconvenient and entirely beneath them. “ah,” they murmur. “so much for champagne in peace.”

your pulse is a big mess now, loud and hot, your skin suddenly too aware of itself, of the line of your dress, of the bare stretch of your shoulders, of the fact that he is looking at you like he remembers every version of you that has ever come undone in front of him, even if none of them were supposed to exist.

you should leave.

you should step away.

you should remember yourself.

instead you laugh, a quick little sound that comes out thinner than you mean it to, and catch uraume by the sleeve before sukuna can close the rest of the distance.

“come on,” you murmur, already tugging them with you. your smile stays pinned in place for anyone looking, bright and harmless and polished enough to pass beneath the chandeliers. “new plan.”

uraume lets themself be dragged exactly two steps before glancing sideways at you, expression flat with that familiar, elegant disdain they wear like jewelry. “your plans are so often terrible.”

“this one is important to my survival, ura.”

“you are dramatic.”

you lean closer as you steer them through a knot of people gathered near a towering arrangement of white orchids and gold painted branches, your voice dropping to a whisper behind the rim of your glass. “flag the closest random person so we can look busy.”

for the first time all evening, uraume actually looks entertained.

it’s small, just the faintest shift at the corner of their mouth, but you know them well enough to catch it.

“you’re bold,” they say quietly. “you’re asking me to ignore my boss while he is actively coming toward us.”

you huff under your breath, eyes forward, refusing to look over your shoulder though every nerve in your body is aware of exactly where he is. “yeah, well, your boss is a loser and doesn’t want to leave me alone.”

uraume makes a soft noise that’s almost a laugh and absolutely a judgment. “i highly doubt that is your true opinion.”

“it’s true enough for tonight.”

“interesting phrasing.”

you shoot them a look.

they lift one shoulder, smooth and unbothered. “but i’ll oblige.”

their gaze sweeps the room once, sharp and efficient, and settles on an older man standing a few feet away near one of the cocktail tables. silver hair, expensive watch, the red cheeked ease of someone who has been drinking on purpose for at least an hour. an investor, by the look of him. the sort of man who enjoys being recognized and interrupted in equal measure.

perfect.

before you can say another word, uraume steps toward him with that cool, seamless grace of theirs and inclines their head just enough to signal importance without offering warmth.

“mr. tanaka,” they say, as though they have been hoping all night to find him. “it has been a while.”

the man lights up immediately, delighted by the attention. “uraume. well, well.”

you nearly snort into your champagne.

of course they know his name. you should have expected that. uraume probably knows everyone’s name, their net worth, what skeleton is in which closet, and what kind of whiskey they pretend to like.

within seconds they have drawn him neatly into conversation, one hand lightly braced on the back of the cocktail chair, the other holding their flute with pristine indifference. they tilt just enough to bring you into the circle too, and you follow the motion on instinct, slipping into place beside them with what you hope looks like easy composure and not a woman fleeing the scene of her own bad decision making.

mr. tanaka turns to you with a pleasant, tipsy smile. “and who is this?”

you give him your name and a polished greeting. charming but not inviting. warm but not memorable. 

he takes your hand for half a second too long. “a pleasure.”

“likewise.”

uraume begins asking him about markets, expansion, some acquisition rumor from singapore or seoul or somewhere equally distant and impossibly rich, and the investor happily launches into it. numbers. forecasts. the glow of his own importance. exactly the kind of conversation neither you nor anyone with sense would voluntarily interrupt.

which is, of course, exactly why you asked for it.

you angle your body inward. you nod when appropriate. you even ask one question, just enough to make it convincing. your face is calm. your voice is steady.

meanwhile your pulse is still trying to claw its way out through your throat.

uraume keeps speaking, smooth as silk. mr. tanaka laughs at something they say. you smile when you’re supposed to.

and then, from the edge of your vision, a dark shape enters the circle.

he appears like an inevitable plague, folding himself into the space with such complete, unbothered confidence that it’s as if the conversation had always been waiting for him to arrive. one second there’s air at your side, the next there’s him, tall and broad. dressed in black so severe it almost looks unruly under all this honeyed ballroom light.

the investor notices first and brightens, attention pulled at once toward the heavier gravity in the room. “ah. sukuna.”

well, of course everyone knows him.

your grip tightens on your champagne flute.

sukuna greets the older man with easy civility, voice low and smooth. there is the faintest trace of amusement in it, some private current moving beneath the formal surface, and you know with sick certainty that it’s for you.

he doesn’t look at you right away.

that is the worst part.

he lets the moment stretch. lets you feel him there. lets you stand in the shadow of his shoulder and the clean, dark scent of his cologne.

he speaks to mr. tanaka about something bland and businesslike. investment. timing. projections. his tone is perfectly composed, his posture immaculate, every inch of him the picture of a man in control.

but then his hand settles against the back of the chair.

uraume notices. you know they do. you can feel their silence sharpen with it, can practically hear the dry commentary they are politely choosing not to offer while the investor rambles on.

then finally, finally, sukuna turns his head.

his eyes land on you with infuriating slowness.

like he has all the time in the world.

like he already took your running as a game and has decided to enjoy the consequences.

sukuna’s mouth curves then, slow and knowing, like hes found something amusing in your irritation and intends to keep poking at it until it sparks.

his gaze slips past you to uraume with that same polished ease he wears in boardrooms and backrooms alike. “and who’s this?”

uraume, a traitor to you, does not miss a beat.

“my plus one for tonight,” they say smoothly, one hand resting against the stem of their champagne flute. the answer lands there between all four of you

you feel his attention come back to you at once.

so you do what any sane person trying very hard not to lose it in public would do. you smile. sweetly, prettily, in a way your mother would approve of and your better judgment would applaud. you turn just enough toward him to make it formal, as though this is a perfectly ordinary introduction and not a private nightmare dressed in black tie.

you give him your name.

then you hold out your hand.

it’s meant to be courteous. distant. neat.

something you can hide inside later and tell yourself was harmless.

sukuna looks down at your hand for half a second.

then, very purposefully, he takes it.

his fingers close around yours warm and firm, far too assured, and before you can even begin to regret the gesture he leans down and kisses the back of your hand.

your entire face goes hot.

a hot, furious bloom that climbs straight into your cheeks. because his lips linger for just a fraction too long. because he knows exactly what he’s doing. because mr. tanaka is standing right there.

because you hate that your pulse still jumps.

when he straightens, his thumb is still braced lightly beneath your knuckles, as if he sees no reason to release you yet.

your mouth pulls into something sharp. “flattering,” you mumble, all sweetness gone dry with sarcasm.

mr. tanaka laughs, delighted, either too tipsy or too sheltered inside his own amusement to notice the razor hidden in your tone.

“watch out for sukuna,” he says, grinning broadly at you as though he is imparting a fond little secret. “a ladies’ man.”

your hand is still in sukuna’s.

you try to tug it back amd he lets you, eventually.

mr. tanaka continues, blissfully unaware of the live wire he has just stepped on. “but he has a soon to be wife.”

the air changes. almost invisible.  

sukuna’s expression shifts by a degree, maybe less. the curve of his mouth flattens. something faintly displeased settles in the space between his brows. not enough to make a scene, not enough to break the smooth surface, but enough that you catch it and know at once that he does not like hearing it put that way.

then he says, cool as poured liquor, “if she behaves.”

mr. tanaka barks out another laugh.

oblivious old man. charming old fool. he takes it for a jest, some sly little line from a difficult rich man with a difficult fiancee and too much money to ever be truly inconvenienced by either. he shakes his head as if sukuna has said something wickedly funny instead of quietly monstrous.

you don’t laugh. neither does uraume.

for a brief second, the two of you look at each other.

your look says, did he really just say that out loud?

uraume’s says, yes, and unfortunately this is still one of the least surprising things he has done all month.

you have to look away first before your face gives you up.

the ballroom feels brighter all of a sudden. the music too thin. the champagne in your hand too cold. across the mirrored wall you can still see blurs of movement, gowns, tuxedos, and candlelight sliding together in one expensive haze, but all of it feels distant compared to the unpleasant little knot forming under your chest.

soon to be wife.

the phrase sits badly with you.

not because you care in some noble, righteous way, though maybe you should. not because you have any claim to him, because you don’t. but because it makes everything around him feel uglier. messier. because whatever exists between the two of you already has enough rot in it without adding wedding silk and public promises to the pile.

and he stands there looking entirely unbothered, one hand tucked in his pocket now, the other loose at his side, broad shoulders relaxed beneath the clean black line of his suit, as if he has not just made your skin prickle in front of witnesses.

mr. tanaka, still coasting on his own laughter, lifts his glass. “you rich boys are all the same.”

“hardly,” sukuna says.

his eyes are on you when he says it.

that’s the problem. always that. he can speak to one person and mean it for another. he can lace a room with implication and stand there immaculate while everyone else misses it.

uraume takes a measured sip of their champagne and says, in that cool even voice of theirs, “i’m sure your fiancee must be very patient.”

there is something almost holy in the neutrality of it.

you nearly choke.

sukuna glances at them, and for the first time tonight there is the faintest edge to his amusement. “is that what we’re calling it?”

uraume’s expression does not move. “i was being diplomatic.”

“that’s new.”

“it’s a gala. i like to experiment.”

mr. tanaka laughs again, delighted to be standing in what he assumes is harmless banter among polished, successful people with too much charisma and not enough supervision. he starts saying something about a couple in hong kong whose engagement party ended in a fistfight over a seating chart, but the words slide around the edges of your attention because sukuna has looked back at you.

your hand still remembers the warmth of his mouth through the thin veil of your skin.

the back of it tingles with pure annoyance.

you curl your fingers tighter around your glass.

“if she behaves,” you repeat, before you can stop yourself.

the words come out soft. far too soft. not for the room. not for mr. tanaka.

for him.

one of his brows lifts, “she’s a girlfriend. not a fiancee.” he corrects a little too late.

you keep your face smooth, but there is frost in your smile now,  glittering and dangerous. “charming.”

his gaze drags over your expression. your annoyance. your disapproval. the heat still left in your cheeks. all of it.

“you seemed to think so a second ago,” he says.

your heart gives one hard beat.

uraume turns their face slightly away, which is the only reason you know they are hiding a reaction.

mr. tanaka misses it entirely and starts rambling about how modern women are too clever to put up with nonsense from men like sukuna, which is rich coming from a man old enough to have built a portfolio in three different recessions 

you set your glass down before you can crush the stem in your hand.

“well,” you murmur, adjusting your expression back into something palatable, “good thing i’m not the one marrying him.”

and that, finally, does something.

small. minute. but real.

sukuna’s gaze sharpens with almost cruel immediacy, 

his face remains calm. composed. beautiful.

but his eyes go dark.

uraume sees it too. you know they do. the investor does not. he just keeps smiling and talking, pleased with the glittering little circle he finds himself in, 

you let your smile soften into something polite enough to pass for harmless, even as your jaw aches from holding it.

“excuse me,” you say, voice light, almost airy. “where’s the ladies room?”

uraume’s gaze flicks toward the hallway to the right, the one trimmed in velvet rope and framed by tall arrangements of greenery that look expensive. “down there,” they answer, then, because they are exactly who they are, they add, “would you like me to accompany you?”

you shake your head, still smiling like you mean it. “no, it’s fine.”

you dip your chin at mr. tanaka, at sukuna, at the air itself, then slide out of the circle before anyone can decide to follow. you can feel sukuna’s eyes on you as you go, heavy and patient, like he’s letting you have your little escape only because he enjoys the chase more than the catch.

your heels carry you toward the hallway, the noise of the ballroom thinning behind you with every step. the music fades into something distant and muffled. laughter becomes a blur. 

for a few seconds, you’re still performing. shoulders back. chin level. breathing measured.

then you pass the last cluster of people and the hallway opens into a quieter stretch with almost no one in it, just a waiter slipping out of a service door and a woman checking her lipstick in the reflective paneling before disappearing around the corner.

once they are gone, the silence hits you like cool water.

you huff a breath out through your nose, sharper than you intended, and your face finally drops out of that gala smile. your teeth grit in annoyance, not at the investor, not at uraume, not even at the event itself.

at you.

because as much as you hate the man, he looks so good.

it’s infuriating how unfair it is. the suit, the posture, the way he stands. the way his mouth touches your hand like it’s a privilege he’s granting himself. the way he looks at you like he has already taken something 

in another life, you would have eye fucked him with no hesitation and called it a win.

you swallow hard, scowling at the carpet, and mutter under your breath, “fuck.”

your heels click again as you keep walking, pushing down the spike of heat that does not belong here, does not belong to him, does not belong in the same body as your self respect. your fingers flex once around the little clutch in your hand, knuckles whitening, then relaxing.

the restroom signs come into view, discreet and tasteful, as if even the bathrooms in this place have to be careful not to look too human.

you head straight for the door, determined to get inside, splash cold water on your face, fix your expression, and come back out as someone unbothered.

your hand reaches for the handle

and you feel it again, that subtle change in the air, that quiet weight of attention sliding into the hall behind you, close enough that your skin knows it before your eyes do

you slip into the ladies room and lock the door behind you, the click loud in the hush. the space is too pretty to be comforting. soft lighting, marble counters, a mirror big enough to show you every thought you are trying not to have. your reflection stares back at you with your cheeks still faintly warm, your eyes a little too bright, your mouth set in a line that looks braver than you feel.

you huff, then laugh quietly, more breath than sound, because it is ridiculous,

this man is getting under your skin

you brace both hands on the counter and lean forward, staring at yourself like you might find an answer in your own pupils. you try to slow your breathing. you try to remember that you came here to be normal, to be polite, to be a person with boundaries with a schedule and an adult sense of consequence.

and you try to think of a lie.

something clean. something believable. “i’m not feeling well.” “i have an early morning.” “my friend needs me.” you roll each one around in your head and none of them taste right because you can already picture uraume’s look, already hear the quiet amusement in their voice when they realize exactly why you are suddenly leaving a glittering event you were supposed to endure together.

you sigh again, pinching the bridge of your nose.

then you look down at your phone.

the screen lights up with a familiar thread, the one that always seems to live somewhere between annoying and addictive. your not boyfriend’s messages sit there like a messy little shrine to bad decisions. you scroll with your thumb.

raunchy photos. explicit angles. captions that sound like longing but read like a habit. miss you. come home. wish you were here. the same words recycled in a hundred different late night loops, as if enough repetition might make them true.

you don’t know if you believe him.

you have broken up with each other four different times, each one louder than the last, each one followed by the same soft slide back into familiarity. you know the pattern. you know exactly where it goes. you know how easy it is to call something a situationship when what it really is, is refusal to let go.

you roll your eyes, the motion sharp, and exhale through your nose like you’re trying to blow the whole thing away.

and then the door knocks.

you freeze for half a heartbeat, then call, “it’s occupied.”

silence.

a split second passes.

the knock comes again, the sound firmer this time, like whoever is on the other side has decided your answer was not adequate.

your brows knit. irritation flares quick and hot. this is the ladies room, not a negotiation. you push off the counter and stride toward the door, already rehearsing a curt, polite reprimand.

your hand wraps around the lock.

you crack it open.

and there he is.

sukuna fills the doorway, shoulders broad, immaculate, a dangerous smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him. the hallway light catches the sharp lines of his face, the dark tilt of his eyes, the unapologetic confidence in the way he leans slightly into your space as if he belongs there.

as if you belong to him.

your stomach drops and your annoyance spikes.

your voice comes out too tight. “are you serious?”

his gaze flicks, quick and precise, to the phone still in your hand, then back to your face, and the smirk deepens like he has just found something delicious.

“you’re hard to catch,” he says, tone low and amused.

you straighten, blocking the doorway with your body on instinct, fingers tightening around your phone until the edges bite into your palm. “this is the women’s restroom.”

“i know.”

“then get out.”

he doesn’t move.

he looks down at you like you’re a fascinating inconvenience.

“you ran,” he says, 

you scoff, a brittle sound. “i walked away from a conversation.”

“with me.”

“with your fiancee,” you correct, the words tasting sharp.

his eyes narrow, just slightly, and the air in the doorway thickens. “she’s not my fiancee.”

“she exists,” you snap, then immediately hate how much it sounds like it matters.

his gaze drags over your face again, slow and deliberate, and you can feel it like fingers on your throat, like heat along your collarbone, like he’s got eyes on every crack in your composure.

“and you,” he murmurs, voice dropping another shade, “have a boyfriend.”

your mouth tightens. “no, i don’t.”

“then there’s no problem,” he says, 

before you can snap back, his palm lands on the edge of the door and he nudges it wider, crowding into the threshold with that lazy, inevitable confidence of his. he slides, shoulder brushing past the frame, suit jacket whispering against the door as he turns.

the door closes behind him.

the lock clicks.

your stomach drops straight to your shoes.

you seethe, heat rushing up your throat, hands curling into fists at your sides. “get the fuck out.”

sukuna’s expression barely changes. if anything, he looks entertained by your anger, like it’s a flavor he expected and wanted anyway. he shrugs, casual.

“it locks,” he says, like that’s a justification. “there’s other bathrooms for these idiots to go in.”

you stare at him, jaw tight, trying to decide which part of him you want to slap first. the audacity. the smugness. the fact that you can feel his presence in the room like he’s a second source of oxygen, like the air has been rearranged around him, and for him.

“you’re such an inconvenience.”

“mm,” he hums, stepping closer, slow. he looks around once, almost bored, taking in the marble sink, the mirror, the soft lighting, the little vase of flowers that probably costs more than your rent. “private though.”

your throat works around a breath. “you’re still not supposed to be in here.”

“so?” he murmurs, eyes returning to you, “since when do i care?”

then his gaze drops. dragging down the line of your neckline, the curve of fabric over your chest, the way your dress clings to your waist before it falls, the bare skin of your legs made even more exposed by the bright, flattering light of the room.

your irritation spikes so hot it makes your cheeks burn again, this time with pure fury.

“hey,” you snap, stepping forward so you’re in his space too, forcing his attention up where it belongs. “dick. my eyes are up here.”

his gaze lifts slowly, like he’s granting you the favor of compliance, and that faint smirk tugs at his mouth again. 

“i heard you the first time,” he says, voice low, unbothered.

“then act like it.”

he looks at you for a moment, and the smirk fades into something heavier, something that sits behind his eyes like dark water. his attention feels like a hand around your wrist, not touching, but close enough that your skin remembers the shape of it.

“you’re shaking,” he says again, quieter now, and you hate that he noticed.

you glance down without meaning to, as if your hands might betray you right in front of him. your fingers flex, then tighten, as though you can force steadiness into your bones by sheer spite.

“i’m not scared of you,” you hiss.

his head tilts, almost thoughtful. “i didn’t say you were.”

you swallow, pulse hammering, anger and heat braided together so tight you can’t tell which is what. “unlock the door.”

he doesn’t move.

instead, he steps just a little closer, enough that you catch his cologne again, dark and clean and expensive.  the space between you turns sharp, charged, too intimate for a room with just a sink and a mirror

“tell me to my face,” he says. “tell me you don’t want me anywhere near you tonight.”

your mouth opens, 

but nothing comes out.

his eyes stay on yours, steady and brutal, like he’s waiting for you to lie so he can call you on it, like he’s waiting for truth so he can break it.

your phone is still in your hand, screen dimmed now, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. your not boyfriend’s messages sit there like an excuse you’ve used too many times, 

you lift your chin, forcing your voice to stay firm. “you have a girlfriend. you have a fiancee. whatever she is.”

something flickers across his face, a brief, ugly annoyance, like you’ve brought up a rule he never agreed to.

“and you,” he replies, voice smooth, “have a man texting you like you’re his property.”

“he’s not.”

sukuna’s gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes. “prove it.”

his hand moves before you can stop him.

one second your phone is in your grip, hot from your palm and heavy with all the stupid, half true proof of a life you keep insisting is stable enough to stand on. the next, sukuna plucks it cleanly from your hand with the kind of effortless theft that makes your jaw drop on instinct.

“hey,” you snap, stepping in at once. “give that back.”

he takes one lazy step away instead, just enough to keep you from reclaiming it without making a scene of the motion, and glances down at the screen like he has every right in the world. the light from your phone throws pale across the hard lines of his face, catches in the dark cut of his lashes, glints off the faint edge of amusement already beginning to pull at his mouth.

you could scream.

you could kill him.

you could also, very unfortunately, admit that anger looks good on him and that thought alone nearly has you grinding your molars to dust.

his eyes flick over the messages. one brow lifts.

then he chuckles.

a rich sound. full of private mockery, and it makes your skin prickle all over again.

“this is the man?” he asks, like the word itself offends him. his thumb scrolls once, leisurely, and his mouth twists. “christ. he’s pathetic.”

“sukuna.”

“look at this.” he tilts the phone just enough to read another message, voice dripping disdain. “‘miss you so bad, baby.’” his eyes cut to you for half a second, wicked with it. “does he always sound this desperate, or is tonight a special performance?”

you lunge for the phone.

he lifts it higher without effort.

your glare could blow the planet up.

“give it back.”

“boring ass job, too,” he goes on, almost conversationally, as though he is reviewing a very unimpressive profile. “no wonder he has time to send you this much garbage.”

“shut up,” you shoot back at once, furious now, heat running bright under your skin. “he’s less irritating than you.”

that makes him smile.

awful thing. beautiful thing. the kind of smile that never means safety.

“is he.”

“yes,” you hiss. “and he’s less of an asshole than you.”

“hardly,” he cuts in, smooth and immediate, like the answer has been waiting in his mouth all along.

his gaze drops back to the screen.

you see the exact moment he finds one of your photos.

his expression changes by a fraction. more focused, more intent, some banked ember stirred under all that polished irritation. 

his eyes drag slowly over whatever you forgot was sitting there, and the room goes so quiet you can hear the blood in your ears.

then he says, low and almost thoughtful, “sexy.”

your face burns.

you snatch the phone from his hand the second his grip loosens, clutching it back to your chest like you can erase the last ten seconds by force. “you’re unbelievable.”

he chuckles again, the sound darker now, and leans one shoulder against the marble counter as if this is all going exactly how he expected. he looks entirely too good standing there. like a man who has broken into your peace and found it charming.

“don’t you miss me?” he asks.

the question lands crooked.

not because of what it means. because of how simply he says it. no joke in his voice now. no mocking imitation. just that low, steady tone, as though he already knows the answer and wants to hear you fight it anyway.

you stare at him, pulse kicking hard.

“no,” you say at once, too quick, too sharp. “why would i?”

his eyes stay on yours.

that is the worst part. not a grin, not a taunt, not even that smug little lift at the corner of his mouth. just that look. dark. direct. patient in a way that feels far more dangerous than impatience ever could.

your phone is still locked against your chest. your fingers are digging into the case.

he pushes off the counter and steps closer.

only one step. it’s  not much. but somehow it’s everything.

“because you keep looking at me like you do,” he says.

your laugh comes out brittle. “you are so full of yourself.”

“and you’re avoiding the question.”

“i answered it.”

“no—you reacted to it.”

your jaw tightens. “same thing.”

“not even close.”

the room feels smaller now. the mirror behind him catches both of you in pieces. your bright face and rigid shoulders. his dark shape advancing through warm light. the vase of white flowers on the counter looking absurdly innocent in the middle of all this.

you hate that he can do this to the air. bend it. crowd it. cut it. make every inch between you feel charged even when nothing has happened, even when nothing should.

you lift your chin. “why do you care?”

his gaze drops to your mouth for one infuriating second before returning to your eyes.

“i don’t like being replaced by some idiot who sends shirtless mirror pics. ugly blurry ones for that matter.”

despite everything, a tiny sound nearly escapes you.

not a laugh. worse. something dangerously close.

you kill it before it forms. “you were never there to be replaced.”

something in his face stills.

subtle, but real. the amusement thins. the lazy edge sharpens. he studies you as if the sentence has teeth after all, as if you have finally managed to put one somewhere it might matter.

good.

let him feel it.

you clutch your phone tighter and go on before you can lose the nerve. “you don’t get to show up, act insane, insult my life, and then ask if i miss you like you’ve got some claim to me.”

his expression does not soften—if anything, it deepens.

“claim?” he repeats, quiet.

“yes, claim.”

“i never said that.”

“you don’t have to say things out loud for people to hear them.”

for a beat, neither of you moves.

outside the door, somewhere far down the hall, voices blur past and fade. a heel clicks. water runs in some distant sink. the gala is still happening, still beautiful, still swallowing people whole under candlelight and champagne and string music, 

but in here it feels like the whole night has narrowed to this one locked room and the two of you inside it.

sukuna’s gaze drops briefly to the phone in your hands.

then back up.

“you keep that man around because he’s easy,” he says. “because he’s there when you want noise and gone when you don’t.”

you open your mouth.

he keeps going.

“he says he misses you and you roll your eyes. he sends you pictures and you don’t even bother hiding them. and when i ask if you miss me, you answer like you’re offended i noticed.”

“i don’t want to argue about this bullshit with you in a goddamn bathroom,” you snap, voice low and sharp and prying at the edges. “sukuna, we were and never were together. you chose to stay with that woman instead of breaking up with her because you just want to control someone, and you’re irritated you can’t win me. it’s sad, really. you keep her on a leash and won’t let her go. kind of pathetic.”

the words come out hot and fast, the sort you only get to say once before they start shaking the room around you.

for a second, he just looks at you.

then sukuna rolls his eyes, slow and contemptuous, leaning back against the counter like you’re the one being unreasonable here, like he did not follow you into a locked bathroom in the middle of a gala because you dared to walk away.

“where was this a few months ago?” he says.

your stomach drops.

you know exactly where he is going before he gets there,

his gaze drags over your face, lazy and merciless. “last time i remember, you were on your knees making very different arguments.”

a beat

“something about, how much you needed me inside you…?”

heat detonates across your cheeks so fast it almost feels violent.

“first of all,” you sputter, pure outrage carrying you forward even while humiliation claws at the back of your neck, “i didn’t know you were taken.”

his expression barely shifts. one brow lifts, like he is willing to grant you that point and absolutely nothing else.

“second of all,” you add, because now you have to keep going or die on the spot, “i would never.”

that finally gets something close to amusement out of him.

“never?” he repeats.

you hate that single word. hate the way he says it. hate the memory pulling at the edges of your mind, bright and humiliating and far too vivid. a version of you softer with want, stupider with it, willing to say things that now feel like forged documents being read aloud in court.

he tilts his head, studying you with that same infuriating calm. “how about that time you told me you wanted my kids? you were begging—yet again— for me to put my kids inside you.”

you make a sound that’s not language.

it comes out somewhere between a choke and a curse.

there is no saving your face now. the heat in it is catastrophic. your whole body feels suddenly too warm, too aware, like the bathroom lights have turned merciless and are exposing every bad choice you have ever made.

“oh my god,” you mutter, horrified. “shut up.”

his mouth curves.

“really though?” he goes on, and now the cruelty of it is almost elegant. “kids? not exactly what i’d call the motherly type.”

you glare at him so hard your eyes sting.

somewhere in the privacy of your own mind, where no jury could ever convict you because there are no witnesses but your shame, you admit it.

yeah.

maybe you were down bad for him.

maybe down bad is too soft a phrase for it, actually. maybe at the time you had been operating on a level of foolishness that deserved its own award. because no sane version of you would have said half the things you said to him. no sane version of you would have looked at a man built like a bad decision in a black suit and thought, yes, let me hand him my dignity folded neatly in both palms.

but come on.

this is embarrassing.

“you are such an asshole,” you say, and there is real feeling in it now, not just flirt sharp irritation or the brittle sparring from earlier. this one lands with heat. with shame. with the fury of being perceived too accurately by the worst possible person.

sukuna only watches you.

that is somehow worse than if he laughed outright.

because the laughter would have let you hate him cleanly. the quiet means he is paying attention. the quiet means he remembers. the quiet means he knows exactly which parts of you to touch without using his hands.

you fold your arms over yourself, less for defense than for pride. “you don’t get to bring that up.”

“why not?”

“because it was private.”

“it’s my memory to recollect.”

you nearly bare your teeth at him.

he goes on before you can answer, voice lower now, less amused and more pointed, like he is carving toward the center of something with slow deliberate cuts. “you keep acting like i imagined all of it.”

“i’m acting like you’re conveniently leaving out the part where you lied by omission.”

his jaw shifts, just slightly.

good. let him choke on that for once.

you press forward, even if your face is still burning. “i didn’t know about her. you never said anything about a girlfriend. if i had known, i never would’ve touched you with a ten foot pole.”

his eyes move over you with maddening slowness. “that’s not true.”

“it absolutely is.”

“you’re lying.”

“you are unbelievable.”

“and you’re bad at this.”

“bad at what?”

“pretending.”

you stare at him, chest tight, pulse jumping for reasons that have nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being cornered by your own history. because he is not talking about the past only. he is talking about now. about the way you keep throwing your outrage at him like it is the only thing left between you. about the fact that your embarrassment is half shame and half something far more inconvenient.

he pushes off the counter and takes one step closer.

just one.

the distance narrows enough to make the room feel different.

“you can call me pathetic,” he says quietly. “you can say i want control. maybe i do. maybe you like that less than you liked mouthing off to me in private. maybe you liked it better when you could pretend none of it meant anything.”

after a split second of silence that feels like it lasts forever, he says it.

“i’ve missed you though.”

the words come out quieter than everything else he’s thrown at you tonight. almost soft. almost honest. it makes your stomach twist.

he steps closer.

he says your name, voice dropping lower, “you can’t seriously be holding such disdain for me.”

you roll your eyes

“i’m a taken woman.”

he chuckles. low.  the sound vibrates right against your skin.

“no you’re not.”

another step. now there’s barely air left. his chest brushes yours on every inhale.

“if you’re a taken woman,” he says, words slow and deliberate, like he’s daring you, “you’re gonna push me off.”

and then his mouth finds your neck.

soft at first. just lips. warm. you grit your teeth, jaw locked so tight it aches, because you should shove him. you should slap him. you should do literally anything except stand here letting him.

but you don’t.

he kisses again. firmer this time. open mouthed. then his tongue swirls slow over the same spot—lazy, wet circles that make your knees threaten to give out. heat shoots straight down your spine.

he chuckles into your skin. the vibration sinks in deep.

“see?” he breathes against the damp spot he just made. “not pushing.”

your hands are fisted at your sides. nails biting into palms. you’re breathing too hard, too fast, and you hate that he can hear it. hate that he knows exactly what that sound means.

his teeth graze next. with just enough pressure to remind you he could. his hand slides up your waist. slow, possessive. thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk like it’s nothing.

“tell me to stop,” he says again, lips dragging up to the shell of your ear. “mean it this time.”

your throat works. you swallow hard.

nothing comes out.

he hums. pleased.

then he does it again—tongue flat, dragging up the column of your throat before he sucks lightly right under your jaw. your head tips back against the wall without permission. a tiny, involuntary sound slips past your teeth.

he pulls back just enough to look at you.

eyes black. mouth wet. smug in a way that should make you want to kill him.

instead it makes something low in your stomach clench.

“still taken?” he asks, voice rough now.

you don’t answer.

you just stare at him, chest heaving, lips parted, pride in shreds on the marble floor between you.

he smiles. slow. victorious.

and leans in again.

you look at him, lips parting to spit something sharp, something final, but before the words can form he’s already moving.

his hands come up fast, rough palms framing your face, thumbs pressing into your cheeks just enough to tilt your head exactly where he wants it. then his mouth crashes into yours.

you squeal against him—half surprise, half protest that dies the second his tongue slips past your lips. it’s not gentle. it’s claiming. hungry. like he’s been starving for this taste and finally got permission to devour.

he breaks just long enough to rasp against your mouth, breath hot and ragged.

“you miss me. i can feel it in your body.”

and fuck, he’s right.

your hands are already fisting his suit instead of shoving. your hips are already shifting closer instead of away. traitorous heat pools low in your body, thighs pressing together like that’ll hide how wet you already are.

he pulls you in tighter, one arm banding around your waist, the other sliding down until both hands settle just above your ass—fingers splayed wide over the curve of your tailbone, pressing you flush against him so you feel every hard inch of what you’ve been pretending not to want.

you curse yourself silently.

stupid. so fucking stupid.

but the argument’s gone. evaporated. there’s no point pretending anymore when your tongue is already sliding against his, when your teeth catch his bottom lip just to hear that low growl rumble out of him.

so you kiss back.

harder than you mean to.

like you’re angry about it. like you’re punishing him and yourself at the same time.

his hands flex, digging in, guiding your hips in a slow grind against him that makes your breath hitch. the silk of your dress rides up under his grip. his thumbs stroke lazy circles over the sensitive dip at the base of your spine and it’s pathetic how fast your body melts for it.

he breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth along your jaw, down to that spot behind your ear he already knows makes your knees weak.

“there she is,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and smug. “knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”

you should say something. anything. tell him to fuck off. remind him of his girlfriend waiting somewhere in that glittering ballroom.

instead you tilt your head, giving him more neck, more skin, more everything.

your fingers slide into his hair and tug—hard.

he hisses. laughs low against your throat.

“that’s my girl.”

the words should piss you off.

they don’t.

they light you up instead.

and when his hand slips lower, cupping your ass fully now, squeezing like he owns it, you don’t stop him.

you just arch into it.

no use arguing now.

you want this.

you miss the chase.

you miss him.

he pulls away from your mouth with a slow, wet sound, lips swollen and glistening. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, like he’s already halfway gone.

then he dips lower.

mouth finds your neck again—open kisses, teeth grazing just enough to sting. he trails down, low and slow, until he reaches the deep plunge between your breasts. his tongue flicks out, tracing the edge of the fabric, tasting skin and salt and whatever perfume you sprayed earlier.

before you can process it he’s dropping.

one knee hits the marble, then the other. he looks up at you from there—kneeling in a thousand dollar suit in a locked bathroom like it’s normal

his hands slide to your thighs. fingers splayed possessively, thumbs pressing into the soft inner skin as he hikes your dress up inch by torturous inch. cool air hits your legs, then higher, until lace and heat are barely covered.

“what are you doing?” your voice cracks, half whisper, half plea.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look up.

instead he leans in and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast, right above the neckline. a low, filthy moan vibrates against your skin as his lips part, tongue dragging slow and hot over the curve. he sucks lightly, then harder, like he’s trying to mark you through silk and shame.

your hands fly to his hair—half to pull him away, half to hold him there. fingers twist in the strands. a shaky breath escapes you.

he groans again, deeper this time, the sound muffled against your chest. one hand stays fisted in the fabric bunched at your hips while the other slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, teasing the edge where skin meets lace.

his mouth moves—kissing, licking, nipping—worshipping like he’s been denied this for months and can’t stand another second without it.

you’re trembling now. knees weak. thighs pressing together instinctively, but his shoulders are broad enough to keep them parted just enough.

he finally pulls back an inch, just to look up at you again. lips shiny. eyes feral.

still doesn’t speak.

just hooks two fingers into the neckline and tugs it down—slow, careful, exposing more skin.

then his mouth is back.

hot. wet. relentless.

and you’re done pretending you want him to stop.

you grit your teeth, trying to hold onto the last shred of resistance, but he doesn’t give you time. his fingers hook into the lace of your panties and tug them down in one smooth, practiced motion. cool air hits you and you gasp, sharp and startled.

“sukuna! i didn’t say you could do that yet!”

he pauses, still crouched, eyes flicking up to yours with that lazy, dangerous amusement.

“yet,” he repeats, low and mocking, then chuckles.

he stands slowly, unfolding like a predator deciding he’s done playing nice. towers over you again. holds out his hand.

“take those panties off.”

your breath catches. you should tell him no. should shove past him, fix your dress, walk out like none of this happened.

instead your fingers tremble as they reach down, sliding the already-damp fabric the rest of the way off your ankles. you step out of them quietly, cheeks burning, and drop them into his waiting palm.

he pockets them without looking away from your face.

“good slut,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction.

before you can snap back he’s on you—hands on your hips, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your ass hits the edge of the marble sink counter with a soft thud. he pushes your thighs apart with his knee, stepping between them so you’re pinned, spread, exposed.

“what—what are you doing?” you stammer, voice cracking on every syllable.

he doesn’t answer with words.

instead he drops back to his knees—right there on the bathroom floor, suit be damned. one hand fists the hem of your dress and yanks it up again, bunching it around your waist. the other hand reaches up, hooks into the neckline and bra in one motion, and pulls down hard.

your breasts spill free. nipples already hard from the cool air and the way he’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

heat floods your face. you’re blushing so hard it hurts.

he chuckles again, low and filthy, eyes locked on your chest like it’s art.

“what a beautiful pet you are.”

the word snaps something in you.

you lean forward, eyes blazing, and spit the words at him.

“if you call me a pet again, i’m leaving.”

he stills.

just for a second.

then his mouth curves—slow, wicked, utterly unbothered.

he leans in closer, breath ghosting over one peaked nipple.

“then what should i call you?” he asks, voice velvet and venom. “mine? needy? dripping for me already?”

his tongue flicks out—once, teasing the sensitive tip—and your whole body jerks.

he hums against your skin.

“thought so.”

he keeps his mouth on you, switching to the other breast with the same slow, rough hunger. 

between wet kisses and soft sucks he murmurs against your skin, voice low and taunting. “what do you want me to call you then? my baby? my woman?” another flick of his tongue, the cool metal of his piercing dragging over your nipple and sending sparks straight to your core. 

“i bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you open your mouth to snap something—anything—but it comes out as a broken little moan instead.

he chuckles, the sound vibrating right through you.

“what about my cum slut?” he drags his teeth lightly over the sensitive peak. “my whore.” 

another slow circle with that damn piercing. 

“my mistress.” he pauses there, lips brushing as he speaks. “i know how much that bothers you.”

the words are sharp, designed to crawl under your skin, and they do. heat floods your face again—anger, shame, want all twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

“don’t—” you start, voice shaky, trying to sound firm. “don’t call me—”

but he cuts you off by sliding one hand between your thighs. fingers part you slow, teasing, brushing over slick folds without giving you what you suddenly, desperately need. just enough pressure to make your hips twitch forward, chasing his touch.

you moan—loud, involuntary, embarrassing—and your head falls back against the mirror.

“there it is,” he murmurs, pleased. his tongue flicks your nipple again, piercing catching just right, while those fingers keep circling, dipping shallow, never quite inside. 

“keep telling me to stop. see how long that lasts.”

your hands grip the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles ache. thighs trembling. breath coming in short, desperate pants.

he pulls away from your breast with a soft, wet pop, lips glistening, eyes locked on yours like he’s remembering every flicker of weakness on your face.

without a word he hooks one of your thighs over his broad shoulder, the rough fabric of his suit jacket scraping deliciously against your skin. his hands grip your hips and yank you forward until you’re right on the edge of the counter, ass barely hanging on, completely open to him.

you groan quietly—low, helpless—the sound slipping out before you can catch it.

he leans down, breath hot against your core first. then his tongue makes contact. flat. direct. right on your clit.

the metal of his piercing drags over the swollen bud and it’s immediate—electric, too much, perfect. cool steel against fever hot skin, flicking once, twice, lazy circles that make your hips jerk involuntarily.

you grit your teeth so hard your jaw aches. his name slips out anyway, mumbled and broken.

“sukuna…”

he chuckles right into you. the vibration sinks deep, makes your thighs tremble around his head. the sound is dark, satisfied, like he’s won something you didn’t even know you were betting.

his tongue moves lazy now—long, slow drags from your entrance up to your clit, savoring every inch like he’s got all night. the piercing catches again on every upstroke, sending sharp little shocks through you that blur your vision.

one hand stays fisted in the bunched silk at your waist, keeping you spread and pinned. the other slides up your thigh, thumb pressing into the soft crease where leg meets hip, holding you exactly where he wants.

he licks again—slow, filthy, tongue curling just enough to tease inside before flattening back over your clit. another lazy swirl. another flick of that piercing.

your fingers dig into his scalp, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he only groans in response—low and greedy—like the pain turns him on more.

“fuck,” you whisper, barely audible, head tipping back against the mirror.

he hums against you in answer, tongue never stopping, pace maddeningly unhurried. like he’s enjoying the way you’re falling apart piece by piece.

your hips rock forward on instinct, chasing more, and he lets you—lets you grind against his face while he keeps that slow, torturous rhythm.

the wet sounds fill the bathroom. obscene. unmistakable.

he flicks his tongue again and again over your clit, the cool metal piercing catching every sensitive nerve like a deliberate spark, slow and precise, each pass dragging a fresh shiver up your spine. his finger joins in, thick and calloused, circling the swollen bud in tight, lazy spirals that match the rhythm, flicking up at the peak just to watch your hips twitch helplessly against his mouth.

you mutter pleas under your breath, broken little fragments that barely form words—“please… sukuna… fuck, i can’t—” but they dissolve into shaky gasps every time his tongue flattens and presses harder, the vibration of his low groan sinking straight into your core. the sound he makes is deep, guttural, almost animal, rumbling against your wet folds like he’s feeding off every desperate sound you make, like stopping is the last thing on his mind and he wants you to know it.

his free hand grips your thigh tighter where it rests over his shoulder, keeping you spread wide and pinned to the counter’s edge, no escape, no mercy. he groans again, longer this time, the heat of his breath ghosting over your slick skin as his tongue flicks faster now—quick, relentless little lashes that make your clit throb under the onslaught, the piercing dragging with wet, filthy precision while his finger keeps teasing the same swollen spot in slow, delicious strokes.

then his fingers slide down. agonizingly slow. two thick fingers tracing the seam of your entrance, parting your folds just enough to feel how soaked you are, how your body clenches around nothing, begging without words. he doesn’t push inside yet—just circles the tight ring of muscle with feather light pressure, dipping the tip of one finger in and out in shallow, teasing pulses that make your walls flutter desperately around the promise of more.

your thighs tremble around his head, breath coming in short, ragged pants, every nerve alight and screaming for him to just fill you, just let you come, but he only chuckles softly into your pussy, the sound vibrating through you like a secret, and keeps licking—faster, hungrier, tongue piercing flicking mercilessly while his fingers hover right there, teasing, waiting, making you feel every single second of the ache.

you cry out quietly, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. “please stop… i’m about to cum—”

but he doesn’t stop.

not even close. he groans low into your pussy like your plea is the sweetest thing he’s heard all night, the vibration ripping another shaky whimper from your throat.

your thighs lock around his head, trembling hard, every muscle in your body pulling tight as the pressure coils unbearably low in your belly. you’re right there, right on the razor’s edge, and he knows it. he can feel it in the way your hips jerk, the way your walls flutter around nothing, begging.

then you convulse.

the orgasm hits like a shockwave—sharp, blinding, tearing through you so fast your vision whites out for a second. your back arches off the counter, a choked cry ripping free as your body seizes around the pleasure he’s forcing on you.

that’s when he slides his fingers inside.

he pushes in deep, slow at first, stretching you open with that perfect burn you’ve been craving for months. your walls clamp down instantly, greedy, fluttering around him like they’ve been waiting forever.

you bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, but his name still spills out anyway—raw, broken, loud enough that it echoes off the marble.

“sukuna—”

it’s been so long since anyone touched you properly. your situationship fumbles, rushes, never quite gets it right. never finds that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. never makes you shake like this.

but sukuna does.

he always has.

he pumps his fingers now—drags in and out, curling just right on every thrust to hit that place that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. he pulls his mouth away with a wet sound, lips shiny, chin dripping, and licks them slow like he’s savoring every drop of you.

he chuckles quietly, dark and satisfied.

“good little slut,” he murmurs, voice rough from how long he’s been buried between your thighs. “always a good slut for me, right? nobody makes you cum the way i do.”

you can’t even argue. words are gone. only feeling left—his fingers pumping faster now, slick sounds filling the bathroom, obscene and loud. his thumb finds your clit again, swollen and oversensitive, rubbing tight little circles that make your hips buck and your breath hitch in sharp, painful gasps.

tears prick at the corners of your eyes. not from pain—from too much. from the way the pleasure keeps building even after the first wave, from the way your body betrays you again and again, clenching around his fingers like it never wants him to leave.

he watches you fall apart, eyes dark and hungry, thumb never stopping, fingers curling deeper, faster.

“look at you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “crying for it. crying on my fingers like the little whore you are.”

your tears spill over now, hot tracks down your cheeks, but you don’t look away. you can’t.

you just take it—shaking, whimpering, coming undone all over again while he keeps pushing you higher, keeps proving exactly why you can never really walk away.

finally, he pulls away slowly, fingers sliding out of you with a wet, obscene sound that makes your walls clench around nothing. the sudden emptiness hits like a slap and a soft, involuntary whine slips past your lips before you can stop it.

he smirks, slow and cruel, eyes glinting under the bathroom lights.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “needy little bitch. i love the way you act.”

he brings his fingers to his mouth—fingers still glistening with you—and licks them clean, slow drags of his tongue that make your stomach flip. he groans low in his throat like you taste better than anything he’s had tonight.

then his hands drop to his belt. he fumbles it open, zipper rasping down, thick cock springing free—hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. he strokes himself once, lazy, eyes never leaving your face.

you take the moment—chest heaving, thighs trembling, to huff out a shaky breath. your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the counter beside you, fingers brushing the screen just to ground yourself, to remember where you are, who’s waiting outside these walls.

he sees it.

in a flash his hand shoots out, snatching the phone from your grip. he presses the power button—screen going dark—and tosses it carelessly onto the marble counter with a clatter.

then he steps closer.

his free hand grips the base of his cock, and he slaps it against your pussy—once, twice—wet smacks that echo in the small room. the blunt head drags over your swollen clit, slick with your own arousal, teasing your entrance without pushing in.

“eyes on me,” he mutters, low and commanding.

your gaze snaps back to his face—dark eyes, parted lips, that smug tilt to his mouth that makes you want to hate him and climb him at the same time.

he slaps again—harder this time—cock landing right on your clit, sending a jolt through your oversensitive nerves that makes your hips jerk.

“good girl,” he breathes, voice rougher now. “keep those pretty eyes right here.”

he lines himself up, head nudging your entrance, not entering yet—just pressing, stretching the first tight ring of muscle, letting you feel every thick inch waiting to ruin you.

your breath hitches. thighs shake. you’re dripping down your thighs, slick and desperate, and he knows it.

he leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“say please,” he whispers. “and maybe i’ll let you have it.”

he swirls the tip of his cock in slow, lazy circles over your clit, dragging it through your slick folds, coating every thick inch in your wetness until he’s glistening under the harsh bathroom lights. the friction is maddening—hot, slippery, teasing—each pass making your hips twitch forward like they’re begging on their own.

you look up at him, half expecting him to just take you already, but he only drawls out a long, impatient sigh, voice rough and low.

“beg for it. we don’t have all fuckin’ night.”

your cheeks burn. embarrassment coils tight in your chest, but the ache between your legs is worse. you mumble it—quiet, half-swallowed, barely audible.

“please… sukuna… fuck me.”

he groans like the sound of your plea is better than any touch. then he lines up and pushes in—slow. agonizingly slow. inch by thick inch stretching you open, filling you until your breath catches and your nails dig into his shoulders.

he bottoms out with a low, guttural groan, hips flush against yours.

“fuck,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “you feel tighter than she does.”

anger slams into your chest like a fist—hot, sudden, sharp. your eyes snap to his, narrowing, but he just chuckles, dark and knowing, hips rolling in a shallow thrust that makes you gasp despite yourself.

“didn’t like that, did you?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “how do you think i feel when i saw your pathetic little dog showing himself in those messages? thinking he’s got you.”

he punctuates the words with another thrust—deeper this time, intentional, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. the rhythm builds slow but hard, each snap of his hips forcing a soft, broken sound from your throat.

“no man can make you feel good the way i do,” he says, voice low and possessive, thrusting again. “i bet you think of me when you play with yourself, don’t you?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your lips part but nothing comes out except shaky breaths.

he thrusts deeper—harder—bottoming out so roughly your back arches off the counter.

“don’t you?”

the word rips out of you like a confession, loud and raw.

“yes—”

he growls in approval, one hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat as he sets a punishing pace now—deep, relentless strokes that make your thighs shake and your vision blur.

“that’s right,” he breathes against your neck, teeth grazing skin. “say it again. louder.”

you’re already gone—clenching around him, hips meeting his thrusts, tears streaking down your cheeks from how good it feels, how wrong it is, how much you’ve missed exactly this.

he kisses your neck first—soft, almost tender, lips brushing the spot right under your jaw where your pulse is hammering. then he sucks. teeth grazing just enough to sting before he seals his mouth and pulls, almost drawing blood to the surface in slow, cruel pulses. the wet heat of it makes you shiver, makes your walls flutter around him involuntarily.

he chuckles low against your skin, the sound vibrating through you as he keeps thrusting—slower now, deeper, rolling his hips in lazy, grinding circles that drag every thick inch along your sensitive walls. it’s softer than before, almost teasing, like he’s savoring the way you’re falling apart instead of chasing his own release.

“clench around me,” he mumbles into your neck, voice rough and thick with want. “come on, sweet thing. squeeze me like you mean it.”

your body obeys before your mind can catch up—walls tightening hard around his cock, fluttering in tight, greedy pulses that make him groan against your throat. the hickey throbs now, hot and blooming under his mouth, a dark purple mark he’s leaving like a brand.

he licks over it once—slow, soothing the sting—then sucks again, lighter this time, but still possessive. his thrusts stay deep, unhurried, each one forcing a soft, broken sound from your lips.

“that’s it,” he breathes, hips snapping forward just a little harder on the next one. “fuck, just like that. keep gripping me. show me how much you missed this cock.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, thighs shaking around his waist, the mix of pain from the hickey and pleasure from the slow grind making tears prick at your eyes again. he feels every clench, every tremble, and his chuckle turns darker, more satisfied.

“good girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing the fresh mark one last time. “now don’t stop. milk me like you’re trying to keep me inside forever.”

and you do—clenching again, harder, body betraying every denial you’ve thrown at him tonight while he keeps fucking into you slow and deep, marking you, claiming you, 

he slows just enough to make you feel every thick inch dragging out, then pushing back in, keeping you right on that trembling edge.

his mouth brushes your ear, voice low and rough.

“what do you want me to do, huh?”

you’re heaving, moaning softly with every roll of his hips, chest rising and falling too fast to think straight. words won’t come. only broken little sounds.

he repeats it, slower, hips grinding in a slow circle that makes your clit throb against his pelvis.

“what do you want me to do?”

you manage a breathless laugh, half delirious.

“why are we talking midfuck?”

he chuckles against your neck, the sound vibrating where the fresh hickey still burns.

“what do you want me to do?” he says again, quieter now, more pointed. “with her.”

your breath catches. you bite your lip hard, tasting salt and the faint copper of earlier, trying to string thoughts together while he’s still buried inside you, still moving just enough to keep the ache alive.

“you’re a grown man,” you stutter, voice shaky. “you make your own decisions.”

he doesn’t let it slide. thrusts once—hard, deep—making your back arch.

“say it.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. the words burn coming out.

“fuck, sukuna… break up with her.”

he coos in your ear, soft and mocking and somehow filthy sweet.

“and what? be with you?”

his pace picks up—faster now, hips snapping forward in sharp, punishing strokes that make the counter creak under you. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the room again, louder, obscene.

you can’t think. can’t breathe right.

“fuck… maybe, i don’t know—” your voice cracks, high and desperate. “you’re gonna make me cum—”

he groans at that, low and wrecked, like hearing you admit it is the best news he’s ever gotten. his hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist so he can sink even deeper.

“that’s it,” he rasps. “clench for me. for real this time.”

and you do—hard. your walls flutter and then lock down around him, tight, greedy pulses that milk every inch as the orgasm builds fast and brutal. your leg wraps tighter around him, heel digging into his lower back like you’re trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there, never let him leave.

he curses under his breath, thrusts turning erratic, chasing his own edge now while he watches you shatter.

“fuck yes,” he growls against your mouth. “cum for me. show me who you really belong to.”

your nails rake down his back. tears spill again. and you come—hard, shaking, crying his name—while he keeps fucking you through it.

he cums inside you shortly after—hard, deep, hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt and lets go with a low, broken groan that vibrates through your chest. 

thick pulses of heat flood you, spilling hot and messy, marking you from the inside in a way that makes your walls flutter and clench around him one last time like they’re trying to keep every drop.

you grab his face with both hands, fingers digging into his jaw, and kiss him hard—desperate, sloppy, all teeth and tongue and the taste of yourself still on his lips. he groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked, pistoning into you through the aftershocks, shallow little thrusts that drag his cock over oversensitive nerves and make your thighs shake around his waist.

he holds you closer—arms banding tight around you, one hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you flush like he can’t stand even an inch of space between you. your other hand slides into his hair, tousling and tugging the strands hard enough to sting, and he growls against your tongue in response.

a few seconds pass—maybe more, time’s blurry when you’re this fucked out—and you both finally pull away. lips swollen. breaths ragged. a thin, glistening string of saliva stretches between your mouths for a beat before it snaps.

you stare at him. chest heaving. skin slick with sweat and everything else.

and then it hits you like a brick to the face.

this is just a big fat fucking mistake.

the thought crashes through the haze, cold and sharp, making your stomach twist even as his cum is still leaking out of you, warm and sticky down your thighs. 

his girlfriend’s out there somewhere in that glittering ballroom. your situationship probably texted you ten minutes ago wondering where you went. uraume’s waiting with champagne and zero judgment.

and you’re here—dress rucked up, bra yanked down, marked up like property, full of the one man you swore you’d never touch again.

you groan mentally. loud. pathetic. the sound doesn’t even make it out loud, just rattles around in your skull while he’s still inside you, softening but not pulling out yet, forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

he notices the shift—always fucking notices—because his thumb brushes slow over your cheek, wiping at the dried tear tracks you didn’t even realize were there.

“don’t,” he murmurs, voice still rough from coming. “don’t start that shit now.”

you swallow hard. don’t trust yourself to speak.

because if you open your mouth, you’re not sure what’ll come out—regret, want, anger, or just another broken “please” that’ll have him fucking you again before you can blink.

so you just sit there, legs still wrapped around him, his cum dripping onto the marble counter, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

and you think, quietly, furiously:

what the fuck have i done.

he lets you go after a while, slow and reluctant, like peeling himself off something he doesn’t want to leave. his hands linger on your hips one last second before sliding away. you slide down from the counter on shaky legs, thighs slick, dress still bunched and wrinkled beyond saving.

you heave a sigh—long, ragged, from somewhere deep and exhausted.

he moves faster now. efficient. tucks himself back in, zips up, smooths his suit like nothing happened. wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting like you. you watch him in the dim light, chest tight, trying to pull your bra back up, fix your neckline, pretend your skin isn’t still burning where he marked it.

he steps close again. presses a finger to your lips.

“shh.”

you blink. he reaches past you, flicks the light switch. darkness swallows the room except for the thin strip of gala light under the door.

the lock clicks open.

he pauses in the doorway, silhouetted, looking back at you one last time. eyes glint even in the low light.

“i’ll text you later.”

you groan, voice hoarse and small.

“please don’t.”

he only chuckles—low, dark, satisfied—and shuts the door with a soft click.

you lunge forward, twist the lock shut and turn the lights on again. you lean your forehead against the cool wood and groan louder this time, pure irritation rattling in your chest.

he got under your skin again.

slipped right past every wall you thought you’d built, fucked you senseless on a bathroom counter at a gala, came inside you, left a hickey that’ll be impossible to hide tomorrow, and walked out like it was nothing.

you—0 sukuna—2

maybe 3 if you count the panties he took.

A few hours later, you find yourself in one of your new favourite places in the world: in Megumi's bed, kneeling between your boyfriend and his best friend, slowly but thoroughly stroking their gorgeous cocks.

You bask in the way they feel in your hands, velvety and hard, and the noises they make for you. Yuuji's unashamed loud moans, and Megumi's soft, fast breaths.

It's intoxicating, being with them like this. Touching them, watching them, and feeling their eyes on you, too. It excites you to kneel naked between Megumi and Yuuji, your body on full display for them. Your tits bouncing with every stroke of your hand on their hard cocks, your pussy so wet for them, glistening with your arousal, and longing written all over your face.

You lean closer to Megumi, your gaze on his soft lips, and he puts two long fingers on your chin, tilting your head, and then his lips are on yours, kissing you oh so tenderly, and your head spins.

Your hands keep working Megumi's and Yuuji's hard lengths, and you feel a trickle of pre-cum running down your boyfriend's dick. Megumi gently pulls away from your kiss, blue eyes looking into yours, before he gently pushes you toward Yuuji.

You smile when Yuuji's large hand cups the back of your head, and he coos in that low, sweet voice,

"Aww, come here, sweetheart."

His lips are warm and sweet, just like him. His kiss is more instinctive and bolder than Megumi's practiced, slow kisses. They are both amazing.

When you pull away from Yuuji, he beams at you, looking so pretty that your heart clenches. He turns his head to bless Megumi with that same dazzling smile, and before you even grasp the thought, the words already tumble out of your mouth:

"Please kiss each other."

You crave to see them together, and to your delight, they are into it just as much as you. Megumi reaches out instantly, cupping Yuuji's cheek and pulling him closer.

"Come here, Itadori."

Yuuji chuckles and immediately starts kissing Megumi, not wasting any time, immediately opening his lips to push his tongue into his best friend's mouth.

They look so pretty together. The sunshine boy and the ice prince. Megumi's long, elegant fingers cup Yuuji's tan cheek, holding him in place so Megumi can control the kiss. And Yuuji's large calloused hand runs through Megumi's untamed hair, tugging on it to bring Megumi even closer and kiss him even deeper.

Your mouth is watering just from watching them, and suddenly you are driven by another strong need. You lean down, rubbing your cheek against your boyfriend's cock, and then your tongue darts out to lick slowly over Megumi's swollen pink tip, lapping at the glistening pre-cum that is collecting in his slit.

You're rewarded by a low gasp from your boyfriend and a jerk of his hips, which pushes his tip further into your mouth. You hum happily and suckle sweetly on Megumi's cockhead, opening your eyes again and looking up at your two boys, as you slowly bop your mouth on Megumi's dick, gradually taking him deeper into your mouth.

Megumi and Yuuji have stopped kissing, and both look at you now with a horny, dreamy expression on their pretty faces.

But then Megumi's dark blue eyes harden. He grabs a fistful of your hair,

"Did we make you cock crazy, princess? Couldn't hold back anymore? But there are two of us. It's not fair if you only play with my cock."

You whimper loudly. His words make your body tremble with arousal.

"But Fushiguro, she looks so cute with your cock in her mouth!"

"Yeah, she does. But she would look even cuter with my cock in her mouth and your cock in her pussy."

A loud moan escapes your lips, and your thighs clench. Your lips leave Megumi's dick with an obscene-sounding wet pop. You nod feverishly,

"Yes! Please, I want that!"

And now Yuuji moans, too. You see him wrap a large hand around his fat cock and give himself a few slow strokes while his head falls back against the headboard,

"Fuckkk.."

Megumi's lips lift in a soft half-smile, and he pulls you into his lap, making you straddle his lean, muscled thigh. You whimper when your wet pussy glides over his taut muscles, and Megumi's long fingers caress your hair as if you are a sweet pet.

His voice is raspy,

"You'll have to be a big girl now if you want to take that huge dick. You think you can do that, angel?"

You whimper and nod, unable to talk because you are so turned on by the way Megumi talks to you and how Yuuji's honey eyes wander hungrily and adoringly over you.

Megumi laughs softly, his dark blue eyes filled with love and pride,

"Then let's get you ready for Itadori's cock."

The next few minutes are some of the hottest in your whole life. You feel like you are floating as you ride Megumi's thigh and he fingers you open with his talented fingers, making you drool all over his hand as he fucks you deeply with his ring and middle finger. And Yuuji is behind you, spreading you open with large warm hands and licking your drooling cunt right where his best friend's fingers pump in and out of you.

You scream when Megumi and Yuuji caress the first orgasm out of you, making you tremble wildly and gush all over Megumi's fingers and onto Yuuji's tongue, mewling their names over and over again.

Megumi gently pulls his fingers out of you, and your pussy spasms when Yuuji peppers a few loving kisses on your pussy lips. His voice is muffled by your warm, wet cunt when he murmurs in between those sweet, nasty kisses,

"I think our princess is ready for my dick. All sweet and loose now."

A broken wild sob escapes your lips, pussy clenching at Yuuji's words and the thought of getting dicked down by him while Megumi watches.

Megumi's long fingers are in your hair again, gently petting you, even while his words are stern and dominant,

"Look at you, so cute and needy. Let's see how badly you need his cock. Use your mouth, princess. Beg him for his dick."

You sob, hands clutching Megumi's arms tightly, your fingernails digging into his biceps, so horny that you almost cry. But you turn your head to look at Yuuji, feeling your cheeks burn, when you whimper,

"Yuuji? Can I please have your cock? Please, I need you inside me so bad! Please fuck me, Yuuji!"

"Aww, cutie, you don't have to beg. Fushiguro, don't be so mean! If you're a nice boy, you can fuck me too sometime. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

You can hear the need in Megumi's voice when a low moan tumbles from his lips at Yuuji's words. And you feel yourself clenching around nothing, as an image of Megumi fucking Yuuji fills your mind. You want to see it happen. You need it!

But that's something for another night. Right now, it's your turn to be Megumi's and Yuuji's girl, their little cockslut, their good little pet, who will take both their cocks, one on each side, in your pussy and in your mouth.

You feel Megumi's elegant but strong hands on your waist, lifting you slightly so he can untangle himself from you. You smile at him and go completely limp in his strong arms, letting Megumi manhandle you into whatever position he wants, always trusting him 100%, knowing he will always take good care of you.

He is your dominant, stern but caring boyfriend who feels the safest when he is in control, and you are his sweet, submissive girlfriend, who feels relieved by getting the burden of decisions taken care of by him.

You go soft in Megumi's arms, letting him pull you up and making you kneel on the bed on all fours, obedient and trusting, your legs spread to expose your needy, wet cunt to Yuuji, who is kneeling on the bed behind you.

A loud moan is coming from him, and his large, warm hands land on your ass-cheeks, squeezing them lightly,

"Fuck... thank you so much for sharing your pretty girl with me, Fushiguro."

"What's mine is also yours. I know you'll be good to her."

Megumi positions himself before you, standing in front of the bed, his taut abs and his rock-hard cock right in front of your face. Your pulse is fluttering, excitement and arousal making you light-headed. A shaky moan escapes your lips, and Megumi huffs softly, an amused but also turned-on sound, and he reaches out to grab your hair, forcing your head up to look into his dark blue eyes.

He talks calmly to you, soft but firm,

"I want you to be a good girl for Yuuji and me now, taking our cocks at the same time, and taking all of our cum. Can you do that, princess?"

Megumi's gaze is intense, searching. Your dom who likes to give you orders but also always makes sure you are ok. It's one of the things that makes you absolutely crazy for him.

He is pushing his swollen, gorgeous cockhead lightly against your lips, slowly rubbing it over your lips, smearing his pre cum over them like lip gloss, his sweet musky scent filling your nose and making you stupid with need.

And behind you, Yuuji's large hands knead your ass firmly, moaning at the feel of your plump flesh under his calloused palms. His hips are rutting slowly against you, making his fat mushroom head already prod teasingly at your wet hole with the promise of fucking you open on it as soon as you are ready.

You mewl needily, looking up at Megumi with big eyes,

"Yes, yes, I can do that. I will be the best girl for you two. Please fuck me."

Megumi's lips lift in a tender smile as he looks deeply into your eyes for a moment longer, and then his gaze lifts and wanders to a point behind you. To Yuuji. You can't see it, but you know that dark blue eyes and honey colored eyes are currently locked in a deep, lust-filled gaze, and Megumi's low voice, soft like a caress, but also commanding, says,

"You heard our girl, Itadori. Let's make her happy and give her our cocks."

They push into you simultaneously. Stuffing you from both sides, like the sweet fucktoy that you are. A wild-sounding moan echoes in the back of your throat, muffled by Megumi's long, hard cock while Yuuji's fat mushroom head glides through your wet pussy lips and then splits you open, claiming your pussy for the first time.

Your heart is beating so fast that you feel dizzy. You close your eyes, grounding yourself by focusing on the heavy feeling of Megumi's cock on your tongue, the way he slowly rocks into you, letting you adjust to his hard length, letting you calm your breathing to take him as deep as you can, just as he trained you for months.

It makes you moan around him, filled with the familiar happiness at being filled by your boyfriend's dick. And it makes it easier to take Yuuji's fat cock. He is really huge, making you think for a moment he won't fit. It burns slightly, getting split open by such a fat cock, but it also feels addictive, making you crave more, almost wishing he would just snap his hips and brutally bury himself in you with one hard thrust.

But Yuuji is a sweet boy, so strong but so gentle, murmuring soft praise to you and apologizing for his big cock while his large hands caress you soothingly, running up and down your back in gentle caresses while he fucks himself slowly into you, inch by inch,

"Shhh, it's ok, cutie. I'm so sorry, but I promise it will feel good in a moment. You are doing so well. Taking my cock like a champ. So sweet for me, such a good girl for Megumi and me, huh? Just a bit more, cutie, and I'll be fully inside you. Oh god, I wanna make you feel so good on my dick, baby. I wanna feel you cream all over me."

You sob lightly, feeling so turned on, and you lift your ass eagerly, begging Yuuji to fuck himself fully into you. He moans loudly, hips bucking, and he finally bottoms out in you, fat cock pushed to the hilt in you, making you feel so full and stretched out like never before in your life.

A gasp falls from your lips, mouth hanging open slack, making Megumi's cock hit the back of your throat, and you moan around it, causing Megumi to groan loudly and tighten his hold on your hair.

Yuuji's hands are on your hips, so large and strong, digging into your skin, surely leaving a mark, but he doesn't even notice it. He is cursing and moaning behind you, thick muscular thighs trembling against yours as he forces himself to hold still for a moment to let you adjust to his fat cock inside you.

And then he starts to move, slowly humping your swollen cunt, making you gasp and moan and push back against him like a needy slut, wordlessly begging him to move and give you more.

One of Megumi's elegant hands cups your cheek, caressing it tenderly, and he whispers in that sexy low voice,

"Does he feel good inside you, sweetheart?"

You mewl, looking up at Megumi with tearstained eyes, which are probably full of little hearts, and Megumi laughs softly, caressing your cheek again,

"You're such a sweet thing for us. I am proud of you, angel."

His praise makes you tremble, filled with so much love that you think you will burst. It feels heavenly, being so full of both of them. Being their girl, their pretty toy to use and fuck as they like.

Megumi rolls his hips slowly, fucking your mouth with his pretty cock, slow and deep, groaning softly, as his midnight blue eyes wander to his best friend who is fucking you from behind.

The ass-guy that he is, Yuuji can't take his hands away from your plump ass-cheeks, kneading them firmly, and giving your ass the occasional hard slap, as he is losing himself in your tight heat.

Loud unashamed moans fall from Yuuji's lips, his hips slam against your ass with loud wet noises, where your juices drool all over his fat cock and full balls, which smack against your swollen clit with each deep thrust, making you gasp and mewl.

And Megumi's cock is driving you just as crazy. Fucking your mouth, using you in such a nasty and perfect way. A bit mean, but also so loving, knowing exactly how much you can take. You are always addicted to Megumi's cock, moaning eagerly around his hard length, caressing it with your tongue and hollowing your cheeks like a good girl, sucking his dick so devotedly as if it were a love confession.

Megumi's strong hands are tangled in your hair, guiding you, and holding you in place, so he can fuck your mouth any way he needs. Sometimes, he stills for a moment to hold himself back from cumming too soon, and then your nose is buried in Megumi's trimmed black pubic hair, and you inhale his scent greedily. Fresh and clean, and that slightly musky scent of his skin and cock. Comforting and sexy at the same time.

You mewl again, clenching around Yuuji's fat cock, which is stretching you out so good. So big, so heavy. His fat mushroom head is kissing your sweet spot over and over again, making your pussy tighten around Yuuji's cock with the promise of an earth-shattering orgasm washing over you soon.

Megumi's breath is coming out in short, loud gasps, and he curses softly, pulling his cock out of your mouth and pressing the heel of his hand against it, barely able to hold back. His cheeks are flushed prettily, and his blue eyes look into yours, heavy lidded with lust,

"Cum for us, princess. Cum all over Yuuji's cock."

You cry out, Megumi's words and Yuuji's dick making you crazy. And Yuuji snaps his hips faster, moaning loudly, urging you on, too,

"Yes, sweetie, give it to me. Fuck! Please milk my dick!"

He ruts into you, circling his hips now, his fat mushroom head putting the sweetest pressure against your sweet spot the whole time, until you tumble over the edge. You squeal his name, heat rushing over you and gushing out of your spasming pussy.

You cum so hard on Yuuji's cock. Clenching wildly around him, milking his dick with your intense orgasm, so wet and hot, squirting on him, while you jerk and tremble wildly. But Yuuji and Megumi are there to hold you, to guide you, and talk you through your orgasm.

"Yes, yes, cutie, you are such a good girl. Fuck! So sweet! Look how cute you cum all over my cock, fuck yes, you're doing so well. You're gonna make me nut so much, baby!"

And Megumi's low voice, rough with arousal,

"Just like that, princess. Yes, don't hold back, cum all over him. You're so sweet for us. Our angel girl."

He pushes his swollen pink cockhead back into your mouth, just the tip, as if to give you something to hold onto while you fall apart on his best friend's cock. You suckle eagerly on it while you mewl and ride out your orgasm on Yuuji's cock, pushing back against him, burying his whole fat dick deep in you, not wanting to let go.

Yuuji moans loudly, hips stuttering against you. You can feel his calloused fingers dig into your skin, slightly sweaty, but he holds you firmly, squeezing your ass as he ruts into you with strong, deep thrusts, almost brutal now that he's nearing his orgasm, giving you a taste of his superhuman strength. He sobs loudly, sounding so sexy that your eyes roll back,

"Fuck yes! Yes! I'm so close! Can I cum in you, cutie? Megumi, baby, can I please cum in her? Can I fill her up? Please, I want to so bad! Want her full of my cum, please!"

He sounds so needy, so close to busting, but holding back until the two of you give him permission. It's so hot, and you know Megumi thinks the same because you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, accompanied by a low, rough groan,

"Fuck yes, do it, baby! Fill her up! Cum in our girl!"

Yuuji's answer is a loud cry, followed by a series of needy moans as he fucks his cock desperately into you, fast and hard,

"Thank you! Ah! Ah fuck! Thank you!"

His moans become wild, high-pitched, and then he sobs loudly, and stops moving, just pulling you closer to him with his insane strength, keeping you completely on his dick as he throbs inside you, spilling his hot seed in long, thick spurts deep inside your pussy.

You moan his name, just when Megumi does the same, barely managing to pull his dick out of your mouth to stop himself from cumming. You see the feverish glint in his midnight blue eyes as he watches his best friend slowly humping your pussy and enjoying the last waves of his orgasm inside you to the fullest, giving you every last drop of his thick cum.

And you see Megumi's dick twitch, more pre-cum oozing needily out of his now dark-pink and swollen cockhead, so desperate to cum after edging himself for so long.

Yuuji sighs and laughs happily, pulling his spent dick out of you, and caressing your ass gently,

"Fuck, that was so good. Did you enjoy watching, Megumi?"

Megumi's low voice is raspy when he replies,

"I loved it. Turn her around, so I can see the creampie you gave her."

Yuuji chuckles and does as Megumi says, gently but firmly pulling you with him, making you turn around. He spreads your pussy lips with his thumbs, to show Megumi your ruined pussy, fucked so good and filled to the brim with Yuuji's thick white cum.

You mewl at how nasty this is, how sexy to be treated like this, like a prized trophy.

Megumi groans softly, his elegant hands trailing over your legs, catching the thick rivulets of Yuuji's cum that are slowly running down your thighs.

"Watch me, Itadori... I'll fuck your cum back into her. Gonna mix it with mine."

You gasp softly at his words, and then you get pulled back against Megumi's body. Your ass is flush against his hard manhood, and you hear him growl, his control snapping. He pushes into you with one hard thrust that makes both of you gasp. It's nasty how easily Megumi slips inside you, as creamed up as you are by his best friend's cum, loose and fucked out by Yuuji's dick.

You mewl Megumi's name, always so elated to feel your boyfriend's gorgeous dick inside you,

"Yes, Megumi! Oh, baby, please cum in me too."

You hear smooching noises and look over your shoulder to see Megumi and Yuuji kissing each other hungrily. Making out while Megumi is fucking you. You clench around his cock at the sight, whimpering from how hot this is.

Megumi is so far gone that he doesn't even try to be gentle. He moans lowly and snaps his hips brutally, fucking you hard and mean. It's so sexy the way he is losing control, overcome by his primal instincts to bury his cock in you and fuck you and fill you with his cum.

He cums with a loud growl, long fingers digging bruisingly into your waist, holding you in place as he rams his orgasming cock as deep as possible into your tight heat, pumping you full with spurt after spurt of his warm cum, mixing his seed with Yuuji's.

Megumi is groaning loudly, slowly rocking against you, fucking his whole orgasm deep into you. And you hear Yuuji moan too, followed by another kissing noise and a low whisper,

"You are so pretty, Megumi. You look so fucking beautiful when you cum. I could watch you all day."

Megumi groans again, stilling inside you, cock completely spent, but he doesn't pull out yet. He leans down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades and whisper a breathless,

"I love you, princess."

He finally pulls out of you, but a strong hand stays on your lower back, tenderly caressing you, and you crawl to him, hugging him tightly, pressing your whole naked body against him, and kissing his neck.

"I love you too, babe."

Megumi sighs happily, holding you tight for a long moment, until his breathing has calmed down again. And then his dark blue eyes gaze at you, expression controlled again.

"Show us."

You know exactly what he means, and you bite your lip, pulse racing as you sit on the bed and slowly part your thighs.

You are so wet, so creamy, and sticky. And so full. It feels obscene, forbidden, making it even hotter somehow. There is so much cum in you, and oozing out of your swollen pussy. You are overflowing from it. So fucked full of Yuuji's and Megumi's cum.

The boys are kneeling in front of you. Both so tall and strong, much bigger than you. And it's so hot how they each place a strong hand on each of your thighs and push them further apart. There's a feverish glint burning in their eyes as they trail over your abused, swollen cunt. Your clit is still pulsing heavily, your pussy lips are swollen, and Megumi's and Yuuji's combined cum is drooling messily out of your twitching hole.

It should be embarrassing to be exposed like this, and see Yuuji and Megumi look at your fucked and creampied pussy, but the opposite is the case. You mewl softly, pussy clenching greedily around nothing, so turned on by their hungry gazes. They make you feel desired, wanted, and loved.

Yuuji's lips lift in that boyish lopsided grin,

"Wow, look at her! So damn pretty! She's fucked so full of cum... she's overflowing from it. Good job, Fushiguro!"

And he lifts a large hand in a high-five gesture, grinning broadly at his best friend. Megumi's dark blue eyes are still fixed on your pussy, his pale cheeks flushed, and a fascinated expression on his beautiful face. Without taking his eyes away from your pussy he high-fives Yuuji absent-mindedly, replying in an awestruck voice,

"So beautiful. Come here, Itadori... clean your mess up."

Yuuji laughs happily, a mischievous glint in his golden eyes as he crawls over to Megumi and hugs him from behind,

"It's not just my mess."

He presses a loud, wet kiss on Megumi's cheek, and Megumi rolls his eyes, but you can hear the affection in his low voice when he says,

"Yeah, I know, idiot. And what a lovely mess we made."

He trails his hand down your inner thigh and gently pats your drooling pussy, as if he is giving a good dog a headpat. You mewl, thighs twitching, and your hips instinctively lift, pressing your clit against Megumi's hand.

His dark blue eyes look deeply into yours, filled with a kind of tenderness you only see when he looks at you or Yuuji,

"Our good girl. We'll take care of you."

And then Megumi and Yuuji lay down beside you, one on each side, and start cleaning you with their mouths. They take their time, licking and kissing their combined cum slowly off your twitching pussy, occasionally pulling away to kiss each other, making out with each other and your pussy.

One is sucking on your clit while the other fucks into you with his tongue, and then they switch places, or one bumps his nose against the other to push him out of the way, so he can be greedy for a moment and slurp their cum out of you.

You are a helpless moaning mess, your brain mushy and foggy. Megumi and Yuuji are fucking you stupid with their tongues, making you lose your mind until all you can do is sob and cry and whimper, telling them sweet nothings, babbling like an idiot, while your hands each tangle in soft hair, black and pink, tugging firmly on it as they bring you closer and closer to the edge.

You don't know whose tongue it is that sends you over the edge, but you know that the heat that's coiling in your stomach is mind-blowing, and your hips lift off the bed, bucking wildly as you reach another high.

Strong hands press you back down, holding you in place as soft lips and velvety tongues keep making love to your orgasming pussy until you are completely spent, whimpering softly, and slowly coming down from your high.

You open your eyes and see them both looking up at you from between your thighs. Megumi and Yuuji. Ruffled black and pink hair. Dark blue and honey-brown eyes, both filled with so much love. And they are both smiling. One his typical broad sunshine smile that lights up every room. The other that beautiful, gentle smile that is so special because of how exclusive it is.

Your heart is overflowing with love, just like your pussy was overflowing with Megumi's and Yuuji's combined cum just a few minutes ago. You smile at them, catching yourself thinking, "Those are my boys."

You know it's true. Megumi and Yuuji are yours. And they are each other's, too. And it's perfect that way.

I LOVE THEM!!! For real, their dynamic is so cute to me! 💗

I hope you enjoyed Part 3! I had the outline planned for several years, but only now managed to motivate myself to actually finish it, thanks to season 3 and the Fushiita fanservice ;)

I have another part planned. I simply couldn't decide who I want to be in the middle... Reader or Yuuji. Soooo in Part 4 we will have Yuuji in the middle ;) I am looking forward to it 💗

You get up too, slipping on a bathrobe, and go to the balcony to get some fresh air. The pool sparkles below, the hotel seems peaceful in the morning sun. But your gaze is irresistibly drawn to the neighboring window, their door. Your heart races. What if you run into them? What if...

A noise in the hallway makes you jump. Deep, low, familiar voices. You freeze, gasping for breath. Your husband comes out of the bathroom, shirtless, a towel around his waist, and says, "Are you still going on that walk with your new friends?"

Your cheeks flush, panic tightens in your throat. "No... I want to stay with you. It's our weekend, remember?" Your voice trembles slightly, but you force yourself to appear firm, hoping to rekindle something between you, to erase the night with a single knowing glance.

He finally looks at you for real, for the first time in weeks, and a flicker of regret crosses his eyes. He places his phone on the nightstand, miraculously, and approaches you, running a hesitant hand through your hair with a small smile.

"It's true... sorry, darling. I was obsessed with my phone. Work, you know... But you're right, we're here for each other." He pulls you close, his body warm against yours, and places a shy kiss on your forehead. For a moment, you melt, your heart beating with fragile hope.

Maybe this weekend can still be saved. Maybe he and you... But his phone vibrates on the table, and he stiffens, glancing over your shoulder. "Just a second, it's my boss." He steps away, grabs the phone, and already, his attention is drifting.

You stand there, alone on the balcony, the bathrobe slipping slightly over your shoulder, marked by a discreet bite from Toji. Your stomach knots again, bitter disappointment. Things never really change overnight.

Outside, the voices in the hallway grow closer. You recognize Sukuna's deep laugh, followed by Toji's more measured response. Your body reacts despite yourself: a treacherous heat rises between your legs, your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric. You bite your lip, trying to chase away the images of their thick cocks, their merciless tongues, their growls against your skin.

Your husband finally hangs up, looking vaguely guilty. "Sorry, it was important. Let's go out for lunch, eh? To make up for it." He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, but he's already checking an email as he puts on his shorts.

"I'll wash up and we can go," you say, forcing a smile. You almost run to the bathroom to avoid collapsing in front of him. You undo your bathrobe and look at the marks from the night before. How are you going to hide them?

You slip into the shower and the hot water envelops your body, but it doesn't manage to soothe the burning beneath your skin. Each drop slides over the marks they left, your heart beating too fast. You blame yourself, for what you did, for what you still feel, for that part of you that refuses to regret.

You lean back against the cold tiles, your eyes closed. Your husband's face comes back to you, tired, distracted, then Toji's, his heavy gaze, his rough hands, his deep voice, and Sukuna, his smirk, his tongue, his gaze on you. You take a deep breath, trying to chase away the image, to regain your composure.

You open your eyes, and your reflection in the fogged window seems foreign. You absentmindedly touch a mark on your neck, covering it with water. "I have to stop thinking about this... It was a mistake," you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else.

You stay like that for a moment, long enough to catch your breath, to convince yourself that you can still save this weekend, save your relationship, save something.

Then you slowly step out, wrap yourself in a towel, and start searching for your foundation in your makeup bag, something to hide the visible evidence, at least. On the other side of the door, you hear your husband humming a song as he puts his things away.

His voice brings a sad smile to your face. How could you do this to him? Even though your marriage is going through a rough patch, that's no excuse for what you did.

You come out of the bathroom, dressed and made up. Your husband turns his head and looks at you with a seductive smile, and he comes over to you and kisses you tenderly. He slowly pulls away, "You look beautiful today, sweetheart," and kisses you again.

It's been so long, but it's not like it used to be. A lump forms in your stomach and you gently push him back onto his chest with your hands. You look at him and smile. "Thank you, love. Maybe we should go before it's gone."

He looks at his watch and nods, "You're right, sweetheart, let's go," he says, holding out his hand. You go down to the hotel restaurant, hand in hand for the first time in ages. He's trying, really trying: he asks what you want to eat, pours you coffee, even talks about your college memories.

Your heart warms a little, you laugh at one of his harmless jokes. Maybe this will work. Maybe the night was a one-off mistake. But halfway through breakfast, they walk in.

Sukuna and Toji, fresh and imposing, shirts open over their muscular torsos, tattoos and scars shamelessly exposed. Sukuna carries a plate of fruit, Toji a coffee, and their gazes find you immediately, like magnets.

Their eyes pierce you, and the air in the restaurant suddenly feels heavier, thicker. Sukuna stares at you with that crooked smile, the one that always seems to promise something dangerous, deliciously forbidden.

Toji, on the other hand, is more discreet, but his gaze is just as intense, gliding over you like an invisible caress, lingering on your lips, then on the curve of your neck where you know the foundation barely conceals the mark he left there.

Your husband, busy cutting his croissant, notices nothing. He's talking about a colleague who annoyed him last week, his voice a distant buzz in your ears. You try to nod, to smile, to play along, but your body betrays your mind.

Your pulse quickens, a familiar heat rises in your lower abdomen, and you squeeze your thighs together under the table, hoping no one notices the flush rising in your cheeks.

Sukuna sits down at a table a few feet away, his long legs spread out with arrogant nonchalance. Toji follows him, setting down his coffee with calculated calm, but his eyes never leave yours.

They're not speaking loudly, but you catch snatches of their conversation, deep laughter, words that remind you of last night, sentence fragments like "she was..." and "do you think she..." Your stomach knots, torn between the fear that they're talking about you and an unhealthy, almost addictive curiosity.

"Honey, are you listening to me?" Your husband's voice brings you back to reality. He looks at you, a hint of annoyance in his eyes, but also a sincerity that tugs at your heartstrings. "I was saying we could go to the beach this afternoon, just you and me. Like before."

You force a smile, but it feels fragile, ready to break. "Yes, that... I'd like that," you reply, your voice a little too high-pitched. You take a sip of coffee to hide your confusion, but the cup trembles slightly in your hand. Your gaze wanders in spite of yourself to their table.

Sukuna bites into a slice of mango, his lips glistening with juice, and gives you a wink so quick you wonder if you imagined it. Toji just watches you, impassive, but his silence speaks louder than any words.

You curse yourself inwardly. Stop. Stop looking at them. Focus on your husband. You place a hand on your husband's, trying to anchor your thoughts in this moment, in this effort he's making to reconnect with you. His fingers are warm, familiar, but the sensation doesn't comfort you like before. Not like... You shake your head, shooing the comparison away before it takes root.

"Are you okay?" he asks, frowning slightly. "You seem... off."

Your heart skips a beat. "No, no, I'm fine. Just... tired. It's been a long night." The words escape you before you can stop them, and you bite the inside of your cheek, praying he doesn't dig in.

He nods, seemingly satisfied, and returns to his phone, checking a message that just came in. You take this moment to risk another glance at their table. Mistake. Sukuna looks straight into your eyes, his smile widening, as if he knows exactly what's going on in your head.

He whispers something to Toji, who slowly turns his head towards you, one eyebrow raised, a hint of amusement in his expression.

You look away, breathless. They know. They know the effect they have on you. Shame and desire intertwine in your chest, forming a painful knot. You force yourself to focus on your plate, on the clinking of cutlery around you, on your husband's voice now talking about a renovation project for your house, but you don't listen.

Breakfast ends in a kind of fog. Your husband suggests going back up to the bedroom to get your things before the beach. You nod, happy to leave this room where the air seems charged with electricity. But as you cross the hall, you see them get up from their table. They don't follow you, at least not directly, but their footsteps echo behind you, slow, sure, as if they know they needn't hurry to catch up.

In the elevator, your husband puts an arm around your waist, a simple gesture but one that surprises you. "We'll have a good day, I promise," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice that almost makes you feel more guilty. You press against him, trying to cling to what's left of your connection, but your mind is elsewhere, already drawn to the shadows of the night before.

When the elevator doors open, you hear their voices in the hallway again. Closer this time. Your husband doesn't seem to notice, busy searching his pocket for the room key. But you feel them, like a physical presence, a pressure against your skin. You glance over your shoulder, and there they are, at the other end of the hallway, chatting casually, but their eyes are fixed on you.

Sukuna raises a hand, a mock-friendly gesture, like an innocent greeting. Toji just watches you, his dark eyes almost undressing you, revealing every mark hidden beneath your makeup and clothes. Your body reacts despite yourself, a shiver running through you, and you force yourself to look away, to follow your husband into the bedroom.

The bedroom door closes behind you with a soft click, but it resonates in your head like a cleaver. Your husband, oblivious to the storm raging inside you, throws the key on the nightstand and begins rummaging through his bag for his beach things. "I'm going to take a quick shower before we go," he says, a distracted smile on his lips. "Want to come with me?"

The invitation takes you by surprise. For a split second, you consider saying yes, slipping under the hot water with him, rediscovering the intimacy that has faded over the months.

But the images of the previous night—Sukuna's hands, Toji's mouth, their bodies pressed against yours, impose themselves with brutal force, and you feel dirty, unworthy. You shake your head, a tight smile playing on your lips.

"Go ahead, I... I'll pack my things." He shrugs, without prodding, and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water leaves you alone with your thoughts, and you flop onto the edge of the bed, your hands trembling. You press your palms against your thighs, trying to chase away the lingering sensation of their fingers on your skin.

It was a mistake. Just once. It won't happen again. You repeat these words to yourself like a mantra, but they ring hollow, unable to drown out the traitorous murmur of your body, which hasn't forgotten.

You get up quickly, grabbing your bag to stuff in a towel, a swimsuit, anything to occupy your mind. You don't want to think about them. You don't want to see them again. You want to focus on your husband, on this weekend, on this fragile hope of putting the pieces of your marriage back together. But every movement seems weighed down by guilt, by the weight of what you've done, and by that dull throbbing between your legs that refuses to die down.

The day at the beach passes in a kind of fog. Your husband is more present than he has been in a long time, laughing, holding your hand, splashing you in the water like a child. You laugh with him, you play along, and at times, you almost believe it.

But every time you let your guard down, you feel their gaze, even if it's absent. You scan the crowd on the beach, terrified of seeing them, but they're not there. Not today. And yet, their ghostly presence follows you, like a shadow you can't shake.

…

The following days, back home, you try to regain control. You dive into the routine, into the mechanical gestures of everyday life, hoping that time will erase the memories of that night. Your husband seems to be making an effort, too. He puts his phone away more often, invites you to dinner, talks about plans for the future.

You want to believe it, you want to convince yourself that that night at the hotel was just an lapse, a passing weakness. But deep down, a little voice taunts you, recalling every detail of that night, the intensity of their gazes, the way they made you feel alive.

To chase these thoughts away, you decide to do something for him, for your husband. A surprise. You go to a clothing store in town, one of those chic little boutiques where you know he likes well-cut shirts.

You tell yourself that a gift, a thoughtful gesture, could revive something, prove that you're still invested in your relationship. You wander between the racks, caressing the fabrics, imagining his smile when he opens the box. You choose an elegant navy shirt, perfect for him. You feel almost light, as if this simple act could erase your sins.

You head to the dressing rooms to try on a dress you've spotted, thinking that maybe you, too, deserve to feel beautiful for him. The booth is small, the curtain thick, and you slip inside, placing the neatly folded shirt on the chair.

You take off your top, your reflection in the mirror almost disgusting you. The marks on your body have almost disappeared, but you know they're still there, beneath the surface, like a secret etched into your skin.

A noise makes you jump, heavy footsteps, deep voices. Your heart stops. No. Not here. Not now. You freeze, holding your breath, praying it's just a coincidence. But as you reach out to grab the dress, the booth curtain snaps open, and there they are.

Sukuna and Toji.

Sukuna stands forward, his smirk lighting up his face as if he's just won a game whose rules you don't know. Toji, behind him, almost blocks the entrance to the booth, his massive body taking up the entire space, his dark eyes pinning you to the spot. The booth door closes behind them with a quiet click, and you find yourself trapped, your heart pounding.

"Well, well," Sukuna murmurs, his voice low and drawling, as if savoring every syllable. "Looks like we can't get away from you, huh?"

Toji says nothing, but his gaze slides over you, lingering on your exposed skin, on your exposed chest, covered only by a thin bra. You instinctively cross your arms over your chest, but the gesture seems futile, almost ridiculous in front of them, who have already seen you naked.

"What are you doing here?" you manage, your voice trembling, barely audible. Sukuna chuckles, leaning against the wall of the stall, his body filling the already cramped space. "We were shopping, mind you. And then... we saw you." He tilts his head, his gaze sliding over you like a burning caress. "You look like you could use a hand."

Toji takes a step closer, and the stall seems to shrink even further. "Are you buying this for him?" he asks, his voice deep and steady, gesturing to the folded shirt on the chair. There's a hint of amusement in his tone, but also something, unconsciously, more jealous.

You want to scream, tell them to leave, push them away, but your hands remain frozen, gripping the edge of the mirror behind you. Your body, that traitor, reacts to their proximity, to the memory of their hands, their mouths, the way they made you lose all control.

The heat between your legs is unbearable, and you press your thighs together, hoping they won't notice. But Sukuna, ever attentive, lets out a small laugh. "Oh, it seems like you're having a hard time holding it back, princess."

"Stop," you whisper, but it's barely a breath. You turn to the mirror, unable to meet their gaze any longer. Your reflection shows you a broken image: a woman on the verge of collapse, torn between guilt and a desire she can't deny.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to hold on to the image of your husband, his clumsy efforts, the life you've built together.

But then you feel a hand, Toji's, rough, warm, rest on your waist, sliding slowly under the hem of your bra. "Tell us to leave," he whispers in your ear, his breath brushing your skin. "Just say it, and we'll leave."

This is your chance. Your way out. You open your mouth, ready to say the words, but they get stuck in your throat.

Sukuna moves in too, his hand caressing the other side of your face, his thumb tracing the outline of your jaw. "Or," he murmurs, his voice like black velvet, "you can stop lying to yourself."

You open your mouth to protest, to tell them to leave, but no sound comes out. Toji's hand, still on your waist, turns you around to face Sukuna, then slides lower, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans.

Your body betrays your mind, a shiver runs through you, and you feel your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of your bra. You press your thighs together harder, but it only intensifies the heat pulsing between your legs.

Sukuna, still provocative, moves closer, his chest brushing yours. His lips are so close to your ear that you can feel his hot breath. "Look at you," he murmurs, his tone mocking but tinged with a dark promise. "You try to play the saint, but your body knows what it wants."

His hand slides from your jaw to your neck, his fingers tracing the mark he left there a few days ago, a memory no foundation can truly erase.

Toji, behind you, leans in to whisper back, his deep voice vibrating against the nape of your neck. "We're giving you one chance to leave. Say it." But his fingers don't stop. They slide under the hem of your jeans, brushing the sensitive skin just above the lace of your panties, a touch so light it makes you shiver, but so precise it pins you to the spot.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you realize you still haven't responded. You can't. Not when every fiber of your body seems to vibrate under their touch, under the silent promise of what they might do to you.

Sukuna, facing you, fixes you with that disarming look, a mix of mockery and raw desire. His lips stretch into a crooked smile, the one that reminds you of the night in the hotel, the way he devoured you with his eyes. His hand, still on your neck, moves slowly down, his fingers tracing a lazy path along your collarbone, then lower, to the curve of your breast.

He stops just before touching your bra, as if savoring the wait, as if he wants you to break before he does. "You didn't answer, princess," he murmurs, his voice soft but laden with delicious menace. "Do you want us to leave, or are you just too weak to say it?"

You want to scream, tell them to leave, tell them you're better than this, that you're faithful, that you love your husband. But the words remain stuck, imprisoned by the heat rising inside you, by the way your body seems to respond to their every move. You press your thighs together, an instinctive gesture to contain the desire pulsing between your legs, but Sukuna notices immediately.

His laugh, low and raspy, makes you flinch. "Oh, you're not discreet," he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You try to hide, but we know exactly what you want."

Toji, behind you, tightens his grip slightly on your waist, his thumb stroking the exposed skin just above your waistband. The contact is almost innocent, but it sends an electric shock through your body, awakening every nerve, every memory of that night they possessed you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against the back of your neck, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. "You're already melting, and we've barely begun."

You shake your head, a weak, almost pathetic gesture. "No... I... I can't," you whisper, but your voice is so shaky it betrays everything you're trying to hide.

You close your eyes, hoping the darkness will bring you back to your senses, to the image of your husband—his tired but sincere smile, his clumsy efforts to rekindle your bond, the shirt you bought for him, now lying on the chair, crumpled, like a symbol of everything you risk destroying.

But the darkness doesn't help. It only amplifies the sensations: the touch of Toji's fingers, moving a little lower, slowly unbuttoning your jeans with calculated precision; Sukuna's presence, so close you can smell his scent, musky, intoxicating.

Sukuna leans closer, his chest brushing against yours, and you feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your shirt. He tilts his head, his lips brushing your ear, and whispers, "You've been thinking about us, haven't you? All week, you've been thinking about how we made you scream that night."

You want to deny it, but a shiver betrays you, and Sukuna chuckles softly, satisfied. Toji, still behind you, slides his fingers under the waistband of your jeans, brushing against the lace of your panties.

You jump, a gasp escaping your lips, and you cling to Sukuna. "You're already soaked," Toji groans, his voice thick with satisfaction, as if he's just proven a point.

His fingers linger, slowly stroking through the fabric, and the sensation is so intense your legs threaten to give way. You bite your lip, stifling a moan, terrified that someone in the store might hear.

Sukuna, as if reading your thoughts, places a finger on your lips, forcing you to look at him. "Shh," he murmurs, his smile widening. "Don't make any noise, princess. You don't want us to get caught, do you?" But there's a glint in his eyes, an excitement at the prospect of danger, and you know he doesn't care. He wants to see you break, to see you lose all control.

His hand slides from your lips to your chin, gently lifting it so that you're forced to look into his eyes. Then, slowly, he moves down, his fingers brushing the curve of your neck, then the edge of your bra.

He tugs it down slightly, exposing one breast, and before you can react, he leans down, his tongue tracing a lazy circle around your hardened nipple. A muffled cry escapes you, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, your heart pounding.

Toji, behind you, groans softly, his fingers finally slipping beneath the lace of your panties. He brushes against your wet lips, a touch so light it makes you shiver, but so precise it pushes you over the edge. "Fuck, you're so wet, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice husky, almost accusing.

He slides a finger inside you, slowly, letting you feel every inch, and you arch your back despite yourself, a muffled moan escaping against your hand. Sukuna raises his head, his lips glistening, his burning gaze fixed on you. "Say it," he murmurs, his voice a challenge. "Say you want more." His free hand grabs your wrist, guiding it to his crotch, and you feel the hard bulge beneath his pants. Your fingers tremble, but you don't resist.

You unzip his fly, almost mechanically, and when you free his thick, hard cock, a shiver runs through you. You stroke him, your movements hesitant at first, then more assured, and he groans, his hips pressing against your hand.

Toji, behind you, pulls your jeans lower, exposing your thighs to the mirror. You feel his erection against your buttocks, hot, insistent, and your body reacts instinctively, pressing itself against him.

Sukuna, facing you, towers over you, his full height brushing yours with every breath. His eyes, dark and piercing, pin you to the spot, and his smile, that sly grin that never leaves him, makes you feel like prey he's savoring before devouring.

His hand, still resting on your wrist, guides your fingers around his cock, hard and hot beneath your palm. You feel every vein, every pulse, and despite yourself, your fingers tighten, stroking slowly, almost hypnotized by the sensation.

He grunts, a deep sound that resonates in the cabin, and his hips move forward slightly, pressing his cock more firmly against your hand. "That's it, princess," he murmurs, his voice like black velvet, soft but thick with menace. "You know what you have to do."

Toji, behind you, is an equally overwhelming presence. His muscular chest is pressed against your back, his heat radiating through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His lips brush the curve of your ear, and every word he says seems to vibrate directly into your spine.

"Are you sure you want to stop?" he repeats, his voice raspy, almost accusing, as if daring you to lie.

But his fingers, still inside you, give you no chance to respond. They slide in slowly, exploring every nook and cranny of your innermost being with a precision that makes you tremble. He adds a second finger, gently stretching you, and the sensation is so intense that your legs buckle.

You cling to Sukuna, your nails digging into his forearms, desperately searching for something to anchor you. Guilt instantly gnaws at you, the image of your husband flickering through your mind.

The shirt, slightly wrinkled on the chair to your right, taunts you, a cruel reminder of what you came here to do: a gesture for him, for your marriage, for the fragile hope you're trying to preserve.

Sukuna, as if sensing your inner conflict, tilts his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck. He doesn't kiss you, not yet; he just lets his warm breath caress your skin, a gesture so subtle it makes you shiver more violently than any touch.

"You've been thinking about us," he murmurs, his voice so low it seems to vibrate in your chest. "All week, you've been reliving that night, huh? Our hands on you. Our mouths. Our dicks, right?" He pauses, letting his words sink in. "Tell me I'm lying."

You shake your head, a weak, almost convulsive gesture, but the shiver that runs through you betrays you. Sukuna chuckles, satisfied, and his tongue traces a slow, deliberate path along your neck, to the mark he left there a few days ago, barely hidden by foundation. He licks it gently, as if to reclaim what he considers his own, and a muffled moan escapes you, despite the hand you press against your mouth.

Toji, behind you, grunts in response, his fingers slowing their pace to torture you further. He withdraws them almost completely, leaving you empty and panting, before plunging back inside you, deeper this time, his knuckles brushing a spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, almost mocking. "You can try to lie to yourself, but your body tells the truth, baby."

You arch against him, an involuntary movement, and your back arches, pressing your buttocks against his erection. You feel it, hard and insistent through his pants, and your body reacts before your mind can stop it, rubbing lightly against him. Toji groans, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place.

"You're being naughty," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "You want to go deeper, don't you?" Your traitorous body refuses to obey. Your fingers, still wrapped around Sukuna's cock, quicken their pace, stroking more firmly, and he lets out a harsh sigh, his eyes crinkling in pleasure.

"That's good, babe... keep it up," he murmurs, his free hand sliding under your bra to pinch your nipple, just hard enough to draw another moan from you.

The mirror to your left captures a glimpse of the scene, and you can't help but turn your head, just for a moment. The image is obscene, heartbreaking: you, trapped between them, your jeans halfway down, your bra pushed up, one breast exposed, Sukuna's lips on your neck, Toji's fingers disappearing between your thighs.

Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes shining with unshed tears, and yet there's a glint in your eyes, a glint you don't want to acknowledge. The glint of raw, insatiable desire.

Sukuna follows your gaze, and his smile widens. "You like what you see, huh?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He grabs your chin, forcing you to turn your head toward him, away from the mirror. "No need to look in there. Look at me. Only me."

His lips crash against yours, a brutal, possessive kiss, his pierced tongue invading your mouth with a hunger that takes your breath away. You moan against him, unable to resist, and he swallows the sound, his fingers tightening their grip on your chin.

Toji, behind you, pulls your jeans lower until they slide around your ankles, exposing you completely. His free hand moves up your thigh, caressing the sensitive skin inside, and you shiver, your body arching against him despite yourself.

"You're such a slut, mama," he murmurs, his voice husky, almost accusing. He slides your panties to your knees, his fingers sliding inside you again, deeper, more insistent, and you cry out, a sound muffled by Sukuna's kiss.

Sukuna pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his lips glistening from your kiss. “Say it,” he orders, his voice a challenge. “Say you want more.”

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, but just enough to remind you he’s in control. You shake your head, a last gasp of resistance, but your hips grind against Toji’s fingers, betraying everything you’re trying to deny.

Toji chuckles softly, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re not credible,” he murmurs, and adds a third finger, stretching you until your eyes close with the intensity of the sensation. “Do you want us to stop? Really?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mind is a mess, torn between the guilt gnawing at you and the pleasure consuming you. Sukuna, as if sensing your surrender, guides your hand more firmly.

You jerk him off, your fingers sliding over his thick length, feeling every pulse of his veins, his precum beading at the head of his penis. Your other hand plays with his warm balls, making him grunt, his hips pushing against your hand for more sensation.

Toji, behind you, withdraws his fingers, leaving you empty, panting, and you moan in frustration, a sound that makes you blush with embarrassment. But he doesn't keep you waiting long. You hear the sound of his pants sliding off, and then you feel it, his thick, bare cock against your ass, hot, hard, and ready.

"Last chance," he murmurs, his voice low, almost tender. "Just say it, and we'll leave. Even though we know you won't."

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst, a frantic drum pounding in your temples. The dressing room, with its narrow walls and oversized mirror, seems to shrink around you.

And yet, your body, that traitor, speaks for you. Your hips undulate slightly, unconsciously seeking Toji's warmth behind you, and Sukuna, who never misses a beat, lets out a low, almost cruel sneer.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his thumb slowly stroking your lower lip, smearing the saliva left by his brutal kiss. "You try to play the saint, but your body says otherwise." His dark eyes, shining with a predatory gleam, bore into yours, and you feel naked under his gaze.

He seems to see that part of you that trembles with excitement, that wants to lose itself in this spiral of desire and abandonment.

Toji, still behind you, says nothing for a moment. You feel his hot breath against the skin of your neck, just below your ear, and the sensation makes you shiver from head to toe. His hand, large and calloused, rests on your hip, his thumb tracing slow, almost lazy circles on your skin.

"You're so wet, mama," he finally murmurs, his raspy voice vibrating against your ear. He slides two fingers inside you again, slowly this time, as if savoring every millimeter of your body engulfing him. You let out a moan, a high-pitched, desperate sound that makes you blush with embarrassment.

You try to bite your lip to keep quiet, but Sukuna, still in front of you, grabs your chin and shakes his head gently.

"No, no," he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Let us hear it. This is the best part." He releases your chin to move his hand down your neck, brushing against your collarbone, then the curve of your exposed breast.

His fingers linger on your nipple, pinching it just enough to make you jump, a flash of pain mixed with pleasure shooting through your body. You gasp, and he chuckles softly, a deep sound that makes you shiver.

Toji, behind you, begins to move his fingers deeper, his rhythm slow but relentless. Each thrust is calculated, precise, as if he knows exactly the spots that will make you break. You feel your legs tremble, your knees threatening to buckle under your weight.

Your body arches against him, seeking more, even as your mind screams that you should stop, that you should pull yourself together. But the heat rising inside you, this fire spreading through your veins, drowns out any coherent thought.

Sukuna, as if sensing your abandonment, releases your breast to grasp your hand, the one still caressing it, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. He guides your movements, forcing you to speed up, to tighten your grip on his member.

You feel its heat, its hardness, the way it pulses beneath your fingers, and a low growl escapes his throat. “Harder,” he orders, his voice raspier now, laced with an urgency he doesn’t bother to hide.

You obey, almost mechanically, your fingers sliding over him, smearing the liquid that beads at his tip. He grunts again, his hips pushing against your hand, and the satisfaction in his eyes makes you shiver.

Toji, for his part, withdraws his fingers once more, and you can’t help a frustrated moan, a sound that immediately shames you. He chuckles softly, his lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear. “Impatient, huh?” he murmurs, and you feel his cock pressed against you, hot, hard, sliding against the bare skin of your ass.

He doesn't move right away, leaving you suspended in that moment of anticipation, your body vibrating with a mixture of fear and desire.

"Say it," Sukuna repeats, his voice harder now, almost impatient. His hand slides back to your throat, his fingers curling slightly, just enough to remind you of his presence, his control. "Say you want more. That you need it."

"Please... please..." you beg for the first time since the beginning. You bite your lip, feeling guilty, but you need them so much.

Toji laughs softly. You feel his head press against your entrance, slowly, deliberately, and your breath catches. "You finally say it, darling. I wanted to hear you say it so badly..." he murmurs in your ear.

He doesn't penetrate yet, just teasing you, letting you feel his head against you. “Say you want my dick,” he whispers, his voice so low it seems to vibrate through you. “Say it, mama.”

“I want your cock… please… I need it…” you beg, your words trembling, as if they’ve been forcibly extracted from a part of you you’ve refused to listen to until now. Your cheeks burn, your eyes sting with unshed tears, but it’s too late to take it back. You’ve said it. You’ve admitted it.

Toji, behind you, lets out a low groan, a sound that vibrates against the sensitive skin of your neck. His lips brush your ear, and you can almost feel his smile, that mix of triumph and raw desire.

“You finally broke, mama,” he murmurs, his voice husky, almost tender, but tinged with a hint of mockery that makes you shiver. His hands, large and powerful, grip your hips with a force that pins you to the spot, preventing you from moving, from thinking, from doing anything but feeling. “You’re going to get what you want.”

Without another word, he moves. Slowly, deliberately, his thick head presses against your entrance, sliding against your wetness with a precision that takes your breath away. You tense, your body torn between the instinct to resist and the overwhelming urge to surrender.

Then, with a fluid but relentless movement, he pushes into you, inch by inch, stretching you with an intensity that makes you gasp.

The sensation is almost too much, too full, too hot, just too much. Your hands cling to what they can, one still wrapped around Sukuna's member, the other clawing at the air before latching onto Sukuna's arm.

Sukuna, in front of you, watches the scene with a heated gaze, his dark eyes glittering with an almost cruel satisfaction. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dripping with contempt and fascination. "You're so pathetic like this, begging for us."

His hand, the one resting on your throat, moves down slowly, brushing the curve of your breast before settling on your clitoris. His fingers, deft and precise, begin to draw slow, pressing circles, each movement synchronized with Toji's thrusts, as if they've rehearsed this dance a thousand times.

The contrast between Toji's brutal pressure inside you and Sukuna's methodical caresses makes you lose your footing, your body racked by waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain.

You moan, a hoarse, desperate sound, and Sukuna chuckles softly, his other hand still guiding yours onto his member. "Keep going," he orders, his voice harder now, almost commanding. "Don't stop. Show me how desperate you are."

You obey, your fingers sliding along his length, feeling every pulse, every drop of liquid that beads at his tip. His hips move forward slightly, seeking more contact, and you feel his breath shorten, a low groan escaping his throat.

Toji, behind you, quickens his pace slightly, his thrusts becoming deeper, more demanding. Each movement pushes you against Sukuna, your body trapped between them, a toy in their hands.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his voice vibrating with desire. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, leaving marks you know you'll feel tomorrow. "You like that, huh? Say it again."

You shake your head, but the words escape despite yourself, broken, panting. "Yes... I like it... please more..." Your voice trembles, barely audible, but it's enough to bring a satisfied smile to Toji's lips.

He rewards your confession with a particularly deep thrust, and you cry out, a sound muffled by Sukuna's hand suddenly clamping over your mouth.

"Shh," he whispers, his eyes sparkling with dangerous mischief. "Do you want the whole store to hear you, to moan like a little slut for us?" His fingers continue their relentless dance on your clitoris, and your body arches violently, caught between Toji's penetration and Sukuna's caresses.

Suddenly, another knock on the fitting room door brings you back to reality. The saleswoman's voice pierces the fog in your mind. "Ma'am? Are you all right? Do you need help? I heard noises."

Your heart stops, panic washing over you like a cold shower. You want to answer, to say something to reassure her, to hide what's happening, but Toji chooses that precise moment to thrust his hips particularly roughly, making you moan against Sukuna's hand. Far from being perturbed, Sukuna lets out a low, almost inaudible laugh and removes his hand from your mouth, glaring at you.

"Answer," he murmurs, his fingers slowing just slightly on your clit, just enough to give you a semblance of control. "Or I will. And believe me, you won't prefer my version."

You swallow, your throat dry, your body trembling between them. "Yes... yes, everything's fine," you manage, your voice shaky, barely convincing. You pray the saleswoman won't insist, that she won't push the door open. "I'm... I'm just... trying on some clothes."

There's a silence, a suspended moment where you hold your breath, praying the saleswoman will move away. Toji, behind you, barely slows, his movements becoming slower but just as profound, as if savoring your struggle to maintain a facade of normalcy.

Sukuna doesn't stop, his fingers continuing their relentless work, and you have to bite your lip to stifle another moan.

"Okay," the saleswoman finally replies, her voice tinged with a hint of doubt. "Call me if you need anything." You hear her footsteps fade away, and a sigh of relief escapes you, quickly replaced by a gasp when Toji resumes a faster pace, his hands gripping your hips with renewed strength.

“Well done,” Sukuna murmurs, his smirk returning in full force. “But now, no more distractions. We’re not done with you.”

Toji slows his movements to a complete stop. You feel his cock slide out of you, leaving you empty, panting, your body shaking with a frustration you refuse to admit out loud.

An involuntary moan escapes your lips, a low, desperate sound that betrays your need, and Toji chuckles softly, his hands still firmly planted on your hips.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you, Mama?” he murmurs, his raspy voice caressing your ear like a promise. He releases you, but only to pivot and sit on the chair in the corner of the booth, his massive body filling the space as if it were meant to dominate every corner of the narrow room.

His pants are still halfway down, his cock erect, glistening with your arousal, and he looks down at you with a smirk, his dark eyes shining with a possessive gleam. “Come here,” he orders, patting your thigh authoritatively. “Show me how much more you want.”

Your legs tremble, barely able to support yourself, but you obey. You approach hesitantly, and Toji doesn’t give you time to think. His hands grab your hips, pulling you towards him with a force that makes you sway.

In an instant, he has you straddling him, your thighs spread on either side of his hips, your body exposed, vulnerable. You feel his cock pressing against you, hard and hot, and a shiver runs through you, your breath hitching in anticipation.

“Look at you,” Toji murmurs, his hands sliding up your thighs, caressing the sensitive skin before moving up to cup your ass. “You’re so perfect like this, all wet, so ready for me.”

His words, laden with desire and a hint of teasing, make you blush, but they also ignite a heat in your lower abdomen, a fire you can no longer ignore. He guides your body, lowering you slowly onto him, his head parting your lips with a precision that makes you moan.

“Go ahead, take me,” he growls, his voice vibrating with anticipation. “Show me what a good girl you are.”

You impale yourself on him, slowly, every inch stretching you again, and the pleasure is so intense that your eyes close, your head tilting back. Toji grunts, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place, and he begins to move beneath you, his thrusts slow but powerful, each movement making you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. "You were made for my cock, mama. Tell me you like it."

"I like it... I like it," you gasp, the words escaping your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice trembles, but it's sincere, and Toji rewards your confession with a deeper thrust, making you cry out softly.

Sukuna, who had been watching the scene until now, steps forward, his shadow falling over you like a delicious threat. He stands in front of you, his member still hard, glistening from your previous strokes, and he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “All impaled on his cock, ready to take me in your mouth. You are, aren’t you?”

His words, part praise, part insult, make you shiver, and you feel another wave of heat rising inside you. He releases your chin to grab a handful of your hair, pulling just enough to make you moan, a mixture of pain and pleasure that sends you into a tizzy.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Show me what that pretty little mouth can do.”

You obey, your lips parting almost instinctively, and Sukuna wastes no time. He guides his cock to your mouth, the tip brushing against your lips before slowly sliding inside. The salty taste of his precum invades your senses, and you moan around him, the sound muffled by his presence.

"Atta girl," he groans, his hips moving forward slightly to sink deeper. "Suck me good, you little slut. Make me feel how bad you want it."

You start to move, your tongue sliding along his length, exploring every vein, every contour, as your lips tighten around him. Sukuna groans, his fingers tightening their grip in your hair, and you feel his control waver, just for a moment, before he takes the reins again.

"Fuck, you're so good at this," he murmurs, his voice husky, almost admiring-pink. "Look at you, sucking me off while Toji fucks you."

Toji, beneath you, accelerates his movements, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, and each thrust makes you moan around Sukuna's member, intensifying the sensations.

“You’re so sexy like this,” he groans, his hands caressing your hips, your ass, your back. “Taking you from both ends, like a good little whore. You love it, right? Say it.”

You can’t answer, your mouth full of Sukuna, but your body speaks for you, arching against Toji, seeking more contact, more pleasure. Sukuna chuckles, his hips pushing harder against your mouth, his fingers tugging at your hair to hold you in place.

“She loves it,” he says to Toji, his cruel smile lighting up his face. “Look how hard she sucks. She wants more.”

The words, the sensations, Toji’s relentless pace and Sukuna’s dominance, all of it overwhelms you, pushing you to the edge. They give you no respite, their movements, their words, their gaze consuming you entirely.

Toji impales you with a precision that makes your mind go wild. His thrusts are deep, relentless, each thrust filling you completely, stretching you until your body trembles with the intensity.

His large hands grip your ass cheeks, spreading them slightly to better control your movements, forcing you down harder onto him.

"Fuck, you're so good, mama," he growls, his raspy voice vibrating with desire. "Look how good you take me. You were made for this, for my cock, for me." His words hit you like a brutal caress, igniting a heat in your lower abdomen that makes you moan around Sukuna's member.

Your lips slide over Sukuna's length, your tongue tracing circles around his head, tasting the salty flavor of his arousal. You feel his veins pulsing beneath your tongue, his member hard and hot in your mouth.

You apply yourself, squeezing your cheeks together, speeding up your movements to coax those low grunts from his lips. His hand, tangled in your hair, pulls just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.

"That's it, little slut," he murmurs, his voice dripping with an almost cruel satisfaction. "Suck me like you depend on it. You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth, you know that?"

His praise makes you shiver, and you feel your body respond despite yourself, your walls clenching around Toji's cock.

He chuckles, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, making you moan around Sukuna. "Oh, you're perfect," he replies, his voice low and vibrant. "You like it, don't you, Mama? You like being filled, being used like this." »

He punctuates his words with a particularly brutal thrust, making you cry out, the sound muffled by Sukuna's member pushing deeper into your throat.

You struggle to breathe, your senses overwhelmed by the double sensation: Toji taking you with a force that makes you see stars, and Sukuna invading your mouth with relentless dominance. Your body is a battlefield, every nerve on edge, every movement amplifying the pleasure rising inside you like a wave ready to engulf you.

Your hands grip Sukuna's thighs to steady yourself, your nails digging into his skin, and he groans, a raspy sound that urges you to go further, to take him deeper.

"You're so good," Sukuna murmurs, his hand releasing your hair to stroke your cheek, a strangely tender gesture that contrasts with the harshness of his words. “Look at you, while you suck me off…” His hips thrust forward, forcing you to take more of him, and you feel your eyes welling up with tears.

Toji, beneath you, suddenly changes his pace, slowing his thrusts to let you feel every inch of him, every movement deliberate. "You're so wet," he groans, his lips grazing your neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Do you hear that? The noise you make for me?"

Each movement produces a wet, obscene sound that resonates through the cabin and makes you blush with shame. But that shame only amplifies the pleasure, driving you to move harder against him, to seek that release that seems so close yet so out of reach.

"Go ahead, mama," Toji murmurs, his voice a challenge. "Show me how much you want it. Fuck me." His hands loosen their grip slightly, giving you more freedom to move.

Your hips undulate, rising and falling on him with desperate urgency. Every movement brings you closer to the edge, your body vibrating with a tension that threatens to break you.

Sukuna, in front of you, accelerates his own movements, his hips pushing against your mouth with increasing intensity. “You’re so good,” he groans, his voice trembling with a desire he no longer bothers to hide. “Keep that up, and I’ll come in your pretty little mouth. You want it, right? Tell me you want it.”

You can’t answer, not with him so deep inside you, but your moans, muffled by his presence, speak for you. Your lips tighten around him, your tongue flicking with renewed fervor, and he groans, his fingers clenching in your hair.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, almost like a confession. “A total slut, made for the both of us.” Toji, feeling your body tense, speeds up again, his thrusts becoming more brutal, more demanding.

"You're ready to come, aren't you?" he whispers, his voice raspy against your ear. "Go on, mama, cum for me. Show me how much you love it, how much you love being our little whore."

Your body tenses, a muffled cry escaping your throat as the orgasm hits you like a wave, washing over you, breaking you. Toji grunts, feeling your muscles tighten around him.

Your body is still shaking from the shockwave of your orgasm, every muscle vibrating with raw, almost electric energy. Toji's warmth, still inside you, keeps you grounded, while Sukuna, in front of you, slowly withdraws from your mouth, finally letting you breathe.

A trickle of saliva and his precum escapes your lips, sliding down your chin, and you gasp, sucking in air as if for the first time.

Your lungs are burning, your heart is pounding, and yet you feel strangely alive, overwhelmed by this sensation of fullness and vulnerability.

Sukuna looks at you, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips, his dark eyes shining with an almost predatory gleam. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low, almost caressing, but tinged with that delicious cruelty that makes you shiver.

He runs a thumb over your chin, wiping away the mixture of saliva and his pleasure, before bringing his finger to his lips, licking it with provocative slowness. "You're a true masterpiece, you know that? All debauched, all ours."

He pulls back slightly, giving you a moment to catch your breath, but his gaze doesn't leave you, pinning you to the spot like prey under a hunter's eye.

Toji, beneath you, gives you no respite. His hands, warm and calloused, slide from your hips to your breasts, his fingers grasping your nipples with a confidence that makes you moan.

He pinches them gently, then harder, alternating between caressing and squeezing, each movement sending bolts of pleasure straight to your lower abdomen.

"You like it, huh, ma'am?" he growls, his raspy voice vibrating against your back. “Look at these pretty breasts, so sensitive, so perfect.” He tugs lightly on a nipple, making you arch against him, and a satisfied smile plays on his lips when he feels your body respond, your hips instinctively undulating against his cock still buried inside you.

His thrusts slow, becoming almost lazy, but each movement is deep, calculated, keeping you in this state of delicious tension. You feel a wet heat pooling at the base of his member, a mixture of your arousal and his, sliding slowly out, forming a thick cream that clings to his balls.

The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the cabin, obscene, almost deafening in the relative silence, and Toji chuckles softly, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Listen to this,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re so wet you’re making me dirty, baby.” You're such a little slut, leaving all this mess to me."

His words make you blush, but they also fuel the fire burning inside you, the desire to lose yourself even more in their hands. One of his hands leaves your breast to move down between your thighs, his fingers finding your clitoris with devilish precision.

He begins to stroke it, slow, firm circles, and you cry out softly, your body tensing at the intensity of the sensation. "That's it," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Feel me, doll. Feel how good you were made for this. Your little clit throbbing for me, you're so fucking receptive."

Sukuna, still in front of you, watches the scene with renewed interest, his member pulsing slightly as he watches you writhe under Toji's attentions.

"You look beautiful like this," he says, his voice lower now, almost a growl. He moves closer again, but this time he doesn't touch you right away, content to watch, savoring every moan, every shudder that runs through your body.

Toji accelerates his strokes on your clit, his fingers sliding easily thanks to your arousal, and you feel a new wave of pleasure rise within you, faster, more intense. Your body tenses, your hips arching against him, and you moan, a high-pitched, desperate sound that echoes through the cabin.

The cream pooling at the base of his member makes each movement more slick, more fluid, and Toji groans, his own hips thrusting harder to match your movements.

"You're so good," he murmurs, his voice trembling with barely contained desire. "Keep it up, mama. Fuck me, make me come with that perfect body of yours."

Sukuna, unable to remain a mere spectator any longer, steps forward again, his hand stroking his own member as he looks down at you. "Open your mouth," he orders, his voice authoritative but tinged with an urgency that betrays his own need. "You're not done with me."

You obey, your lips parting, and Sukuna slides back into your mouth, more gently this time, giving you time to adjust. But his movements remain demanding, his hips pushing against you.

Toji's fingers on your clit don't slow down, and you feel another wave of orgasm approaching, your body shaking under the combined assault of their cocks.

"You're perfect," Toji growls, his lips nibbling at your shoulder as he feels your body tighten around him. "Cum for me, baby. Show me how much you love being ours."

His fingers dance over your clit with a precision that pushes you to the edge. His thrusts are deep, relentless, each movement sloshing the cream pooling at the base of his cock, a lewd mix of your arousals making each slide smoother, more intense.

Sukuna, in front of you, invades your mouth with growing urgency, his raspy grunts vibrating in the air as his hips thrust harder, his fingers gripping your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you. “Fuck, your mouth is incredible...” Sukuna groans, his voice trembling with barely contained desire.

Toji nibbles at the sensitive skin of your shoulder, his teeth grazing your flesh as if testing the limits of your resilience. “Feel how tight you are, how your body wants me. You were made for me, for us.”

His fingers accelerate on your clit, tracing quick, hard circles, and you feel your body tense, another orgasm looming, ready to engulf you. The heat of his sex inside you, combined with the pressure of his caresses, makes you lose all sense of what’s going on.

Sukuna, for his part, is on the edge. His dark eyes, shining with a fierce glint, pierce you as he lets out one last grunt, his hips thrusting once, twice, before he lets go.

“That’s it, little slut,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked with pleasure. “Take it all, swallow me. You’re so perfect like this.”

His cock pulses in your mouth, and you feel the heat of his orgasm spill over your tongue, salty and thick, as you struggle to swallow, your muffled moans vibrating around him.

He pulls out slowly, leaving you panting, a trickle of saliva and his pleasure running down your chin. He wipes your face with his thumb, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Look at you, all debauched. A true work of art.”

Toji, feeling your body tighten around him, growls louder, his hands gripping your hips with a force that will leave its mark on you. His thrusts become more brutal, more desperate. His fingers on your clit don’t slow down, driving you inexorably towards another orgasm. You cry out, a hoarse, broken sound, as the wave washes over you again, your body convulsing with the intensity of the pleasure. Your muscles tighten around Toji, squeezing him so tightly that he grunts, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of your shoulder.

The sharp pain mixes with the pleasure, amplifying every sensation, and you feel his hips thrust one last time, deeply, as he reaches his own peak.

"Fuck, mama," he pants, his voice shaking. "You're mine." His cum fills you, hot and abundant, mixing with the already built-up cream, sliding down his balls and onto your thighs as he continues to move slowly, prolonging the sensation.

He doesn't stop there. Still buried inside you, he bites harder into your shoulder, his teeth leaving a deep, red mark in your flesh, a seal of possession that makes you moan in mixed pain and pleasure.

“This is so you’ll remember,” he murmurs, his tongue licking the bite to soothe the sting, but the mark is there, pulsing, an indelible reminder of that moment.

His hands caress your breasts, lightly pinching your still-sensitive nipples, and he chuckles softly against your skin. “You’re so beautiful like this, marked, filled, all ours.”

Sukuna grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him, and his thumb strokes your lower lip, smearing what’s left of his pleasure. Your throat is dry, your mind clouded by the mixture of shame, pleasure, and that strange satisfaction consuming you.

Toji, still inside you, holds you against him, his hands gently caressing your hips, a stark contrast to the brutality of his previous actions. “You were perfect, mama,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the mark he left. "A good girl just for us."

Your body is still shaking, exhausted by the intensity of what just happened. Every muscle feels heavy, as if the pleasure and pain have drained you of all energy, leaving only residual warmth and a strange feeling of fullness.

Toji slows his movements to a complete stop, his warm breath caressing the red, pulsing mark he left on your shoulder. His hands slide down your hips with unexpected tenderness.

"You were so perfect, mama," he murmurs, his voice low, almost soothing, as he places a light kiss on the bite, soothing the pain.

Sukuna, in front of you, has pulled away, his gaze still intense but less cruel, softened by a glint of satisfaction. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing a strand back, and looks at you with a smirk, less mocking, almost knowing. Toji gently lifts you from his lap, placing you on the chair.

You feel the cum slowly dripping down your inner thighs, warm and thick, a tangible reminder of what happened. The sensation makes you blush, a wave of shame washing over you as your gaze falls to the floor where the shirt, which had been on the chair Toji sat on, is lying.

Drops of cum and your arousal have left a wet mark on the fabric. Your heart sinks, guilt cutting through you like a cold blade. Toji follows your gaze and chuckles softly, but not maliciously this time.

"Oops," he murmurs, an amused smile on his lips. "Looks like we ruined your little present." He grabs the shirt and tosses it carelessly to one side, as if it doesn't matter, but his eyes remain fixed on you, filled with a strange tenderness. "Don't worry, baby. We'll take care of you."

He leans towards you, his face very close to yours, and before you can react, he places his lips on yours. The kiss is gentle, almost tentative, a stark contrast to the brutality of his previous actions.

His lips are warm, slightly sweet, your lips parting to welcome his. He deepens the kiss, his tongue caressing yours with a slowness that makes you shiver, and you feel a different heat rising within you, less wild, more intimate.

Sukuna, for his part, grabs a pack of wipes from his bag, abandoned in a corner of the cabin. He takes one out and approaches you, kneeling in front of you.

"Let me clean you up," he murmurs, his voice unusually soft. He runs the fresh wipe over your chin, wiping away the remnants of his pleasure, then slowly moves down your neck, brushing the sensitive skin with a delicacy that surprises you.

"You were incredible," he adds, his eyes boring into yours. He slides the wipe between your thighs, cleaning away the still-leaking cum, his movements precise but gentle, almost caring.

Toji, after breaking the kiss, takes another wipe and begins cleaning himself, wiping his almost limp member with nonchalant care.

"Come here," he says, handing you a clean wipe. "Help me, princess." His voice is a mix of command and plea, and you obey, your trembling hands taking the wipe to clean the remnants of your pleasure from him.

Your fingers brush against his skin, and he groans softly, a sound of satisfaction more than desire. "You're too gentle," he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead in an almost protective gesture.

Sukuna slides the cool cloth down your thighs, then over your intimate area, cleaning every trace with meticulous attention. "We have to take care of our pretty girl," he says, a smirk on his lips, and leans down to place a kiss on your lips, light but lingering, his tongue brushing against yours with a gentleness that makes you melt.

You feel strangely pampered, despite everything, as if this moment of tenderness erases, if only a little, the guilt inside you.

Toji, after getting dressed, helps you stand up, his hands supporting your arms while your legs are still shaking. He pulls you against him, his arms wrapping around you in an almost possessive embrace, but one filled with unexpected warmth.

"You were perfect," he murmurs again, his lips brushing your temple. "Forget that damn shirt, okay? You're ours now." His words make you flinch, guilt returning in full force at the mention of the shirt, but his tone is so gentle, so reassuring, that you let yourself lean against him, just for a moment.

Sukuna, still at your side, runs a hand through your hair, gently detangling it with his fingers. "You're beautiful, even like this, all disheveled," he says, his voice low, almost tender. He places one last kiss on your forehead, a gesture that surprises you with its simplicity, its sincerity.

The crumpled, stained shirt, abandoned in a corner, burns your eyes, a stinging reminder of your husband, your marriage, everything you've just betrayed again. Your breath is short, your throat tight with a guilt that threatens to choke you, but Toji and Sukuna seem impervious to all of it.

Toji, still beside you, helps you up with surprising gentleness, his firm but delicate hands supporting your trembling arms. "Get up," he murmurs, his voice low and warm, almost soothing. "We're going to fix you."

He grabs your jeans, wrapped around your ankles, and slowly pulls them up, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your thighs. Each touch makes you shiver, a mixture of reminiscence of pleasure and shame that knots your stomach.

Sukuna, for his part, picks up your top, crumpled from the floor, and hands it to you with studied nonchalance. "You're still so sexy, even after all that," he says, his voice tinged with teasing admiration.

He helps you put it on, his fingers brushing your shoulders, your back, with a tenderness that contrasts with his usual confidence. He straightens the fabric, making sure it hangs perfectly.

"There," he murmurs, his gaze sliding over you. "Perfect." You feel anything but perfect. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is pounding, and you avoid your reflection in the mirror, terrified of what you might see. A disheveled woman, marked, guilty.

You nervously adjust your clothes, trying to regain a respectable appearance, but every movement reminds you of the semen that has dripped down your thighs, the pulsing mark on your shoulder, the soiled shirt you don't even dare pick up.

Toji, noticing your discomfort, places a hand on the back of your neck, a gesture both comforting and possessive. "Relax, ma'am," he says softly. "No one will guess."

But you feel like everyone will. When you step out of the stall, Toji and Sukuna walk with casual confidence, their shoulders straight, their gazes piercing, as if they own the world. Toji opens the stall door, beckoning you forward, and Sukuna follows, his hand briefly brushing the small of your back, a touch that makes you flinch.

You walk forward, head down, avoiding the gaze of the store employees, convinced that your flushed cheeks and disoriented expression betray everything that's happened.

To your surprise, the employees don't seem to be paying you any attention. Their gazes turn to Toji and Sukuna, and the atmosphere instantly changes.

A saleswoman, the one who had knocked on the door earlier, approaches with a nervous, almost reverential smile.

"Mr. Fushiguro, Mr. Ryomen," she says, her voice tinged with a deference that catches you off guard. "It's nice to see you. Is... everything all right? Did you find what you needed?" She glances quickly in your direction, but her attention immediately returns to the two men, as if you were invisible.

Toji chuckles, a low, amused sound, and places a nonchalant hand on your shoulder. "Everything is perfect," he replies, his tone filled with confidence. Sukuna, next to him, nods, a smirk on his lips. "Yeah, we got everything we wanted," he adds, his eyes sliding over you with a suggestive glint that makes you blush even more.

You freeze, shocked by the familiarity with which the employees address them, by the way they seem to know them, respect them, almost fear them. Who are they, exactly?

You knew they had an aura of power, a presence that commanded respect, but this public acknowledgment catches you off guard. Your mind whirls, trying to understand, but Toji, sensing your confusion, leans towards you, his breath warm against your ear.

"There's a lot you don't know about us, mama," he murmurs, an enigmatic smile tugging at his lips. "But you'll learn more... if you want." Before you can reply, Sukuna steps closer, his intense gaze fixed on you.

"We have an offer for you," he says, his voice more serious now, though still tinged with that natural arrogance. "What happened in there? It wasn't just a one-off. We want you. Not just for today, but for good. With us." He takes a step closer, his hand brushing yours, a light touch but full of promise. "Think of what we could offer you. Not just pleasure, but you could have it."

Toji nods, his fingers lightly squeezing your shoulder. "You're not cut out for a boring life, baby," he adds, his voice low and persuasive. "Did you see how you felt with us. Do you really want to go back to your husband after that?"

He gestures vaguely to the stained shirt, still abandoned in the cabin, a reminder of your husband, your marriage, everything you've betrayed.

Their words hit you like a blow. A proposal? A life with them? Your mind is a mess, torn between the excitement of how they make you feel, the guilt gnawing at you, and the fear of what it would entail.

"I... I need time," you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible. You lower your eyes, unable to meet their gaze.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, but doesn't press the issue. "Take your time," he says, a smirk. "But you know where to find us." Toji, gentler, gives your shoulder one last squeeze before releasing you.

"We'll get you back," he says simply. "No need to stress now."

They escort you out of the store, their imposing presence drawing the gaze of employees and customers alike. You walk between them, head bowed, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, while they seem perfectly at ease, exchanging amused glances.

They walk you to your car, Toji discreetly slipping a card into your pocket. "Think carefully, ma'am," he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead in an almost tender gesture. Sukuna, on the other side, winks at you. "We're waiting for your answer," he says, before walking off with Toji, their silhouettes disappearing into the crowd.

The drive home is a blur. Your hands tremble on the steering wheel, your mind replaying the events of the night at the hotel, in the cabin, the proposal, the soiled shirt. Guilt gnaws at you, but there's also this warmth, this excitement, this feeling of being alive like never before.

When you arrive home, you expect to find silence, perhaps your husband asleep or absent. But when you open the door, you freeze.

He's there, in the living room, on the couch. And he's not alone. A woman you've never seen before is sitting on his lap, her lips pressed against his, their clothes half-undone.

The sound of the door makes them jump, and your husband turns around, his eyes widening at the sight of you. "Honey!?" he stammers, panic in his voice. The woman stands up quickly, adjusting her dress, but you don't hear her, you almost don't see her.

Your heart is pounding, your husband's betrayal hitting you like a stab, but ironically, it echoes your own.

You stand there, motionless, unsure how to react. You don't know whether to cry because he betrayed you or laugh in irony because you did it too. Was your marriage really that doomed?

masterlist - part 1 - part 2 - part 3

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It’s different than the shame you used to wear before you’d acted on your long concealed feelings toward the boy that never belonged to you. That still didn’t belong to you. The only evidence you have of your night with him is the dull ache at your core, and the over-pronounced sense of fear you feel every time the phone rings.

You don’t really think he’ll call. Not with any kind of certainty. When you hear nothing after the first day, when he’d woken up to find you already gone, you assume you aren’t likely to. You get it. You don’t particularly feel like hitting him up. 

If you hear his voice soaked in guilt, it’ll turn it from a hypothetical tryst that you can pretend didn’t exist except in caves of your memory, to a full-blown clandestine affair. If you called him and addressed what you’d done there was an opportunity for him to tell you just how little it had meant to him. And even though you secretly know it probably didn’t feel as cataclysmic to him as it did to you, at least in the quiet limbo you’re in now you can make believe.

It doesn’t stop you from replaying it in your head like a clockwork crime-scene. The hitch in his breath, the pull of your hair, the grind in hip. It's so clear in your mind's eye. 

You don’t look like her.

You don’t know what to take from it. If it was a plea for you to be her, or if it had worked in your favor. That he was trying to sink himself into something that didn’t remind him of the girl who broke his heart those years ago. 

If he was trying to avoid the reminder of Nancy, he hadn’t got far. Sleeping with her sister was pointedly misguided. But there it was. You don't look like her.

Over the three days you have to sit on it, interacting with your family like you weren’t a traitor, you vividly fantasize that she wasn’t your sister. It doesn’t make you not love her, but it makes you hate yourself less. And until she comes back from her internship in July, you have time to. You haven't decided what you’ll do when she gets home. You can avoid her calls, but you can't not face her once she lives in the bedroom over from you.

It’s midnight when the car pulls up to the front of your house. 

You know it’s Steve’s when you hear the engine descend along the usually quiet culdesac. It’s more a hunch than any concrete evidence, but as you lie on your bed counting the minutes down when you know sleep won’t find you, the killing of the engine springs you from your prone position. 

His car is parked on the curb but no one emerges. He mustn’t have known that you’d even be awake, or care to look out the cars that pass along your street. But here you both were, seemingly communicating telepathically. 

You don’t consider not creeping out the house to his car. You reason that it’s better to get it over with rather than stretching it out across the whole summer. Especially when you’re waiting out the clock for Nancy’s imminent return. 

You truly try to convince yourself that you’re only sneaking down to clear the air, but you’re not dim. You’re smart enough to know that you’re playing with fire once more. You could’ve called. He could’ve called. But instead he snuck round to your house in the dead of night. With no warning.

It was like leaving it to the hands of fate. If you hadn’t seen him, he’d have driven off, back to his big empty house. No conversation. But fate has a funny way of playing her hand against your will. So, there you are climbing into the passenger side of his car for the second time in one week, the weight of shame weighing down your chest.

Steve looks unslept too. Uncharacteristically shattered, hair seemingly pulled in tense directions. It’s not like him to be dishevelled. But then again, it probably isn’t like him to have sex with the sister of his ex-girlfriend. 

You guys sit in silence in the car just looking at each other for what feels like an eternity. You feel like an animal being examined in an enclosure. It didn’t feel like the way he used to regard you. There’s an intensity, a static electricity that you can’t acknowledge because it’s what got you both in trouble in the first place.

It’s Steve who caves first.

“We should talk.” He announces plainly. 

You nod numbly, because it goes without saying. Of course you should. But what was there to say? It was unspoken that it was wrong. A heinous mistake that neither of you could take back, and no amount of talking would change that.

“Not here.” You say weakly. “If anyone in the neighbourhood sees me in your car at midnight, they’ll mention it to my parents.”

You don’t have the energy to think of an explanation around that. You think if put under any kind of harsh scrutiny you’d collapse under the weight.

Steve doesn’t verbally agree with your suggestion, just ignites the engine and drives out to the closest place to park up concealed from small-town prying eyes- the parking lot of Hawkins High apparently. 

Your body is moving without pronounced forethought, knees pulling up to your chest to drag the cardigan you’d worn out around yourself like a shield. It’s not cold but it feels like it. You’re probably in a bitter shock that you’d found yourself in this position.

Steve breaks the silence once more, turning to face you with pulled brows of concern. “Are you okay? After…”

Your heart stutters a beat or two. Because it was just like him to try and be sweet when you don’t deserve empathy. Neither of you do.

You scoff harshly. “Like it matters how I am. We’re horrible people. What we did is so wrong. So wrong.” 

You watch Steve’s face drop at the tone you use about yourself. Maybe about him too. But you don’t know why he’d be surprised to find you battered in with self-loathing. What else should you feel?

“Don’t say that. Of course it matters. You just left without saying anything. I’ve been worried.” He says sternly.

Once more you’re trying to keep the emotional response that kicks forward into your gut. You’re not supposed to be feeling this still. You’d hoped that with any luck you’d have gotten Steve out of your system, but there he is again. Coursing through your veins.

“I didn’t want to stick around for the morning-after debrief. It shouldn't have happened, that’s all that matters.” You argue, digging nails into your palm in a pulsing motion, attempting to ground yourself.

HIs shaky hands are pulling through his hair. It looks like he’s trying to place what you’d said. Where to put it, what it means.

“Why not?” He finally asks.

It’s direct. Deadpan, in fact.

It’s so vague that you’re not even sure what he means. “Why what?” You sigh deeply.

“Why shouldn’t it have happened? Because I dated Nance for six months in Senior year? I’m not seeing it. We’re adults, we were sober, we both wanted to.” He lists, counting along with his fingers.

“She’s my sister, Steve.” You raise your voice a decibel or two. “She’s not a friend of mine, or an acquaintance. She’s family. You just… You don’t get it. She’ll never forgive me. At this point, I don’t know if I'll ever forgive myself.”

Steve is listening to your panicked rambling, picking at his bottom lip in what you can only read as frustration. You don’t think what you’re saying is wrong. You’re not even blaming him. You had much more stock in being the guilty party. It was your family after all. And you’d already coveted him for years before that. He still looks hurt by your words though.

“Why do I not get it?” He finally chews out. 

You can’t stop the words from falling out when he puts you on the spot. “Because you’re not a sibling. You just don’t know what it’s like.”

You don’t know if it’s a sore spot for him or not. You really don’t know much about the inner-workings of Steve's head. Even if you might like to. But still some part of it seems to wound him fiercely. 

“It’s not like you guys are close. It doesn’t even seem that you like each other.” 

You’re halted by his analysis of your relationship with Nancy. From the outside looking in, you guess you understand how it could be perceived like that. You barely talk these days, you argued every chance you got when you shared a house, and you can’t remember the last time either of you called just to catch up. But fundamentally it wasn’t through the fault of either of you. Being so close in age meant that you were pitted against each other- no matter how unintentionally. Vying for who got more affection, more attention, more time. 

And then Steve came around. The final nail in the coffin. So, yeah maybe you guys don’t like each other much, but you love each other. No matter how cruel your words had been internalised by Steve, it was true. He isn’t a brother, he has no idea what it’s like. How complicated it is. You’d die for her, but you’ll happily avoid her calls for most months of the year.

“She’s family.” You finally land on. You’re too tired to fight him. Too broke down with guilt to think of anything else that could explain away why you couldn’t do it again. “I don’t know why you’re giving me a hard time for this. I’m not even blaming you. I’m the asshole here.”

You barely notice Steve outstretching an arm over the console, until his hand wraps around the curve of your knee, rubbing in kind circles. You could push it off, but compared to what you’d already done it was PG-13. Plus, you needed some kind reassurance.

Steve and you had entered into this pact of secrecy, a club of two, so even though he got you into this mess- he was also the only person you could go to seek out comfort from. Even if you didn't deserve it.

“You’re not an asshole. I think you’re being way too hard on yourself. Was it wise? Probably not. Should we do it again? Undoubtedly no. But I don’t get a thrill out of watching you torture yourself.” He whispers, leaning further forward to try and get a better look at your eyes. You’re trying to downcast to avoid them. “I had a really good time with you.”

The breath you take in is sharp. Because yeah, you’d had a good time as well. But it didn’t change anything. It didn't make you any more wrong about its moral abjectness. 

“I did too.” You croak, finally peeking up at him staring you down. “But it can’t happen again. Okay?”

If you didn’t know better you’d think there’s a pang of disappointment over his green eyes, but it’s gone before you can analyse it. He’s pushing back to nod weakly. 

“Gimme a hug, loser.” He says eventually, lighthearted in his smile at you. You raise a brow at him. “I feel weird, and like formal. We’ll hug it out.”

You’re folding on instinct, uncasing yourself from your tightened grip, to wrap your arms around the expanse of his middle. You let yourself be tugged forward by your shoulders, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.

You want to say that you don’t find it soothing, but you do. The soft pine and vanilla smell unhooks your rigid muscles- you haven’t fully appreciated how badly you needed to be held.

You don’t know how long you sit in his gripping hold. All that you know when you pull back an inch, you find yourself back nose to nose with him. Exactly where you weren’t supposed to be.

You know before he pushes forward that you’ve given in. You can feel the traction pull even without your say so. As soon as you glaze over his face, down to his lips, it’s over for you.

It’s so quiet when you attach in the middle. Quiet enough that you should be able to hear the voice in your head saying to stop while you still can. But just as you had been a few nights ago, you’re too suffocated by the compression of overwhelming feeling.

It’s almost impossible to turn away from.

The kiss isn’t as tense as the other night. Less like urgent yanking.

There’s a tentative brushing, like it was the first time. You ignore the pang in your chest. And when he winds his hands down to grip around your middle– working his way to get palms on bare flesh, you know that it’ll go further.

It’s beyond you why it is that whenever you’re close to him, all sense of reason or control is stolen from you.

He sighs in relief into your mouth when you don’t stop his wandering hands. It was an assurance that you weren’t about to shove him off completely. That you were still as weak as before, no matter how many firm words you speak trying to convince yourself of otherwise.

Your fists have wound into his cotton shirt, twisting in a tense hold, uncomfortably leant across the front of the car to get as close to him as you can.

Nothing seems to be enough for you with him. No matter how close you got. Your whole body is burning under the explorative fingers that were gripping up to push your bra up. Twitching around the hardened peak of your nipple. The gasp you let out is swallowed by the swell of his mouth.

As if the noise you’d made had been the crack in all reasoning Steve unlatches breathlessly– leaving you panting brokenly, watching him push the driver’s seat as far back as it’ll go.

You know exactly what he wants you to do but you still impotently wait as if he tilts himself back in his seat, before motioning you over to him.

“C’mere.” He says shakily.

You don’t have to be told twice– probably to avoid thinking too long about the moral dilemma attached– you just swing your leg across him to sink down onto his lap.

Neither of you waste valuable seconds before latching back against each other. It’s like it had ramped up from mild making out to desperate pulling– folding of material to try to grasp at the hidden miles of flesh just waiting to be discovered. 

You let him steadily remove clothes that don’t require strenuous movement. Shirts overhead, narrowly avoiding smacking hands onto the roof of the car. Your bra unclasped by the expert hands of Steve, you assume from years of practice. 

There isn’t a large amount of light in the car, but still as the fabric falls past you to reveal your bare form to him, he groans in a burnt heat. Pushing himself forward to nip and bite at the acres of skin slowly becoming dampened by clammy sweat.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mumbles, mouth still pressed into the mound of your chest. “You’re killing me.”

Your head has fallen back into a broken whine, mouth permanently hung ajar to try to keep your air from being stolen from you. Especially the more your core ignites in scorching fire, collapsing your lungs.

You don’t know how it’s possible that you’re wetter than you had been the first time. Maybe you’re less distracted this time by guilty thoughts because you know how good it feels once you begin. You know how it feels to have him sunk within you, grazing the deepest parts of your centre. The parts that make you crack open and weep. You’d opened Pandora's box, and now every part of you belonged to him.

At some point you’ll have to decide how you’ll get around this but you can’t do it when you’re near him.

Clearly.

Because here you sat, letting him fumble with the legs of your trousers to free you from the confines of the clothes, taking your underwear with them. 

You don’t care that you’re in a car-park. You don’t care about how it makes you look. You don’t care about the fact that anyone could see. Not when you’re wrestling with the button his jeans, already desperate to sink your walls down around him.

He doesn’t bother to pull the jeans all the way past his knees, just enough to let his length free, curling up around his abdomen. You don’t need to angle yourself up to hover above it, because he yanks you hip first to pull a wet stripe along him. Hitting the head of it against the hood of your clit.

You whine weakly, pushing yourself forward to rest against his forehead. He’s not looking back up at you though, gaze firmly fixed on your cunt grinding over him, leaving a damp stroke in its wake. 

You’re beyond desperate now, ready to collapse yourself fully to his base- desperate to be stretched beyond your means- but instead he’s fixated on the steady teasing he was carrying out.

“I need you,” You weakly beg, trying to wiggle yourself through his bruising grasp to push him into you.

Finally he breaks his entrancement to look back up at your eyes, face sternly tense. If anything it possesses you even further to get him where you want him, wet fully dripping along the inside of your thigh.

“I thought we couldn’t do it again.” He asks pointedly, letting the tip finally breach just a little bit past your entrance. He’s taking joy in making you beg but you can see the shake in his chest as he gets even a slight sense of your warmth. “I thought it was a mistake.”

You could cry knowing he was trying to push you into admitting that you didn’t care. That you wanted him more than you wanted to feel like a good person. You’re still trying to push further down despite his determination to hold you stagnant. You’re a husk of convulsion.

It’s cruel. And what’s worse is, you like it.

“I don’t care,” You almost sob out. “Please. Just…I need it.”

There’s no verbal praise. Your reward is him thrusting himself upward, hilting himself completely into you. You’d prefer that he give you affirmation this way every time because as soon he’s sunk as deep as he can go, you’re almost blinded by the intense burning across your eyes.

You’ve completely clenched around your whole body, eyes screwed shut. Mouth a noiseless scream, walls clamped around him. You can’t be sure how much of it is pain or pleasure. But it’s good.

So fucking good.

He pounds upward into you at a brutal pace, using your body beyond its means. You’re boneless in the gripping of his shoulders, letting him use your body as he likes. Fucking into you in a way that you didn’t know that you needed.

But you do enjoy it. You like the mindless, desperate hammering. More than just because it's Steve- because it makes you feel real. Alive.

Every second is a new wave of sensation that you have relent to or like being in a riptide, you'll be dragged away. Your nails are raking a violent path down his chest, trying as best you can to bounce back at each movement. It’s nigh on impossible to match the intensity he pours into you. Not with the screams that rip painfully through your throat, or the cloying tightening in your stomach when he grinds you pointedly down, snail trail stimulating your bundle of nerves.

“You’re so pretty.” He pants breathlessly, curling a hand firmly at the base of your throat- pushing you with little force to reveal your face to him, cracked in pure euphoria. “Eye’s on me.”

You try with what little will you have left not to crumple from the deep pleasure that continues to assault all of your senses, but you doubt it’ll matter much longer. Not with the way your toes curl forward. Or the continuous clamping and unclamping of your cunt around him.

You don’t think you can keep yourself upright anymore, especially watching him push a deep bite into his lip as he keeps bucking upward. His eyes don’t leave yours though. It’s obvious that both of you know that it wouldn't last much longer for either of you. You can see the veins in his neck bulging from the strain of holding himself back.

“I can’t,” You finally wail out, falling forward to lay your head on his shoulder- falling completely apart. “I’mgonnacum.”

It comes out in all one word. No spacing, no breath. Not that you had any left to give. The releasing of the tension in your stomach is a tingling current over your whole being. You lose clear vision– too fucked out, teeth sunk into the Steve’s shoulder as the orgasm steals all your motor function.

“Fuck, yes. Yes.” He pleads, losing what seems to be accuracy in his thrusts– that were starting to give way to over-stimulation for your abused core.

It's still very distant to you. When his hand comes up to grip into the back of head, fingers interwoven in your hair, it’s like an out of body experience. But he slams himself into you in one final plea before you feel the shudder in his hips and the broken cry he lets out when he releases into you.

You both seem to fall way to limp exhaustion, gripping over each other in shaken gasps, bodies sticky with sweat. You can feel your heart thundering over his from the position you lay in over him.

It’s indiscernible how long it is you guys stay like this, ignoring the elephant sized mistake in the car around you. When you shift to let him slide out of you, lower stomach crying out from the violent thrusting you’d participated in, the windows are steamed up completely. There would be no plausible deniability if anyone encountered the precarious position you’re in.

You pull the discarded items of clothing across with you when you collapse back into the passenger seat. This time you don’t have the luxury of sneaking away while Steve slept. Or the excuse that you’d had a couple beers– not that you’d been drunk the time before.

No, this time you have to redress in front of him, purposefully avoiding the prying eyes he keeps on you while you do.

“Do I have to come round again tomorrow to have the same talk about not doing this again?” He asks, it’s drenched in sarcastic poking.

You think it’s meant to be a lighthearted joke. But it feels like a reminder of what seems to be becoming a compulsion for you. Like a junkie with a fix.

You look back up at him when you’re finally dressed, trying to think of something– anything– to say that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

He’s beautiful in the way he looks back at you. Cheeks a hue with a red flush, eyes looking at you like he can really see you.

It’s disarming, like most things are with Steve.

“Just take me home.” You sigh, defeated entirely.

He pecks your cheek before he does exactly what you ask. And when you say it’s the last time before you get out of his car, you want to mean it. But you don’t.

You know it won’t be. So does he.

–

You don’t completely accept with yourself that it's never going to be just one last time. Not really. But after the third time in a row you find yourself creeping out of his car at midnight, you stop saying it can’t happen again to Steve. 

It was beginning to feel like a wasted breath. Especially because it never sticks for either of you. But you have to lie to yourself to mentally rationalise and not go crazy.

Steve rolls up to the curb outside the house every night for almost three weeks straight, and every time you comply.

You make rules for yourself that you never follow through on.

First it was that you only stayed to have sex because that meant it was purely physical. 

That was quashed after the third night when you caved and laid in his arms for an hour after to whisper quietly about nothing in particular. Now, the sex seems to be a perfunctory opener that leads to sometimes hours of pillow talk.

The second rule was that there was to be no forward planning about it. Nothing verbal anyway. This rule existed in a catch-all of no talking outside of your midnight trysts at all. And that was broken at the start of this week when Steve called in the afternoon just to see how you were…and to clarify that he might arrive later than normal that night.

The last rule was about it being only at night.

The day was too bright. Too warm and comfortable. It would be too easy to fall into grooves of dates and sleepovers.

Nights bleed into days, and then you’re waking up next to him wondering how you’ll ever let him go.

This was the only rule you’d held close. Like gospel. And not once in the these weeks had you attempted to skirt around it.

You take it as a small win in what felt like a series of monumental losses.

Until tonight Steve hadn’t pushed you on it. But Steve had a way about pushing your invisible boundaries. He doesn’t know about these militant sanctions you’ve imposed on yourself so he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you have a sneaking suspicion that even if he did, he would still do it.

You guys have passed the already dressed point, still humming with afterglow, curled round each other in the backseat. It really shouldn’t be comfortable but it always is when it’s with him.

It’s hard to acknowledge the intimate nature of the way you fold into each other now– head pressed above his heartbeat, his fingers carded through your hair to rub mindlessly.

You guys aren’t talking. Sometimes you don’t need to. Sometimes you can bask in silence that doesn’t feel sharp, but melodic. Peaceful.

“Eddie’s having a party tomorrow?” Steve’s voice cuts through the darkness.

You already knew he was, and although Steve was posing it like a question, you know it’s a statement. You just don’t know to what end.

You hum back at him weakly, furrowing more into the soft swell of his hoodie. It’s been getting harder not to fall asleep while in his arms after. You now looked forward to this more than the fucking.

“I was just thinking that if we’re both going to be there anyway… Maybe we just go together? Save Eddie from having to go from his to yours and back again.” 

There’s a lightness in his tone when he asks, but you still rigidly tense all your muscles as you digest them. It’s unconscious when you push out of his warmth to sit up. 

It was your last rule. The last thing you had tethering you to this not being a full blown love affair.

Even if you’d loved the whole time (and the years previous) there was always the vagueness of just being people having casual sex. But there’s nothing casual about going to parties together. Exposing, at least in some way, to people that you guys have some kind of forged bond.

Sure, you could say he was just giving you a ride– that you guys have known each other for years, so it’s not weird. But you can’t lie to yourself. 

You push your hair past your ears to fix your gaze out the window at the trees you’re parked next to, trying to avoid the eyes of Steve that you know are locked on you. Patiently waiting for you to say something. Anything.

“I don’t know, Steve.” You sigh. “That seems a bit…much?” 

You can hear him shuffle behind you, and then his head nuzzling into your shoulder from behind. You’re helpless to the way you lean back into the soft touch.

“Much? As opposed to the casual way I was just inside of you?” He mumbles.

Your cheeks flush brightly, turning to look at his smirking face. “You’re gross. And you know exactly what I mean. I don’t even know how I’d explain that to Eddie. It’s not like me and you are such good friends.”

Steve snorts slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “I think we’re really good friends. You might be the best friend I’ve ever had.”

You flex a brow back at him. “Oh yeah? You do what we just did with all of your friends?”

Again, his signature cocky grin sweeps across his face. “Only ones as pretty as you.”

You can already see how little movement you’re making with this back-and-forth. This is how most serious conversations go with him. Maybe it’s his expert avoidance skills. Or maybe it’s because you let him. But the way it was going it would probably end up being easier to just cave and agree.

“And what do I tell Eddie?” You sigh weakly, knowing he’d know he won.

“You’ll think of something.” He mumbles, and pulls you back down into his grip. 

–

You don’t think of anything. 

It doesn’t stop you from spiralling about it all day leading up to when you’re meant to be picked up by Steve.

You leave a message on Eddie’s machine at 8am that you don’t need him to pick you up because you know he wouldn’t be awake– absolving you of any explanation on the spot. But it wouldn’t change what would happen when you showed up with Steve.

It wasn’t that you think he’d judge you. But he was the one person you can’t lie to. And you know he won’t shy away from telling you the ways in which you were creating an endless amount of suffering for yourself. 

There was also an element of having it be a secret that felt safe. If no one knew except you and Steve, it wasn’t real, and if it wasn’t real then you weren’t being a shitty person.

It’s a whole lot of mental gymnastics to absolve you of the guilt that was slowly eating at your gut. Just like the rules you’d set for yourself that you kept caving in on. 

You’ve barely seen anyone in the house since it started, and your forced absence had not gone unnoticed. Your mom could be intense at the best of times, but the longer you shy away in your room or spend days lounging in Eddie's basement, the more she tries to force you all into family bonding time. 

You’re trying to calm your nerves by gulping back a pint of water before Steve was set to pick you up (around the corner at your firm insistence) and you can feel her staring from the kitchen table.

Dads sat in his usual perch in front of the TV and for once Mike was eating in the kitchen, so it feels like the first time most of you have been in the same room for weeks.

“Are you staying out tonight?” She asks finally. 

You’re swallowing back the final dreg of the cup you’re holding. You had thought about that particular subject a lot since last night. You could stay with Eddie– and you hope you can strong arm your urges to do it– but Steve was taking you to the party. So, there was always the chance he would ask you to go back there for the night.

It would be a real sleepover.

One you’d planned. One that you would likely not leave in the middle of the night from. You were far past treading water if you do that. You would be deep sea diving. But you also know that you want to. You want to wake up in a bed with him, instead of settling for cramped hugs in the back of a beamer.

“I was planning on it.” You mumble weakly, finally turning round to catch her eyes. Mike is also watching you intensely. Like he knew you were up to something. He always did.

‘Sweetie. You know if you’re seeing someone, you can tell us?” Your mom says gently. 

Your heart sinks through you at the suggestion. They couldn’t possibly know because if they knew what you’d actually been doing there was no way they’d be coy about it. It wasn’t like you’re seeing just anyone.

Mike's concealing a smile at the prying question because like the little brother he is at heart, he likes being the one not in the hot seat. Since Nance and you had left the nest, he’s absorbed a lot of moms smothering love.

“I’m not seeing anyone.” You argue firmly, placing the empty cup in the sink, very obviously bluffing. You were a crappy liar, always had been.

“Bullshit.” Mike mockingly cough-speaks, which you to send him violent daggers across the room for.

“Shut up.” You snap through gritted teeth, only for him to shoot you the finger back.

One thing you hadn’t missed about being home was the siblingly fights with a sullen teenager. 

“Alright, both of you stop it. I was only asking because you’ve been…distant.” Your mom interrupts. 

“Okay, well, I’m not dating anyone. I’m just catching up with friends.” You evade, peeking up at the clock to confirm that you needed to go anyway. “I’ve gotta leave.”

You start to head out before you guys could delve any further into your private matters but it doesn’t stop her from still shouting after you.

“Remember, family dinner tomorrow. Home by six.”

You don’t turn back around to confirm but you do through an arm back to wave, letting her know that you hadn’t forgotten. Not that you could’ve when she’d mentioned it five times that weekend.

Steve wasn’t parked around the corner when you got out.

No, you find his car hugging the curb outside the house, just like it had countless other times over the past couple of weeks. You’re immediately alight with panic and what could only be described as cloying rage at the way in which he completely ignored your firm instructions. 

“You look nice.” He whistles when you get in.

“And you aren’t parked around the corner. Have you suffered some sort of amnesiac episode?” You grunt, just willing him to get off your street as soon as possible.

He doesn’t seem offended by your harsh tone, just amused. “Hi to you too, so happy to see you as well.”

You whine aggressively and mock slap his shoulder. “You’re an ass.”

He’s chuckling as he heads off in the direction of the party. The is car now a golden hue from the setting of the sun– ebbs of night starting to bleed into the summer skies.

“C’mon, do you not think it would look weirder if you walked a street over to get in my car? Besides, you said it yourself. Karen loves me.” Steve smirks.

You cringe at the use of your moms real name falling out of his mouth in that easy tone. The familiarity reminds you of how it is that he knows her so well. Usually you try to avoid thinking about that. 

“Yeah, she thinks you’re just swell- as Nancy’s boyfriend.” You mutter bitterly, looking out the window wistfully.

It’s just another reminder of the fact that he’ll never be yours. You’ll never take Steve home to your family for a meet the parents dinner, or have late night gossip sessions with your mom about him. You never could because Nancy already had. 

He’d always be hers. 

Steve clasps a hand over your thigh in a soothing squeeze, drawing your eyes back to his reassuring face. “I’m not her boyfriend anymore.”

“It’s not like you’re mine either though, is it?” You find the words falling out before you can help it.

His eyes deepen in sympathetic swirls. You wish you could take it back because you don’t want to talk about this, and you find yourself cursing the sun because this is exactly what you were avoiding it. The day brought things to light that you aren’t ready to face.

“Do you really want to talk about that right now?” He asks. 

There’s no malice in his tone. It’s posed like if you said yes, he’d do it with no complaint. But he seems to know you almost as well as you know yourself now.

“No.” You sigh weakly.

You let the car collapse back into silence for the rest of the drive. Distracting yourself by dragging your fingers over the top of his hand that’s still curling over you, keeping your eyes inspecting the freckles and veins that adorn the top of it. 

For just a minute you can pretend that you’re just a normal couple going to a friends party together. It’s bittersweet, but at least you get that.

It’s night by the time you arrive. Cars are littering the outside of the house that seems to be alive with music and party-goers. Now is when the panic starts to climb up through you. The weight of the decision you’ve made is suddenly lumped in your lap.

Steve must notice because once he’s killed the engine, he’s pulling your hand up to peck. “We’re just two people going to a party together.”

You don’t believe him in the slightest.

“If you say so.” You mumble dejectedly, but get out of the car nonetheless.

To your surprise, no one even notices you guys going into the house together. It’s too busy for anyone to care about who’s entering or leaving and for a moment you feel stupid for being worried. Especially when Steve mouths ‘I told you so’ pointedly.

But the moment is fleeting when you spy Eddie from the sofa, narrowed in on both of you. The guilt builds from head to toe.

Eddie doesn’t waste valuable seconds before he’s on pursuit over to both of you. You look at Steve with firm stress but he just keeps a steely hold on your eyes of assurance.

You paint a phony smile on as your best friend barely greets either of you before he’s yanking you away from Steve.

“Just gonna steal her, big guy. Thanks for coming.” Eddie yells flippantly over his shoulder as he guides you through the sea of people at the party.

Steve doesn’t seem hurt when you turn to apologise with your eyes. He just shrugs and turns to find Robin who you hadn’t noticed was already here.

Eddie brings you both to a quiet corner in the kitchen, pulling two beers out from a top shelf. The look he gives you when he hands you one is incredulous. Downright bewildered.

“Explain?” He urges.

You refuse to crack under weak pressure. You reason that you’re strong enough to lie by omission because it barely counts. 

“He gave me a ride. Nothing to tell.” You shrug lazily, gulping back what feels like a third of the can.

Eddie looks at you deadpan, maybe almost disappointed. “But how? How could that have possibly happened?”

You’re struggling to think of something plausible. There’s not many scenarios to pick from. 

“We hang out sometimes, I guess. He gave me ride home from here a couple weeks ago.”

“And you never told me?” Eddie presses. “I see you almost everyday. You tell me everything.”

Another large sip of beer punctuates your next thought. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Now I know you’re bullshitting me. You’ve been in love with him since forever. You agonize over it, and it didn’t seem relevant?”

You don’t mean to get defensive, but it happens anyway. You just want him to drop it. 

“Maybe I’m just trying to get over myself, Eddie. Can you drop it? Let’s just have a nice night.” You snap.

The curly haired boy seems entirely unconvinced by your shitty excuses but he drops it anyway, like the good friend he is.

For a while it seems like you’d maybe gotten away with it. No one else mentions anything. Hours pass and albeit you don’t see Steve again in the meantime but you were closing in on having survived the night. 

You wish you hadn’t gotten so cocky. 

It’s starting to get into the hours of the night where things are rowdy. The music is louder, the drinks stronger. Everyone’s a little more than tipsy. Even you– finally feeling safe enough to unleash a little. 

The beers had gotten the best of you and the bathroom upstairs was finally free for the first time in an hour, so you seize the opportunity while you can.

What you don’t expect is to be pushed back inside once you try to leave after using the facilities. You figure Steve must have seen you go in and at least been polite enough to wait until you’d finished up to encase you back into the confines of it.

You’re feeling just relaxed enough to take the risk. You’re giggling softly as he nips and kisses at your neck, butt pressed back against the sink by his caging hips. 

“What are you doing?” You simper, letting your fingers thread through his soft hair, openly tilting to give him further access to your throat.

His words are muffled by the path of kisses. “I missed you. He stole you from me.”

You’re biting back satisfied moans at the idea that he notices when you’re not around so intently.

“It’s been like three hours.” You point out.

Suddenly he’s up at eyeline, green eyes tracing over you, an innocent smile on his lips. “Exactly. Entirely too long. I just wanna get you back to mine– where there’s a bed and we can wear no clothes.”

You can feel the heat pumping down to your core at his suggestion. It does sound better than being here, but you know you’d need to give it at least another hour before Eddie would be too blitzed to notice your departure. 

“One more hour.” You insist, pushing forward to press what’s meant to be a chaste peck to his pouting lips.

He takes your inch, and runs a mile, opening his mouth to deepen it with brushing tongue. You’re melting weakly already, letting him work his hand up under your dress to slide up your now opening thighs. You gasp when he comes to toy with the edge of your underwear, teasing at it. He pulls back to watch you wilt under the tantalizing touch.

“Are you sure you wanna wait an hour?” He whispers, pressing his thumb firmly onto your clothed bundle of nerves. 

You pant greedily at the burst of sensation that breaks through your lower stomach and drag him forward to capture you both back in a deep kiss. 

You’re broken from the incredibly private moment you’re having when the door smashes open. You don’t have time to spring back into a less compromising position. Even with Steve shouting that it was occupied. 

It doesn’t matter one bit because standing in the doorway wearing a horrified expression is your best friend. You can’t read the look he gives you both. Maybe a flash of hurt. Mostly surprise?

Either way, you push Steve off abruptly, trying to smooth down the crumple in your dress.

“Shit.” Steve mutters, looking anywhere but Eddie in embarrassment at what you’ve been caught doing. 

“Give us a minute, Steve?” You ask, eyes firmly stuck on your friend that you would like to do damage control with. Especially after you just lied to him.

“Yep.” Steve coughs weakly, gliding past Eddie's rigid form, leaving you guys in a steady silence.

“You’re kidding, right?” Eddie finally says. “Tell me you’re not actually doing this?” 

You hide your hands in your face trying to conceal your shame. Eddie isn’t going to call you an asshole but you will. And that’s exactly how you feel under his inspection. 

“It just sort of happened.” You say eventually dragging your hands off your face. “I don’t know why, I just can’t control myself with him.”

“Clearly.” Eddie laughs humourlessly, coming to perch on the edge of the tub. “You lied to me. To my face, dude. You don’t do that. Like who the fuck even are you right now?”

He’s mad. Maybe more mad than you’ve ever seen him with you. In your four years of friendship he’s never spoken to you like this. He’s never seemed disappointed in you like this.

“Do you think I’m a terrible person?” You ask weakly.

“I think you’re doing a pretty shitty thing.” He says sternly. “I think you’re going to live to regret this probably. And I think you’ll break your heart if you don’t end it.”

You don’t realise that you’re crying a little until it hits your crossed bare arm. You furiously wipe them away. “Do you hate me?”

Eddie swivels his head back at you, shocked that you’ve asked him that. “No? Are you crazy? I could never hate you. But I’m mad that you lied to me.”

“Was I supposed to tell you? How could I admit to something like this?” You croak.

He’s pensive for a moment, before he stands up slowly, rubbing a hand onto your shaking shoulder.

“I think if you’re doing something you have to hide from everyone in your life then it’s not something you should be doing.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything back before he’s fleeing what feels like a crime scene, leaving you dumbfounded and alone in the bathroom. 

Steve’s waiting for you leant against the wall opposite the bathroom, chewing at his knuckle in stress. You want him to hug you, but you don’t want the onlooking small town residents to see and find reason to gossip about it. 

“You okay?” He asks gently. 

You shrug dejected, because obviously you’re not okay. Nothing about this situation was okay. And if Eddie didn’t accept it, then how could you expect any of the other people around you to?

“At least he knows now.” Steve tries, nudging his knee into yours.

You don’t take solace in that. You guys weren’t looking to get people on side.

No one was ever meant to know. It was just one more thread fraying in this tangled web you were weaving. You know you can’t think about any of this much more tonight. The flashes of a headache are starting behind your eyes– the loud music and claustrophobic house aren’t helping.

“Can we just go?” You ask finally. 

“Of course we can. You wanna go back to yours?” He asks, almost anxiously. Almost like he didn’t want to be away from you.

And just like the spineless person you’ve become, you rationalise all the bad thoughts away. That you were already in this mess, that you needed to be held by him to feel better, that someone had found out now so what more could go wrong. 

“No, yours.”

–

There’s nothing sexual about the night you guys spend together.

You share his bed like little kids. Held onto each other with gripping fists, and snuggled chests. Neither of you talk about what happened. You talk about everything but that.

You’ve never had a serious boyfriend before but this is what you imagine it feels like.

He makes you breakfast in the morning and you spend hours lazing out by the pool, basking in the sunlight, swimming, kissing, holding hands. Pretending that nothing was wrong.

It’s undeniable that it’s not about the sex. Not at all.

You guys don’t make it past second base. And even though you’re having to swim in your underwear, you don’t feel exposed or embarrassed around him. It’s nice when you can ignore the obvious things you don't want to talk about.

Afternoon is wilting. Both of you are exhausted from the hours of swimming, both sleepy under the summer sun. 

You’re counting down the hours now because you still have that family dinner and you know that you can't get away with missing it this time. Your legs are dangling forward into the welcome cold of the water, and Steve’s head is firmly placed in your lap, eyes covered by sunglasses.

You’d told him you needed to go soon an hour ago and he’d been pensively quiet since but not uncomfortably.

Just thoughtful.

Your hand is working through his hair like it was second nature now. The small intimacies were normal now if you spent any time really analysing it.

You hum softly to grip his attention to you. “I think I need to start getting ready soon.”

Steve groans in protest dramatically at the notion. 

You can’t help but giggle at the absurdity. “I’ve been here all day. You must be sick of me by now.”

He doesn’t laugh at what was obviously a joke. You can’t see his eyes under the shades but you’d bet they were serious. No hint of humour.

“I’ll never get sick of you.” He mumbles.

Your heart slams against your ribs, suddenly out of beat. It was a vague statement but you understand exactly what he means, because you feel it too. 

It gets harder to go each time. Harder not to lengthen your time together. No matter how ill-advised it is. You’ve felt the gnawing ache every hour that passed knowing you’d be leaving soon. Even if it was just for a family dinner that would take a couple hours at most.

“Steve…” You test, not needing to go further into detail. Because he knows what you mean. He always knows what you mean.

He sits pretty abruptly, pushing his glasses up in his hair so you can finally see his eyes. They’re full of hurt. That’s what it looks like anyway.

“Don’t.” He says firmly, caging his knees to his chest opposite you. “Don’t just brush me off. I can’t keep doing this. A fuck and hug in the back of my car just isn’t enough for me anymore. It’s never going to be enough. I want you to sleep in my bed. I want to take you out places. I want to hold your hands at a party and not worry about what people will say.”

You can’t help but feel like you could weep openly. Scream at something in the universe that was giving you something you’d always wanted but can’t take. Not without potentially destroying your relationship with your sister. Without changing the way your family views you.

“It’s not that simple.” You whimper gently. “You know it’s not.”

He tips his head back in frustration. “Bullshit it’s not. I’d just settle with seeing you in the daytime without having to harass you into it. Just tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me you don’t want that.”

There’s no point in lying to him. It made no difference to the end result. If you couldn't have anything else with Steve, you could have honesty.

“Of course that's what I want.” You whisper.

There’s a pause before he looks back down at you, mouth a tremble while he mulls over his words.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” He finally chokes out.

You don’t say it back. You can’t. You’re too busy crashing forward to engulf him into you, letting him grip you back with the same force you bring to him.

You hope you can translate that you feel the same without having to say the words. You want to say them, but it needs to be right. There needs to be some avenue for a path forward.

He pulls back to grip you at the shoulders before he takes you up in the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had.

You’re both crying. You can feel the intermingling of your tears. The quiet resignation of the mess you’re in poured into each kiss.

When you pull back there’s a weight of levity that seems to be lifted. Like the air was cleaner to breathe and less suffocating to your senses. You’re forehead to forehead smiling, as if you guys weren’t absolutely fucked.

“I do need to go.” You whisper eventually. “But I’ll come back tonight. We can talk properly?”

He’s nodding through wiping tears and smiles. “I think you’re going to have to.”

He drives you home without protest from you from for once. You suppose you have to start being bolder if you guys were seriously considering making it real.

And when you get home, you let him walk you to the door, hand subtly held in his against all better judgment.

Both of your hair is still wet, and if anyone didn’t know any better you must look like a young couple in love, sunbitten from a long day of summer swimming. And in some ways it’s true.

He’s about to leave you at the door with one final squeeze of the hand when you’re stopped short by the opening of the front door in front of you.

You drop his hand like it’s a bomb. The summer air is suddenly cold, a wisped breeze blown in from the east, stealing you from your dreamlike daze.

Because holding your house door open is the one person you can’t be seeing right now. The person who you thought you had at least a week yet before you’d be faced with.

The tapping on your bedroom window came at 10pm, like clockwork.

You could see Steve’s goofy smile through the glass, waving to you from where he was crouched in the bushes outside. You couldn’t help but laugh as you climbed off your bed, making your way over and lifting the window.

Steve climbed inside with a little less grace than he had when he was 16 sneaking into girls’ rooms after their parents had gone to bed. His ass hit the ground with a low thud before he lifted himself, brushing off his jeans and pushing up the sleeves of his pullover.

“Kind of crazy I still have to climb through your window like we’re a couple of teenagers,” Steve said quietly, resting his hands on your hips and pulling you close.

“Yeah, well,” you said, plucking a twig from his hair before brushing your fingers through it. His eyes fell closed at the feeling, smiling contentedly. “My parents still think I’m a child.”

And no one even knew you and Steve were together yet.

After years of being best friends - strictly platonic - no one thought twice about how close you and Steve were. Everyone knew Steve had harbored feelings for Nancy for years, and thought he still did. It got to the point where Steve and Jonathan argued constantly because he thought Steve was trying to win Nancy back.

Truthfully, that was just Steve. He was a bit of a show-off.

When things between you and Steve had turned into more a few months ago, it hadn’t exactly been your intention to keep it a secret. But with the end of the world scenario Hawkins was currently living, no one was paying that much attention to what the two of you were doing.

And it was kind of nice. Like your own little world.

Steve pulled you closer until your body was pressed against his, his large hands sliding around to grip your ass over the tiny shorts you were wearing. He bent down, his breath fanning across your cheek, making you shiver. He pressed his lips to your neck, and without even thinking about it you tilted your head to the side, giving him more access.

“It’s kind of exciting, though,” he mumbled against the skin of your neck. Your breaths came a little harder, your eyes closing. “Sneaking around…” His fingertips danced up the backs of your thighs, pushing up the hem of your shorts until they grazed the curve of your ass, the edge of your panties. “Having to stay quiet when I fuck you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, hands coming up to rest on his chest. You still weren’t used to the way he made you feel now. The way he made your head spin, your lungs ache, the throbbing between your thighs when he spoke to you like this. There was nothing friendly about the things he did to you.

He murmured your name back in return, and it sent a shiver up your spine. His teeth grazed the skin of your neck, and you drew in a gasp, hands tightening into fists in his shirt.

Steve moved, walking you back towards your bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, you fell down onto it, bouncing softly on the plush material. Your room hadn’t changed much since you were younger, despite your 20th birthday having just passed. You still had the same white frilly pillowcases and fluffy pink duvet. You had been embarrassed about it the first time Steve came over, but there was something he liked about taking you apart piece by piece on that stupid bed.

You moved back to lay on the pillows while Steve kicked his sneakers off. He didn’t take his eyes off you, crawling onto the edge of the bed, running his hand slowly from your ankle up to your thigh. He squeezed the plush of your thigh, pushing your legs apart and crawling between them.

The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against the backs of your thighs as he settled there. He leaned over your body, hand moving up to your hip, then beneath your t-shirt, tracing over the skin of your stomach with an unexpected reverence. His calloused fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of your sides next, and you exhaled a shaky breath, the sensation like ice through your veins.

“You’re so pretty,” Steve murmured, and you weren’t sure if he was telling you or just noting it to himself. He pushed your t-shirt up just to the bottom of your breasts, pressing featherlight kisses against your stomach. His lips trailed higher, smirking as he felt how hard you were breathing. He pulled back, looking down at you - how did you look so wrecked already?

Disappointed by the loss of his touch, you opened your eyes. “Why’d you stop?” you asked, the pout on your pretty lips making Steve’s own pull into that cocky smirk you knew all too well.

“You’re needy tonight,” he observed, thumb tracing circles over your hip. You could tell it was boosting his ego, which he really didn’t need. “I’ve barely even touched you yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, although even Steve could see how weak the protest was. Even though Steve was your boyfriend now - you were still getting used to that - you often fell into that playful bickering from years of friendship. “You’re not that good.”

Steve planted a hand by your shoulder, leaning back over your body. Any teasing died on your lips the second his body pressed into yours, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped when you felt his hot tongue against your neck, right over your pulse point. Your hand shot up to grasp at his bicep, clinging to him tightly.

You could feel the smirk against your skin. “I bet you’re already so wet,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to your neck, nuzzling his nose against the curve between your neck and shoulder. “I bet if I touch you right now, I’ll see just how good I am at getting you worked up.”

“Christ, Steve,” you breathed. As much as you wanted to tease him, to make him work for it, you couldn’t hide what he was doing to you. Your body was reacting to every touch, every word, to an almost embarrassing level. 

His free hand slid back down your side until he reached the waistband of your shorts. He relished in the little gasp you let out when he slipped his hand beneath, into the lace panties you had put on specifically for him, his thick fingers gently tracing through your folds.

“Oh,” he groaned, feeling the proof of everything you’d tried to deny. “God, baby, you’re soaked.” He pulled back to look down at you, his hazel eyes burning into yours with an intensity that hadn’t been there minutes before. “Just for me, huh?”

He pressed his fingers against your clit, already swollen and throbbing with need, and there was no way you could have denied it even if you wanted to.

“Uh huh,” you moaned, looking up at him with every ounce of desire written clear across your face. It nearly took Steve’s breath away, how perfect you looked. He was straining against his jeans so hard it was starting to hurt, desperate to free himself and fuck you already. 

“You make me so hard,” he muttered, his hand moving down until his index finger was pressed against your entrance. Your body thrummed with anticipation, craving to be filled by him in some way, any way, and you could see on his face that he was going to give you exactly what you wanted—

The phone rang, shrill and startling in the charged atmosphere of your bedroom.

“Shit,” you cursed, letting out a deep sigh. Steve pulled his hand from your shorts, sitting back on his knees with a huff and the disappointed look of someone who had just dropped his whole ice cream cone on the ground.

You leaned over the bed to your nightstand, lifting the phone from the receiver. You and Steve exchanged a look before you pressed the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

Your name came through the other end of the line in an exasperated breath. “God, it’s been a day.”

You sat up a little, leaning back against the pillows. “Hey, Nance,” you said, meeting Steve’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows, staying silent. “What’s up?”

“I am just so tired of guys, to be honest with you,” Nancy said, letting out what she’d clearly been holding in for a while. “I swear Jonathan just turns into this…this caveman when Steve is around! It’s like the smart, sensitive guy I fell for is just gone, and all he cares about is winning me, like I’m some…object.”

The speaker on the phone was loud, letting Steve hear every word she said. He chuckled quietly, and you rolled your eyes, kicking his thigh lightly. You didn’t understand the rivalry Steve had with Jonathan. It seemed like Steve just thought it was funny to piss him off.

“Yeah, it’s stupid,” you agreed, trying to give Nancy your attention even while Steve was being as annoying as possible, tickling your feet. You kicked at him again, and he laughed, dodging out of the way. He moved in to kiss your cheek, flopping down on the pillows next to you. “Um…” You tried to tune Steve out, because he was being incredibly distracting. “Have you talked to him about it?”

A sigh. “Of course. But you know he won’t admit anything. He won’t admit he’s jealous of Steve.”

Steve looked way too smug for his own good. You ignored him, holding a hand up to block out his face. He snatched your hand, placing a kiss against your palm. “Of course he won’t. He’s a man.” You glanced over at Steve, who looked mock offended at that.

“And don’t even get me started on Steve.”

You froze at that. Steve raised his eyebrows at you, looking even more amused by the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh, yeah,” you said weakly, because you weren’t really sure what else to say.

“I know he’s your best friend,” Nancy said, as if she hadn’t talked to you about Steve countless times before. “But I wish he would just move on. We dated years ago, and it didn’t work out. I just wish he would…I don’t know…get over me.”

You and Steve exchanged amused smiles at that - because she had no idea how much Steve had already moved on. “Maybe he just needs to meet someone,” you said, fighting back the giggle as Steve’s lips began brushing over your neck again, down to your collarbone. You swatted at his arm half-heartedly, although you didn’t really want him to stop.

“I’m starting to worry he never will,” Nancy said. “And I care about Steve, I hate to break his heart, but it’s just not going to happen.”

Your breath hitched as Steve’s lips trailed down your body again. As he reached your stomach, pushing your shirt up again and kissing above the waistband of your shorts, you looked down at him with furrowed brows. The mischief gleaming in those hazel eyes was familiar, but rarely a good thing.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice more breathy than you intended when Steve spread your legs, his lips pressing against your inner thigh. Your jaw dropped when his teeth scraped against the sensitive skin, your head falling back on the pillows. Was he fucking insane?

If Nancy noticed how distracted you were, she didn’t say anything. “I mean, he’s a great guy and all,” she went on, “You know that. I’m sure he’s gonna make some girl very happy one day.”

You looked down, making eye contact with Steve as he smirked up at you, slipping his fingers beneath the top of your shorts and sliding them down your legs. A flush crept onto your skin, the room all of a sudden feeling much hotter. Steve placed another kiss on your thigh before he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your clit through the lace of your panties. Your free hand tightened in the sheets. “Y-Yeah, for sure.”

“He’s handsome, funny, sweet, romantic. He loves his grand gestures.”

Steve looked far too smug as he listened to her praises, but he was focused on his mission. He stuck out his tongue, licking your folds through the already soaked material of your panties. You drew in a sharp breath, fighting back the urge to groan. “Yeah, he’s…he’s great.”

“But he can also just be a total…meathead!”

You looked down at Steve then, holding back a laugh. “Oh, yeah, for sure.” It was his turn to roll his eyes at you, but all thoughts of teasing vanished from your brain as he slipped the lace off your body, leaving you bare for him. The cool air against your wet pussy had you clenching your thighs together, but Steve spread them again, looking down at you like he was starving and ready to absolutely devour you.

“I mean, honestly,” she went on as Steve nuzzled against your core, his nose brushing against your clit in a way that made your whole body jolt. “Everything has to be a competition for my attention. It was so stupid, him and Jonathan racing each other up the radio tower. They could have gotten hurt, but all they cared about was showing off for me, like I’m going to pick the ‘strongest man’, or whatever they think women want.”

Listening to Nancy talk about Steve trying to impress her almost made you giggle. Steve loved to show off, that was for sure, but Nancy was definitely getting the wrong idea. You bit back a grin at the memory of how Steve had fucked you from behind in the WSQK supply closet after, hard and fast with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“So stupid,” you agreed. You had to slap your hand over your mouth when you felt Steve’s tongue finally delving between your folds, greedily tasting every inch of you, how sweet and wet you were. His fingers dug tightly into your thighs, fighting back his own groan of pleasure.

“Like a couple of neanderthals,” Nancy sighed. “And it’s making Jonathan into a total pain. He’s just moody all the time now, and it’s because Steve keeps provoking him. I mean, I know you’re close, but don’t you think Steve can be such a…a total ass?”

“Oh yeah, a total ass,” you said. Steve quickly wiped the playful grin off your face when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, his fingers sliding between your folds again. The whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you bit down on your hand hard enough to leave a mark when he pressed a long finger inside of you.

Your hips lifted off the bed, grinding against his face and hand like you were desperate for more of whatever he’d give you. He groaned so quietly you could barely hear it, but the vibrations against your aching clit had your thighs trembling. He slowly grinded his hips against the bed while he lapped at your cunt, a second finger sliding into you and curling deep inside.

Your hand with the phone dropped out to your side, Nancy’s voice still somehow audible as she continued on with her rant. You grabbed one of your pillows, holding it over your face and burying your moan in the stupid frilly pillowcase, heat coiling low in your belly. God, he was going to make you cum so hard with that stupid mouth of his.

Steve flicked his tongue over your clit again, fucking his fingers in deep until he was hitting that spot over and over again with a level of precision that only came with experience. It almost pissed you off, how quickly and perfectly Steve could make you fall apart.

Your orgasm was building fast. Your back was arching, body writhing on the bed, breaths coming in hot and heavy. Your thighs trembled around his head, and you let go of the phone to tangle your fingers in his messy hair, giving a sharp tug that made him groan even louder this time.

The vibrations from his moaning, his tongue working over your sensitive clit, and his thick fingers fucking you hard and deep were bringing you to the edge faster than you cared to admit, but it was the whimper he let out as he grinded his cock down hard against the bed that was your undoing.

You let go of his hair, both hands gripping the pillow and holding it tight over your face as you let out the most desperate, needy moans, loud enough that the whole house would have heard you. Steve worked you through it, making sure he drew out every last bit of pleasure, every tremor from your body, tongue working slowly now as he brought you back to earth.

The phone call had gone completely forgotten, until you heard Nancy calling your name over the line.

You pushed the pillow away, grabbing the handset and bringing it back to your ear. “Sorry, my mom needed something,” you said quickly, praying Nancy hadn’t heard any of the noises you had just made.

“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get going anyways. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You tried to catch your breath as relief flooded your body. “Yeah, of course. Goodnight, Nance.”

“Night!”

The line went dead, and your body visibly relaxed. Thank god she hadn’t noticed anything weird. Steve was still kissing your thighs, his hazel eyes looking up at you from between your legs with an intensity that made your heart thud hard against the wall of your chest.

The second the phone was back on the receiver, Steve crashed his lips to yours like he couldn’t take it for another second. You could taste yourself on his tongue when he licked into your mouth, kissing you in the most filthy, needy way. He bit at your bottom lip and you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps. He rutted his hips against your thigh as he kissed you, and you could feel every inch of him through the tight denim.

He pulled back from your body, lips and chin still wet with your release and his eyes glazed over with lust. He took in the sight of you, so wrecked and beautiful, laying there in nothing but the loose t-shirt you had stolen from his closet at some point.

“God, look at you,” he muttered. His fingertips traced over your skin with the kind of reverence reserved for something holy. “Jesus. You’re unreal.”

You wanted to scold him for the stunt he’d pulled while you were on the phone, wanted to tell him that was risky and stupid and would have been so embarrassing if Nancy had figured it out, but those thoughts quickly disappeared when he grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to your bedroom floor. You almost moaned as your eyes shamelessly raked over his chest, all lean muscle covered by that thick, dark hair you were way more into than you ever expected to be.

“See something you like?” he teased, calloused palm pushing your t-shirt up your body until your tits were exposed. Your nipples hardened in the air and he brushed his fingers over the stiff peaks of them, making you shudder.

“Steve…” you said, breathing his name like a plea. 

“Yeah, baby?” he asked, eyes never leaving your chest. He gripped your breast in his left hand, squeezing it - fit so perfectly in his hand, he thought - his thumb rubbing over your nipple.

“I need you,” you admitted in a whine. You hated letting him see how badly he affected you, because it always went straight to his big head, but you couldn’t help it. You pushed your hips down, grinding against his thigh, desperate for his touch even though he’d just made you cum on his tongue and fingers minutes ago.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back from you as if he’d been burned. His hands moved to his jeans at lightning speed, the clink of his belt buckle loud in the quiet of the bedroom as he undid it as fast as he could. “I can’t- shit, I need to fuck you right now.”

He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one go, groaning as his thick, aching cock was finally freed. He kicked his pants off to the floor, wrapping a hand around himself and giving his cock a few quick strokes as he stared down at your body. He was so worked up from what you’d done, his tip flushed red and a drop of precum beading at his slit that made your mouth water.

Steve leaned over your body, leaning his weight on one strong arm planted above your shoulder while his other dragged the head of his cock through your folds. “I bet you liked that, didn’t you?” he said, his voice a low growl in your ear.

It took you a minute to realize he’d asked you a question, too busy focusing on the feeling of his cock pressing against your entrance, wishing he would just take you already. When he didn’t give you what you wanted, you opened your eyes, looking up at him. “What?”

“I said, I bet you liked that,” Steve murmured, pushing his cock inside just barely, not even a full inch, making you whimper as he pulled back out, “I bet you liked having to stay quiet so Nancy wouldn’t know what I was doing to you.” He dragged himself back up through your wetness, pressing against your clit. You drew in a gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Steve—“ you said, as firmly as you could manage when every nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. “You shouldn’t have done that, it was risky—“

“Your body doesn’t lie,” he hummed, leaning down to kiss along your collarbone, his tongue teasing your skin before sucking a mark onto the delicate flesh. “You were soaking my fingers, baby. I could feel you clenching around me every time you had to stay quiet.”

You shuddered beneath him, like his words sent a chill through you. All you could do was let out a quick exhale as you felt him at your tight hole again, and he gently rubbed his nose against your jawline, breathing in the scent of your body wash combined with the smell of sex.

“No one knows how fuckin’ filthy you are,” he groaned, his low voice rumbling against your skin. “No one knows how much you love getting fucked. No one but me.”

He moved his hips forward in a slow roll, his cock sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. You keened at the feeling, his cock stretching you out — more like splitting you open — and Steve groaned low in his throat, your tight heat enveloping his length like fucking heaven.

“Oh, fuck,” you rasped once he was fully seated inside you. Your thighs were shaking, and Steve gripped the plush skin, hiking your leg around his waist. His forehead dropped against yours, both breathing heavily as he rolled his hips against you, setting a pace that was slow but deep, punching the air from your lungs with each press.

Steve kissed you, only sweet for a moment before it turned hungry, bruising, massaging his tongue against yours and sucking your lower lip into his mouth. You whimpered, and Steve’s hips bucked forward, grunting against your lips as he lost his rhythm already.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back to admire your body as he fucked into you. He couldn’t hold back anymore, hips rutting hard and fast against yours, watching your tits bounce with every thrust. Your bed creaked beneath the movements, joining the sound of the breathy moans you exchanged, his skin meeting yours. “You’re so fucking tight and hot — the best pussy I’ve ever had, baby, I swear to god—“

Your head dropped back, crying out as you felt that delicious drag of Steve’s thick cock in your velvety walls. Every ridge and vein of him, the way he was so big and curved just right, and he always knew the angle to fuck you at to hit that spot every single time.

“Yeah,” he gasped. “Oh, shit. Fuck, that turned you on, didn’t it baby?” His voice was a low rasp, and he grabbed your wrists with his free hand, pinning them above your head. The way it stretched your body pushed your tits out, and Steve groaned at the sight, momentarily distracted. “I think you like the idea of getting caught with me. I’ve never felt you so fuckin’ wet, Christ.”

As much as you wanted to deny his words, your body reacted on its own, pussy throbbing around his cock, making his pace falter and a choked moan break from his lungs.

“You don’t even have to tell me,” he grunted, wearing his best cocky smirk, although the flush on his cheeks and the way his features kept twisting into pleasure gave away how weak he was for you, too. “You’re— oh, shit—“

He let go of your wrists to grab your thigh and hold you open wider, sinking somehow deeper. You bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, trying not to be loud enough for your parents to come knocking. Steve’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he looked down at you, the sweat shining on your skin, your furrowed brows and parted lips, the tiny little moans he was pulling from you with every movement.

“You are so fucking hot,” he groaned, almost to himself. “So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Made for me.”

“Yours,” you agreed, and the word had barely left your mouth before he was crashing his lips back onto yours, both moaning into the kiss, breathing each other’s air until your head spun.

You raked your nails down his back, long red scratches blooming against his freckled skin. Steve moaned raggedly, hips stuttering as he cursed out a breathy “Fuck,” against your lips.

Steve leaned back on his knees, his hands sliding down your sides before reaching your hips, holding onto you with a bruising grip. He pulled your hips down against his thrusts, using your body to chase his own pleasure, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening as he felt that familiar electricity crackling up his spine.

“Say my name, baby,” He rasped. He was so close. “I wanna know who’s making you feel this good.”

“Steve,” you moaned, reaching up and grabbing onto your pillows, desperate for some kind of leverage as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge. “Oh, god— fuck— Steve!”

Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as it hit you like a wave, pleasure washing over your body like you’d never felt before. You buried your face in the pillow, muffling the scream you let out as your body tightened around him, squeezing his cock tight within your walls.

“Oh, sh- fuck!”

Steve’s body pitched forward with the intensity of his orgasm, catching himself on his right arm, his left hand gripping so tightly onto your thigh you knew there would be bruises. His hips stuttered against you, his cock pulsing inside your tight walls, filling you with every drop of his cum until he had nothing left.

He stayed buried in you, relishing in the feeling, before he finally pulled out, laying on the bed next to you. He was breathing hard as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his sweaty chest.

You looked up at him, carding your hand through his messy hair. He hummed, leaning into your touch. He grabbed your wrist as you went to pull away, pulling you closer and kissing you with a surprising amount of tenderness after what you’d just done.

He pulled back enough to look you in the eyes with that grin that just screamed Steve and emotion clear as day in his hazel eyes. “I love you.”

Your heart raced, the way he was looking at you sending heat through your veins in a whole different way from before. “I love you too, Steve.”

His hand rested on your hip, tracing slow circles on your skin. “Maybe we should tell people. About us.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hand trailing through the hair on his chest. “You want that?”

“I do,” he said, leaning forward to place a kiss against your forehead. “We probably shouldn’t let Nancy keep thinking I’m obsessed with her when I’m doing this with you.”

You laughed, the memory of the phone call with Nancy making your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll tell people.”

The idea of going public with Steve, everyone knowing you were much more than friends after years of insisting and proving otherwise, was a little scary. But more than that, you were excited. You wanted to be able to be affectionate with Steve in front of your friends. To kiss him, to hold his hand, to let everyone know how much you loved him.

“Does that mean you’re finally gonna leave Jonathan alone now that he knows you’re not after Nancy?” you asked with a teasing smile.

He looked down at you, his brows furrowed with the level of sass only Steve Harrington could achieve. “Now, I never said that.”

as always, comments and reblogs are so so appreciated!

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At this, the pink-haired man is letting out a loooow whistle- one of his pink brows raise as he looks between his opponent and you in the stands. 

Oh—how fuckin’ pretty you were. 

Just engulfed in an ice-blue jersey with the Tokyo Free Blades logo on the front - they sold those things for far more than they were worth, but Sukuna’s sure this must’ve been one of Gojo’s own. It was big enough and looked softer than the merchandise- or maybe that was just the slight blur around your figure…were the lights too harsh or was Sukuna hallucinating? It’s slipping down to your wrists, where you were holding a big banner that had your boyfriend’s name on it—‘Go Go Gojo The Strongest Satoru!’ Eyes sparkling. Lips slightly swollen from your nervous gnawing. Jumpin’ up and down excitedly as you catch his eye. How cute…

And while Sukuna’s wondering just how damn lucky the bastard opposite him was- Gojo can’t help but muse about just how awfully the other’s hair color clashed with his uniform.

Blood-red just like his eyes.

Locked and narrowed on you—

Gojo’s knocking his hockey stick against Sukuna’s, making the other man finally tear his eyes away. He gruffs out finally, “Never said she wasn’t.”

He pushes against his opponent’s wooden blade harder, “Then why’ve you got her name in your fucking mouth?”

“What- scared she’s gonna like it better in my mouth, heh?” Only for the other to push back with a leer.

“The mouth I punched back in the New York playoffs?” Gojo scoffs. They’d played against each other a few times before - it was impossible to avoid anyone in the big leagues. And each time had ended up with one or both in the infirmary and headlines for days. “Or the mouth that got himself suspended for two games a few months ago?”

He sweeps a look towards you in the stands, you were on your feet and looking over them in concern now. And listen—listen, Gojo was well-aware he’s lucky to have you - and proud of it. But having you be stared at by this son of a-

Sukuna leans in with a whisper, “The mouth tha’s gonna make your girl cum harder than she has in her entire life.”

“See, the difference between you and I…” And Gojo should be rageful- he was. Despite that strange throb in his shorts, he promises he was. But more than that he couldn’t stop from leaning in himself, letting his breath cloud out within the cold stadium. Against Sukuna’s ear shell, “-is that you can only dream…while I have my mouth on her every fucking night.”

Sukuna jerks away, “You little-”

“Oh, and the title as well.” Gojo smirks, that little dimple popping out by the edge of his lips. He can hear his numerous fan clubs scream even louder - Gojo Satoru had splashed onto the ice hockey world and shot straight to the top without looking back. 

They couldn’t get enough of the Prince of the Ice. 

His looks. His winks. His plays. “Perhaps you haven’t realized it yet, Ryomen Sukuna, but the only reason you were the greatest center in history was simply because…I wasn’t playing yet~”

The other man straightens silently. He was a few inches taller than Gojo, standing at an impressive 6’6 to Gojo’s 6’4. It was easy to realize why the media seemed to love him as a ‘bad boy’ - the troublesome one. Despite them being similar ages, he was the more experienced one. Buffer. Nastier. Tattooed and towering. 

They called him the King of the Rink for a reason. And the King looked down on them all—especially new captains with blue eyes and too many fan clubs. But that wasn’t saying he didn’t have many of his own - but at least he deserved his. “And what took ya so long to reach my level, Gojo Satoru?”

Gojo looks at Sukuna.

Gojo looks at you.

Then back at the other player- “Was too busy fucking my girl.”

And Sukuna’s ready to spit out something that wouldn’t be able to air on sports channels- before the referee skates over just then.

His deadpan voice cutting through the chaos, “Alright alright, break it up you two.” The older man - Masamichi Yaga, a legendary player in his own time, one of Gojo’s own junior coaches - looks between the two. “Keep it clean.”

Sukuna grumbles but ultimately glides a few inches backwards, hockey stick at the ready. Gojo follows with a smirk.

The commentator announces- “Two players who’ve made the headlines for their explosive rivalry- Ryomen Sukuna, the strongest center in history, and Gojo Satoru, the hotshot who stole that title from straight under his nose—hah! I can hear the fan clubs already. Though, that’s not to say our King of the Rink will be giving it up that easily. We’re in for a reeeeal treat tonight, ladies and gentlemen!”

“Okay- King, welcome back for another season.” Yaga then turns to the white-haired man. “Gojo, welcome to the NHL. Set.”

Gojo smiles, he hopes you’re watching this. Nothing matters if you’re not watching.

“Oh—our Prince of the Ice is smiling. Can it be that he’s confident in his win already?”

“Yeah- welcome, bastard.” Sukuna bites out, his stick blade digging into the designated area on the spot. “Enjoy yer first game here- and your last. By the end of it yer gonna be crying in your gal’s arms.”

“But Ryomen Sukuna is one of the most feared players in the league for a reason- just look at those muscles!”

One white brow raises, “You think I’d lose against you?” Eyes locked on Yaga once he presents the puck and readies himself.

“This is a moment in NHL history, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I know it.”

“Gojo and Sukuna-”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“-who to choose?!”

The Prince and the King.

Both prodigies.

The puck is dropped and it’s a mad dash—the clap of hockey sticks like a most satisfying lightning strike, and that circular slab of black is being swung past the neutral zone and into Gojo’s side.

“Sukuna gets the puck! Such a tight turn and attack straight to the net- the Tokyo Free Blades aren’t letting him get far—oh, what a steal.”

Gojo’s speeding past to let his first defense line sweep him back the puck- Sukuna’s racing past to take it back from him.

And the game commences. 

“This is going to be a tight game, ladies and gentleman”

In the first twenty minutes, it’s one point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

Considering the intensity of each team’s defense, you weren’t surprised that it was off to a fierce yet slow start. Gojo was holding back, testing out the playing field, and Sukuna was a lot more used to this stadium. This league. It was making the other captain sweat.

But with your cheers, you could see a faint smile on Gojo’s face as he started the second twenty minutes.

Your boyfriend was using his famous body fake technique to gain two more points-

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

One point for the Tokyo Free Blades.

Everyone was on their feet. Whether out of exhilaration or out of desperation for their team—and you were one of them. During the second break Gojo, of course, skidded down the side of the rink during his break to spend it blowing kisses at you through the plexiglass - before his coach arrived to drag him away.

And so caught up in your embarrassment at his display, you didn’t see the way he shot a smug look at Sukuna. The other man glowering from his own side of the bench.

He was never one to be left behind.

The final twenty minutes started off with the pink-haired tyrant using his signature aggressive playstyle to get nothing more than three more points back-to-back. Making the commentator cry out at the hat trick and the audience get onto their feet now.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

One point for the Heian Hawks.

The score was quickly five to five - one of the greatest plays that the NHL had recently seen. And Sukuna was basking in it.

Basking.

He was skating down the sides of the stands at a rapid pace, showing off for the audience- showing off for you—Sukuna reaches where you were seated and bangs the shaft of his hockey stick against the plexiglass. THUD-THUD-THUD—! You startle while the fans around you jump up and cheer-

And he’s looking right down at you. Smirking through the cage of his helmet…

Until Gojo’s skating by him and rams Sukuna against the plexiglass with his own body. The two of their muscular figures colliding. Sukuna’s turning to Gojo with a snarl. Gojo’s raising his fist up high and aimed.

It’s a fight that Yaga has to break up.

The timer rings.

.

.

.

“—can’t believe I had to take the win with a fucking shootout.” Gojo speaks in his aggravated tone, hissing once you press the ice-pack to the cut above his eyebrow.

This wouldn’t have been considered worse for wear had it been any other player, but this was the Prince of the Ice. You could already envision the headlines that would flood your timeline tomorrow. The hat trick. The smile. The fist fight. 

“But you won, Toru.” Once the game had ended in a tie, there was no choice but to start an overtime period. A fight to the death, more like. It lasted less than five minutes and ended up with Gojo scoring first out of pure fury and adrenaline.

Though that in itself was a tight match, the game had finally ended: 6—5.

The Tokyo Free Blades had won. 

Barely. And if you asked Gojo Satoru, a bare win was worse than a fair loss.

Which is why you were cooped up with him in the team’s locker room even after the rest of the players had filtered out. The coaches knew you well enough by this point that you’d gained access easily, and you knew Gojo well enough to know that he was taking this match to heat. Especially as captain.

And here you were pressing an ice-pack to the numerous cuts and bruises he’d acquired during his tussle with Sukuna. “I thought you did really well, baby.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. But-”

“Oh, come on—”

“But having you with me during an NHL game and I it ends up like this-”

“Toru, you’re the hardest on yourself.” Huffing, you push back on his damp white bangs. “I loved your playing today and I know everyone else did, too.”

“Yes, but I made the team go into overtime-” Gojo cries out once more.

“Which happens fairly often!”

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, “Yes, but that damned Ryomen Sukuna- fuck! How I wish I could have used more backhands against him- or body checks- or cycling- or even just slammed my hockey stick into his ugly fucking-”

“Satoru.” You interrupt him, and your boyfriend looks up at you immediately.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Underneath the glowy white light of the locker room, you can’t help but think that Gojo looks so pretty like this. 

There was a reason that he was the hockey player with the most fanfiction written of him (you knew, you’d checked). He was still in his deeeep blue uniform from earlier, not having had the heart to take them off just yet. It was slightly loose as it should be, but did nothing to hide Gojo’s firm shoulders, his broad chest, his strong arms. Matching the shade of his teary eyes, slightly reddened around the edges in a way that made him look so delicate. He flutters his long lashes up at you and subconsciously pouts. You’re noticing just then that he had a fresh bruise on his lower lip, making them look even more plump. 

Gojo looked almost ethereal. 

Head slightly sweaty. Body slightly blushing. His fingers still jittery with adrenaline. 

Pouting. Pretty. 

Though it didn’t matter because to him—you would always be the most beautiful. 

Gojo whimpers at the slight sting of pain once you kiss his poor, injured lips. “Fuh-fuck, sweetheart…mm.” And it was almost impressive how you had a 6’4 mountain of muscle and power as nothing but putty in your hands.

He melts.

“My girl?”

“Mhm, Toru?” You’re cooing down at him- chuckling at the way he chases your lips once you slightly pull away. It doesn’t matter if it hurts…he just needed you.

“Can you make me feel better?”

“Of course, Toru.”

In mere moments you’re being slammed up against the locker with your cunt against the smooth metal and Gojo’s hot erection inside your cunt. His fat cockhead probin’ between your pussylips and pushing against every tiny nook and cranny.

Just so thiiiiick and flared wide open that it makes your mouth water. Your legs limp.

You fucking loved when Gojo got like this - just after one of his games when he’s so high on the adrenaline that his furious erection just won’t seem to go down.

And of course - of fucking course - the only possible solution to that would be to shove you against the nearest flat surface he can find. To press you down with his hefty weight so that you can’t squirm your hips away. To hold you against this still-sweaty body as he pummels his thick inches inside you. To fuck you so hard and needy that even the lockers echo out their sounds in sultry synchronization with you.

Slam-slam-slam— 

In and out, in and out, in and out—

“F—ngh, fuck.” He whispers, all hot and breathy against the back of your neck. It makes you slightly flinch at the sensation and Gojo’s pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your nape- then digging his teeth in to almost draaaag you back to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- m’feeling better already, sweetheart.”

“Thank goodness, because you’re making me feel all- oh.” Just then his mushroomy tip swabs against your g-spot and you can’t stop your moan. “Shit, right there, Toru.”

Gojo’s panted chuckle breezes down your spine, “You could say I really, mm, hit the goal- hm?”

“Sh-shut up.” 

Before you’re arching right at Gojo’s sculptured core - he still had his blue ice hockey jersey on, and so did you. One of his that he’d given you, in fact.

Though he was holding his jersey up with one hand so that your restless body could sliiiiide down each sensual curve and ridge of his abs. He knew how much you liked that.

He could feel just how much wetter you got whenever you felt Gojo’s white happy trail scrape up against your cunt. Your outer pussy was just rubbed raw on the slammin’ of his base and now there was this—he pulls the hemline of his jersey up to his mouth and bites down on it. Keeping it permanently held up as the captain ruts and ruts against you even harder now.

Deeeeeeep, plunging strokes that leave wet thwacks! against the back of your cunt.

The hockey player’s reddish globular tip pushes against your sweetest spots a few more times, and each time he’s counting- “That’s one.”

“Wh-what do you…”

Hitting that exact spot once more like a target- wetness seeps from your cunt and sticks your thighs together with a wet sheen. Shit, it was just too cute how he had that mind of yours muddled with only a few strokes. “Two- three—” Each one accompanied by the most vicious mwah against your throbbin’ bundles of nerves.

“Why are you- hck! counting, baby?” You sniffle out.

So damn gone on his thickened, veiny length that he’s forced to (well, more like glad to) hook two rugged palms underneath your thighs and lift you up. He’s supporting your body a proper inch off of the tiled floor, jerking you up even higher every time his aching hot cock was swabbin’ away into you- “Three. That’s a hat trick.”

You blink tearily over your shoulder, not quite sure you heard him right. “A…a what?”

“A hat trick.” All three of those words were followed by three more pushing probes against your g-spot- “And look at thaaaat- that’s another hat trick.” Cutely peckin’ away his swollen cockhead again. And again. And again and- “That’s four. Five. Six. Seven-”

“Pleeeeeease—”  The only thing you can do is grab onto the jutted handles of the lockers for dear life. Back arched. Toes curling.

Those bulbous wet tears welling up by the sides of your eyes are so damn cute that all he wants to do is kiss them away. “Not ‘please’, heh- what you mean to say is thank you.”

“Th-thank you.” Babbling out with no difficulty.

And that makes even Gojo raise one pale brow, his rosy lips curling at the edges. “Fucked dumb already? Mmm, you really liked today’s game, huh? So good f’me.” With a raspy titter he slides a hand down the middle of your spine and gives your right ass cheek a goooood spank. “Then can you say thank you very muuuuuch, Toru—?”

“Thank you very- hck! much-” Mouth moving before your mind, he’s planting down yet another smack before you can finish your sentence. “-Toru!”

The focused captain nearly doesn’t wait until bossing you around again. “Theeeeen, how about can you say that Gojo Satoru, my handsome- ngh, boyfriend, is the best ice hockey player in history?”

Your mind was almost dizzy at the length of that sentence- “Satoru- ngh, fuck.”

“Nuh-uhhhh—” His needy pitch echoes out, planting a few more mean thrashes against your g-spot to leave you even more stupid. Hat trick. So slick with your glazy syrup that it’s easy to follow that route to reach your delicate spots. “It’s- Gojo Satoru, my handsome boyfriend, is the best-”

“Begging yer girl to say that shit because you know it’s not true?”

A voice that decidedly didn’t sound like either yours or your boyfriend’s.

It was too gruff, too mocking, too…predatory. Something in it that makes goosebumps erupt down the line of your spine and for you to snap your head immediately to the side- despite no one being in the locker room, you two had still chosen a slightly private corner of the mazing lockers. Somewhere no one would be able to see.

You just didn’t think that Ryomen Sukuna of all people would come looking for you.

He stood inside the sex-saturated room with his arms crossed, beefy biceps bulging through his red jersey. Head cocked. Expression smug. Tall enough that the tips of his pink hair touched the ceiling. Like Gojo, Sukuna hadn’t changed much out of his uniform- he was still sporting his red jersey and a slightly bloody nose to match.

Something you didn’t realize could be so attractive-

Dried around where his lips curled up into a smirk so smug. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said that you didn’t find Ryomen Sukuna attractive - anyone with able vision or ears would be able to. He was strong. He was cocky. He was the type to glide through the rink as if he owned it- and just today he’d stopped and signalled at you—

And then there was the matter of his tattoos.

Thick inky rings at his wrists and his biceps, some more peeking out of his uniform. They always did give him an aura of authority. 

Even now, he stood inside the traitorous room as though he owned it. 

Stealthily, he’d opened up the door and crept inside the rival team’s locker room- or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d been deafeningly loud and you two just hadn’t noticed.

Being so caught up-

Sukuna’s crimson gaze glides down the curvature of your spine and to where your pussy was just drippin’ all over the other man. Creating a slimy sheen down Gojo’s pistoning cock and all the way down his muscular thighs.

It smacks n’ splatters all over the globes of your ass because the white-haired man just wouldn’t stop-

“Why the fuck are you here? Spying on us because you can’t get any?” Gojo scoffs, not even slowing down- in fact, by the way you could feel his thick throbbing tip at your throat, you think he might just be speeding up—

“Fuuuuuck, Toru-”

“Shhhh shh shh, sweetheart.” One of Gojo’s hands lifts from your thighs and ends up clapping over your mouth. He feels your gaped maw splosh out in saliva and presses against your face even harder- “Wouldn’t wanna let that mean ol’ pervert hear any of your pretty noises, right?”

“Who the fuck are ya calling old-” Sukuna growls.

“I-I…” And you’re torn between looking behind at your boyfriend, and sideways at the pink-haired intruder. Both just making your cunt throb even harder.

“Hear that?” Sukuna snickers out of his toned chest, “Heh- yer pretty girlfriend doesn’t even know where to look.”

“Probably wanting to look anywhere but at your ugly ass-”

“Probably looking for an escape.” The taller man looms even closer, casting a shadow over your sweaty connected bodies. Your cunt quivers and he eyes you greedily as though he knew- “Rutting into her like that? Honestly- if ya won a match then fuck her like it.”

Gojo opens his mouth, “I won’t take advice from a sore loser.”

“Then take advice from me as a man.” Before Sukuna’s diverting his gaze down to where you were looking up at him with widened eyes. He softens his tone just for you, he leans down to speak just to you—grinning. “Your pussy wants me bad, doesn’t she, mama?”

“Don’t you fucking talk to her-”

Gojo tightens his palm atop your loosened mouth- and the only thing that does is smear the wads of saliva leaking out of you. Because you’re clenching your gummy walls so hard that he can’t help but give an animalistic jolt-

“She jus’ squeezed that pussy tight, didn’t she?” The hockey captain asks, and he doesn’t need to wait for the answer - he could already see it in Gojo’s dazed eyes. His parted lips. His aching cock. Sukuna’s own aching erection that he reaches a hand down to palm over his shorts, “Mmm, I can already imagine- fuck…what a shame she’s wasted on a bastard like you.”

Any and all haziness leaves Gojo’s peripherals instantly as he whips them over at the other man. “Uh-huh? And you really think you’re any better?” He’s inadvertently jostling the two of you even closer to him. 

“Fucker, I know I’m better.” Sukuna steps closer.

And you’re not sure how but you find yourself practically sandwiched between them - Gojo’s pecs pushing up against you from behind, his lengthy shaft drilling into you like a madman. Sukuna’s against your front - pressing against you with his muscular core, and his erection throbbing obviously between his legs. You were pulled away from the locker that was your lifeline and could barely even breathe like this-

Gojo humps his roverin’ tip into you from behind and scowls, “I’d say prove it but my girl doesn’t deserve to be put through that.”

“You’d say prove it but you’re scared I’d steal your girl.” Sukuna was cornering you both now. The positions had somehow flipped so that Gojo was starting to have his back against the locker now, Sukuna looming in. You between them. Being compressed. Being fucked stupid still-

He hisses at the frigidness of the metal, “In your dreams-” 

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna seethes, “Watch me.”

And then Sukuna’s snaggin’ away your panties- yes, you still had your panties on. Light blue just like your boyfriend’s eyes because you knew how ruined he was for that - and as soon as Sukuna’s registering the fact, he’s grazing his nail against the cloth and riiiiiiipping it straight off of your wet cunt. 

Nose crinkling in amusement as he throws it to the side-

“Oi-” Gojo snaps from behind, “I bought those limited edition for her, y’know-”

“And next time I’ll buy her ones in red.”

“You wish you could afford that shit-”

And it’s the last thing you’re hearing before Sukuna’s pressing one of his thickened fingertips right between your pussylips. His roughened crown pries apart your folds—sluuuurp, and you were just so damn damp that it trickles down his tattooed wrist.

Glistening against the ring of ink on his skin- Sukuna’s openin’ you up like some cute birthday present. Spreading apart your thick pussylips. Probin’ just the knobbled edges of his digits against your entrance—maybe because of his rumored rough training, but Ryomen Sukuna’s hands were much more calloused than Gojo’s. Much thicker. Much meaner.

He takes a goooood look down at your hole and chuckles- “Pull out and pull her legs up.”

At that, Gojo falters his sloppy pace. “Wh-what?” You could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Did I fuckin’ stutter?” Rolling his crimson eyes, the man sighs. How troublesome. “I said- pull out and pull her legs up. Lemme get a taste of that pussy.”

“Over my dead body.”

Sukuna looks over at you with a smirk, “Cover your eyes, mama- there’s about to be a murder.”

The only thing you can do is let your eyes follow their argument like a tennis match- or a hockey match. Mouth babbling uncontrollably by this point, “Please-”

Your boyfriend’s cooing down at you immediately, “Yeeees, my sweetheart?”

“Yeeeeeees, my sweetheart~?” Sukuna mocks.

“Jealous?”

“Over my dead body.”

Jealousy, surely. And Gojo knows it, too- which is why he’s kissing your throat in front of the man. Lips spreading across your skin in such a sultry way. “Then what do you say, my girl? Wanna- mmm, let this ol’ pervert have a taste of you? After I’ve been inside you?”

“Wanna feel-” You’re gurgling out, “Wanna feel you both-”

“Hmm, fine.” Gojo answers, “But this pussy’s too nice.”

The white-haired man echoes out in a scorching breath, slight possessiveness seeping into the way he gives your gooey cervix a final ram before pulling out—no, wait. He’s not going to make it that easy on his rival.

Without a single warning, Gojo’s coating your dewy walls in a thick layer of his seed.

Gojo’s cumming.

Almost timed, almost perfectly on schedule, almost making the other man’s knees buckle as he sees the frothy white residue seeping out of your hole. There’s so much of it, and he can feel his balls emptying out even more with each pump. Fucking the clingy wads back in a few times- really messing up the slick surface of your channel with his cum. Cumming harder than he thinks he has in his entire life-

And you’re throwing your head back against his collarbone with a moan, “O-oh my god, Toru. It feels so good.”

“Hear that?” He chuckles at Sukuna, who couldn’t take his eyes off of the way Gojo’s slick shaft kept slippin’ in and out of your cunt. Glistening n’ glossy with so many layers.

He gulps.

Seeing the state the pink-haired captain was in, Gojo leans down and whispers something in your ear—

“O-on your knees, Kuna.” You’re repeating with a slight whimper, still slightly dizzy at the flood of ivory sap being poured inside you. And he didn’t tell you to add on that little nickname but ah well- it was worth it to see Ryomen Sukuna, King of the Rink, fall to his very knees before you.

To have Gojo Satoru pull his massive cock out of you with the loudest, most lecherous sluuuuurp!

You’re twitching at the sheer sensitivity- feeling the spray of cum gush out of you so intensely that you almost want to close your legs. But your boyfriend holds them wiiiiide open with two arms being hooked underneath your knees. 

He lifts you cleanly off of the ground- 

Your knees up to your tits. Your ass being smacked by his toned v-line.

A standing full nelson.

There’s a ribbony wire of cum that slips out of your hole and ends up slide-slide-sliding all over your pussy. Gojo’s cock still hot and red between your legs. He snickers down at the kneeling man, “Eat that.”

Sukuna doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He doesn’t care that your pussy’s all covered in him—he doesn’t care that you’re just so stimulated and gone after this round that all you need is his flattened tastebuds on you to shatter into your orgasm.

Sukuna’s mouth guffawing out darkly as he feels you clench ‘round  and ‘round his tongue- “Heh, would ya look at thaaaat?” Looking up at the two of you through his pink lashes, “Cummin’ on my tongue the moment I put it on her- this pussy reeeally likes me, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Gojo rolls his eyes.

“Sure thing, two-pump chump.”

And whatever Gojo’s saying next - you don’t hear. Because just then he’s movin’ apart your folds with his mouth and shovelling the entirety of his tongue inside.

Push after push.

Probe after probe,

Pointed chin slapping your cunt. His honed canines grazing your folds. Drilling into you like a man starved throughout your orgasm- he’s pressing both palms up against your thighs and pushing them even higher to get to your sweetened core. Smacking at the miry ribbons of white that were webbing up your insides.

And you don’t know whether it’s the sheer stretch or the intensity of your bliss, but you find yourself sobbing maddeningly. “Oh- oh my god.” Bucking. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t plan to.” He chuckles wetly, a line of cum dribbling down his mouth. The slashes of his tongue somehow precisely pinpointing each peak of your high. Elongating that feeling inside of you until it felt like your veins were bubbling up- “Because she’s my pussy now, huh?”

You gasp, “I-I mean-”

“Says who?” Gojo growls out from above.

Pressing his rock-hard erection back between your pussylips as if to remind you just who was holding you up. And the audacity of Ryomen Sukuna—he’s merely leaning down and spitting a glittery wad across your slit. 

It ends up dolloping straight down onto Gojo’s cock, as well.  

The white-haired man shivers-

“Says me.”

Before Sukuna’s back to pressing one hot kiss on top of your cunt, two hot kisses, three. They were all open-mouthed and lavish—slidin’ his tongue furiously in and out of your hole. In and out. In and out. “Fuckin’ her all this time and you couldn’t even make ‘er cum.”The vibrations of Sukuna’s deep baritone sends jolts of pleasure up your spine, “Fuckin’ her all this time and I bet you’ve never made her feel this good-”

Gojo reaches up to grab at your throat with one hand, still holding you up. “S’that true, sweetheart?”

“I-I like bo—fuck.”

But then both men are rendering you speechless - Sukuna with his tongue slappin’ into the tender ridges of your walls, Gojo craning his long fingers down to press on your clit. Anything so that neither of them would have to hear how you wanted them both.

Pick one but not both.

And they’re both trying to be that one- Gojo flicking your throbbing clit with ease, Sukuna shoved between your legs and lappin’ at your every treacly dewdrop with his tongue. 

It was so different from the way your boyfriend would eat you out - while Gojo was slow and sensual and loving—handing you anything and everything you could ever want with his tongue - Sukuna was the complete opposite. He was rough. He was teasing.

He was grippin’ onto both of your thighs and draaaagging you back once you attempted to bounce your hips away. With his nails digging into the sides of your flesh, he was eating you out until you couldn’t breathe-

Just sharp, rapid pumps inside your hole with his slicked tastebuds. Draggin’ his teeth on your folds. Slurping up the pearly white dewdrops of sap. And whenever you clenched like it just felt so good- he’d reel his sloppy tongue back and slap it over your clit instead. 

Never letting you feel too good, never growing tired of those cutely disappointed huffs n’ puffs you’d let out.

“Oi oi-” Sukuna’s tongue slides over Gojo’s fingers, both tugging and grinding on top of your clit. “Yer in my zone, Gojo Satoru.”

“You’re in my girl’s pussy, Ryomen Sukuna.” He’s biting back. Jaw dropping slightly open at the sheer pace at which Sukuna would thrust into your sopping wet hole- uncaring whether you were stretched out enough to take his sheer circumference because Sukuna was going to make you take it either way. 

“Haaaah? Thought we went over this shit already- this is my girl’s pussy from now on. My pussy.” 

“You call her that when I’m the one that’s cum inside her?”

“Yeah, but who made her cum?”

You hitch out, “You’re both so s-stupid-”

And the bickering is starting up one more - though unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) for you, the more they argue, the harder they’re going on your cunt. Rubbin’ their lips and fingers raw—“Got a problem with that?”

Gojo pipes up, “She never answered the-”

“Aht aht-” Sukuna interrupts the blue-eyed man, just too fun to watch him fume like this. And instead of paying him any attention, the King stares right down at your pussy. “Got a problem with that?”

He wasn’t talking to Gojo. He wasn’t even talking to you-

He was talking to your greedy pussy and waitin’ until she answered- opening his mouth to let his tongue spread your lips wide open and draaaaag down your velvety walls. 

Inevitably, you’re just so wet by this point that you can’t help but splash out in your juices- and it creates the filthiest squelching noise that Sukuna grins at. “See? She doesn’t mind.”

“You fucking-”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” Before the sultriest, most mind-numbing stretch opens up your pussy. And you snap your head down on carnal instinct to find that Sukuna was kneeled between your legs and fingering your pussy open. 

Ruthlessly with not one, not two, but three of his thick fingers- they were just so large that it took him a few half-thrusts to even fit the first few inches inside. Those roughened crowns of his mazing like spotlights searching for your every sweet spot, “Oh my god, it feels so good, Kuna-”

“Oh yeah? What a coincidence, yer- I mean my pussy’s saying the same thing, mama.” He then looks up at your boyfriend as if to say—your move.

Gojo Satoru rolls his eyes.

And he’s then pushing Sukuna’s head back to fully take over your clit for himself.

“Fuck off.”

Sukuna’s pink brows furrow and he grimaces. “Watch it, fucker. I have a Calvin Klein ambassadorship-”

“He talks big but he doesn’t know this pussy as well as I do, huh?” Though Gojo doesn’t listen to a word he says - doesn’t have to. He’s rolling the edge of his thumb along your clit in quick clockwise circles, and then stopping every then and now to repeat the motion anti-clockwise. “All that chit-chat, but really…she’s still my pussy, isn’t she?”

You hiccup, “I-I just don’t understand why she can’t be both-”

“No.”

“Nuh-uh.” Gojo affirms along with Sukuna. Breathy laughter echoing against your right ear in a way that almost felt crazed—“Guess I hafta remind it to you then, huh, my girl?”

“Ohhhh, he’s slurring, mama.” Sukuna titters.

“I’m realizing…” You breathe out.

Maybe the two of you had broken Gojo Satoru. 

Maybe the two of you had made Gojo Satoru snap-

In no time he’s jerking you further up in this position and absolutely shattering you with the movements of his nimble fingertips. Gojo always did have the prettiest hands you’ve ever seen, the prettiest palms, the prettiest digits that had countless edits dedicated to them on social media. 

And they were just so looooong and flexible- tuggin’ on your throbbing knob a few times before drawing patterns. Not just any patterns - but something swirling and swipin’ that makes your eyes roll all the way to the back of your skull.

He was curving the soft crown of his fingerpad against your clit- making a curving shape that makes you buck. 

“And what does that say?”

“Wh-what?” You gasp out stupidly to the man above you, his voice eerily calm.

“I said…” A few more twists n’ turns of his fingers on top of your clit that make you tremble with pleasure. “-what does that say, sweetheart?”

Hell, even Sukuna has to look up at the tone of Gojo’s voice. Something about it so…either way it’s making the pink-haired man flicker his gaze up n’ down your cunt and chuckle. “Not bad, you sick fuck. Not bad.”

And you’ve never been more confused- “I don’t know what you mean-”

“I said-” It’s only then that you’re feeling it, feeling the sensation of Gojo’s doughy fingertips pinch your swollen clit. Letting the sting seep into your nerves for just a bit before he’s resuming that same swipin’ motion. “-what does it say on this pussy?”

It’s only then that you’re realizing he’s spelling something out on your cunt.

“Man, she’s too fucked stupid on my tongue to realize-”

“In your dreams.”

“Shit, is it…” Your dazed pupils seem to be following in the same motion, being held to him with absolutely no mercy. And, somehow, you manage to be mapping out the swivelling of his fingers. “Is it an ‘S’—?”

“‘S’ for Sukuna.” The pink-haired captain titters out.

Before Gojo’s immediately spanking down on your pussy for no reason- “And this one? What about this one, my girl?”

“Shit, shit shit, shiiiit—” You could feel the oncoming tidal wave of your high - already so close with both men stimulating you so much that it almost hurt. “Is that one- hck!” If you weren’t mistaken, this current one was something…pointier than the last curving letter. “Is it an ‘A’?”

“Good girl.”

“Aw, shit-” Sukuna gruffs out between your pussylips, “I can’t let my pussy go that easily, can I?”

Increasing the incredible zaps of electricity that were running straight from your core, Sukuna had another swivellin’ fingertip of his pressing inside. Four—and they were just so big that you swear you could feel your mind start blanking out.

Pushing and pushing.

Shovelling his hot tips against the sweetest of your spots, it’s almost as if he was providin’ his fingers inside with the aim to bruise-

“And how many fingers s’that?” Sukuna leers up at both you and Gojo, a challenging smile upon his handsome face. “Count f’me, girlie.”

“Be original.” Gojo scoffs.

“Be better.”

“Not when you’ve got my cum on your face.”

Sukuna isn’t even sure what to say to that, merely stuffin’ his face into the froth of white and transparent juices pourin’ out of you.

“Fuh-four.” Almost feeling embarrassed by how much your words were tangling n’ mingling into one- but that’s if you were in any better state of mind. Right now it felt like you could barely even string a coherent thought together let alone a sentence. “Four fingers?”

Sukuna smiles against your tender folds, “Aaaaatta girl.” Pulling back and this time pushing in a different number of digits. “And how many now?”

“Three?” You cry out.

“We’re not done here, sweetheart.” Thrown by the way that Gojo was rasping into your ear, “Don’t let has-beens distract you- what letter?”

“It’s a ‘T’—?”

“What number, mama?”

“Two.”

“Letter?”

“Oh—” Feeling your legs start to twitch the way they did whenever you were close, “It’s ‘O’-”

“Number-”

You’re arching against them, “Four-”

“Letter-”

Bucking your body, “‘R’—”

“Lett-”

“Number-”

“Letter.”

“Fuck- number.”

“Fuck off- letter.”

“S’my pussy and I want to ask-”

“No, it’s my pussy and-”

But only you could cut through one of their infamous arguments with ease- “Satoru.” Bringing back both men’s attention onto you and you entirely. Your back arches against Gojo’s front until his smooth pectorals were providing you with cushioning for his rough fingers. “Y-your letters are spelling out- ngh, ‘Satoru’ on my pussy.” And then you’re staring down at the pink-haired man, “And Sukuna- you’ve now got four fingers inside me.”

He smirks, “Atta girl- correct.”

“You did well, sweetheart.”

And their sweet whispers are all you hear before you’re shattering into your second- third- perhaps even fourth orgasm of the night. Something that lasts so loooooong and blissful that it leaves your body utterly limp in Gojo’s arms.

Sukuna plops his fingers and mouth down on your cunt and fucks you through each incredible high, the mountains of it unfurling over you. His globular fingertips pressin’ into the tiniest crevices inside and marking himself out. Meanwhile Gojo was spelling his name again and again and agaaaain on top of your swollen pussy. 

Until it was a pattern that you think might have permanently embedded into your very veins with how frenzied your boyfriend was marking it out. Gojo crushes you to his toned front and whispers- “Cum f’me, my girl.” Scalding hot pants against your ear, “Yes- yes, cum f’me.”

He ruts his aching cock against your behind and you whine-

“Cum f’me so good.”

And Sukuna himself looks as though he wanted to say something as he dragged out the tremors across your body- but he was far too busy with his lips glued to your pussylips. Lappin’ up every ounce of slick and cum- “Mmm, just you wait, mama.”

They don’t stop until your massive wave of bliss has well and fully bated - until it’s nothing more than a few tingles that shoot sparks up your spine.

But then…they don’t stop even then.

Sukuna has his lips plastered to your clit by now, his fingers smeared down your walls—and he didn’t give a fuck what the other man had to say about it. Because Gojo himself had his arms around you tightly, hips just lightly pushing and pulling. Reeling and rutting.

Gojo’s plush cockhead was swervin’ between your legs and sliiiiiding up the slit of your pussy-

“Oi-” Sukuna’s grunting as the other man’s smooth velvety length grazes his lips, “Watch it. M’trying to eat out my girl’s pussy.”

“Then shut up and move.” Gojo gruffs out, teeth grit. He hits his hips against you with a smack! “Or don’t- I don’t fucking care.”

“That’s gay as hell.”

“Bi.”

“Bye to you, too.” Sukuna’s rolling his rouge eyes. He’s just about to open his mouth once more with something snarky, when he realizes that oh…Gojo was actually fucking serious.

He was actually attempting desperately to pummel his hips into you. He was actually holding you up with only one of his beefy arms for a brief moment, guiding his thickened tip to smooch up against your hole and puuuushing—

Cumming.

Pouring out hot loads of seed in a gloss.

“And who said you could fuck my girl’s pussy?” Immediately, he’s on his two feet and shrugging down his shorts- dampened with precum by now. Thoroughly. It’s then that you’re getting the first proper look at the Ryomen Sukuna’s cock.

Where Gojo was longer and prettier- Sukuna was just thiiiick and covered in so many veins that it made you already anticipate him being inside you. It was almost dizzying the sheer amount there was. Unruly pink happy trail. Heavily tightened balls. He was the most sensual tannish pink at the very top of his shaft, graduating down to a darker shade at his base. And his base—oh.

“You seriously got tattooed there?” Gojo’s the first to voice his thoughts out loud. One of his pale brows raising at the ring of inky black ‘round Sukuna’s hilt. “Sick fuck.”

You yourself gulp at the sight, “Did that hurt, Kuna?”

“Who cares if it-”

“Nah.” Sukuna replies, “No pain, no gain- right, mama?”

“I-I suppose…” Nodding was all that you could do - Gojo was furiously smearin’ apart your pussylips and trying to rut inside.

“And what exactly would my girl be gaining, huh?” The white-haired captain is the one to ask.

“Isn’t that obvious?” His tone certainly made it out to be, and the King was looming even closer with his throbbing erection. Just like Gojo, he looked so hard that it almost looked painful- almost looked as though he was begging n’ bursting to be inside your tight hole. Sukuna’s caging the two of you against the lockers, “She’s gaining both of us.”

Your eyes widen, “Both-”

“Inside.”

Gojo perks up, “At once.”

Both. Inside. At once. 

You weren’t walking out of this locker room.

At all.

Sukuna inches ever-so-slightly closer. One hand placed outright against the locker room- and you honestly have to stop yourself from ogling his bulging biceps. The other wrapped around his meaty hilt and pressin’ up against your hole- 

“If s’both at once then you better put them in at the- mm, same time.” Gojo mutters.

“Tch-” But Sukuna doesn’t deny him - and before you know it, he has his rugged hand wrapped around both their cocks. Gojo’s face wincing with a hiss at the slight sensation, he dribbles out in even more cum that gets smeaaaared down your wet crevice. “And that last round- we didn’t end up deciding whose pussy this was, huh?”

“No…” Gojo’s clenching his teeth, straining his head to look down at the heavenly sight below. Sukuna was teasin’ your flooded orifice, getting you used to the feeling of them both.

“Then how about…”

“-we let this pussy decide.”

“Mmm, heh-” Sukuna smirks, “-time for the overtime.”

And they might have been the fiercest of rivals on the ice—but here? Gojo and Sukuna were in perfect synchronization when they’re tuggin’ their cocks to your cunt and emptying out.

Fucking you at the same time.

“Eeeeeasy now, mama- s’gonna be a snug fit.” Sukuna’s forehead starts to bead with sweat, “You should know that they say my cock’s so big it’s as if they were- hah, two.”

“Two inches, maybe.”

“What were you saying, two-pump chump?”

It was such a tight fit.

“Ngh—fuck.” Sukuna spits out through his pearly white canines, nose crinkling at the sensation of your walls rubbing against him and him rubbing against Gojo. “You’ve got me, mama.”

“Fuh-fuuuuuck, sweetheart-” Meanwhile Gojo was damn near drooling- he was trembling, he was spurtin’ out his precum. He was holding onto you for what felt like dear life as he’s rutting- “It feels so good, what the fuck- what the fuuuck.”

“Yer welcome.” Sukuna chuckles, though you could see the burning blush formulating on his ears.

“Not you-”

He throbs, “Nah, tha’s definitely me.”

And you can’t help but cling onto both of them- “Toru—Kuna- you’re both inside- fuck.” One of your hands grabbing into Sukuna’s toned deltoids, while the other was scrambling to grab onto Gojo’s pure white hair. Honestly, you didn’t even need the balance at this point - they were the ones holding you up. Gojo’s strong arms holding you up in a full nelson, Sukuna’s ones latched onto either side of your hips to keep from running. “And you’re both just so big- I don’t know if it’ll even f-”

“Don’t say that it won’t fit, sweetheart.”

You’re turning back to Gojo, “Why- oh.”

Because your boyfriend’s voice sounded octaves higher than usual. It sounded breathier. It sounded more unsteady.

You don’t think you’ve heard him sound like this in your entire life.

And you’re just looking behind to check up on him and- fuck. Gojo Satoru was already pussydrunk - you could tell by the bleary look in his eyes. He was shivering. He was letting his pinkish lips fall further and further open every time he’s plunging in a solid few pumps-

“Oi oi-” Sukuna gnaws down on the insides of his cheek to keep from any strange noises like…whimpers from seeping into his tone. “-I thought we were fuckin’ her together?”

“Oh—huh?” Blue eyes looking between the two of you- did he seriously forget that? Was he seriously that gone? And you’re getting your answer the moment that your gluey walls clench—and Gojo’s breath hitches. Body moving before his mind as he ruts-

His eyes blow wide open as if he didn’t even realized what he just did.

He holds into you so tight that neat crescent marks embed into your skin. “Don’t say it won’t fit- please.” Breathy whispers plastering in scorching breezes against the side of your neck, “Don’t say it won’t fit because I need it to- have to.”

“Why’s that, Toru?”

“Yeah-” Sukuna raises his pinkish brows, “Why’s that, Toru?”

“B-because…” Gojo’s handsome cheeks give a slight blush, and he’s averting eye contact with both you and the cocky man that also had his cock stuffed inside you. “-how will make this pussy really mine if I can’t even hit her- ngh, womb?”

Your jaw drops- but Sukuna only lets out a light whistle. “So thaaaat is the master plan, huh?” The other captain himself giving you a solid, aaaaaching thrust- “Hasn’t yer coach ever taught you not to tell yer master plan to the rival team?”

“Why does it matter?” Poor, pussydrunk Gojo Satoru cocks his head. And you almost start to feel sympathy for the way that Sukuna was starting to take your boyfriend as a joke- “You won’t win anyways”

Nevermind.

It doesn’t take long for them to funnels their cocks upwards like fucking animals-

Claiming every single spot inside you. Slidin’ past one another for space- they feel the sensitive spots on their cock press against the other’s and that makes them buck. Molding and massaging and making you sob out on the feeling of two entire cylindrical intrusions keeping you wide open.

Gojo was impatient with his tempo, slashing the most delicate parts of your insides with his lengthy cock. And it certainly didn’t help that the globular end of his shaft was covered in slick and hooooned to reach your deepest depths. Even deeper.

Even deeper than Sukuna, who was spending more time training your entrance to gape out into a pretty lil’ oh—the same way your mouth was. “Just like that, mama.” And listen…he can’t help himself when he leans down and spits straight between your puffy lips. Sticking a thumb between your legs and pryin’ your folds apart. “Would ya look at that…she’s actually starting to take me- I dunno about that other motherfucker-”

“She’s taking me, too.” Gojo scoffs.

“-but I just know this pussy’s gonna love my cock.” Sukuna hums, his great chest rumbling with satisfaction. “She’s gonna have me stuffed all the way against her womb and then beg to be called mine.”

Making you shiver with the drag-drag of the calloused digits holding his base, “Sh-shit-”

Sukuna grins, jerking his hips up. Rapid and ravenous. “And she’s begging to take it all the way until that tattoo at my base-”

“In your dreaaaaams~” The other man’s answer comes before yours, and so does a thorough bang right near your g-spot occur. “She’s all mine. So if you w-want any then come and get it now, Sukuna—oh wait.” Leaning down theatrically, Gojo pretends as though he was hearing something emanating from your pussy. Something riveting. The squelches. “You can’t- because the only one she’s begging for is me.”

“Face-off.”

“Fuck off.”

“Can you two just shut up and fuck me—ngh.” Your tastebuds sizzle in the drenched layer of your own saliva, taking over your mouth in an instant once one of them finally bottoms out.

One of them.

And the problem was that you couldn’t register which one was which- before a second loud wallop tremors at the bottom of your pussy and the other man is bottoming out. Both of them. 

Mere split-seconds apart from each other. 

Their rotund tips curving against your cervix juuust right until your eyes roll back, hands latching onto their muscular bodies. Toes curling. Teary lashes fluttering. Gojo and Sukuna had you pressed tightly between them as they funnelled all their swollen, greeeeedy inches inside of you.

“So?”

It’s Sukuna who’s speaking- and you can just barely manage to extract yourself from the valley of his pecs. Sometime during their furious cadence, you’d wound up salivating between his toned chest. “S-so?”

Gojo hums, “So what’s the verdict, sweetheart?”

“Verdict?”

Sukuna tuts with one of his usual eye-rolls. “So- who’s first, mama? Who did that slutty pussy of yours want more?”

“O-oh…” Your mouth drops agape, “It was…”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Blinking back the tears in your eyes- “It was…”

“Take your time, my girl.”

“It was-” It’s then and there - mid-moan to one of Gojo’s impatient thrusts - that you decide to come clean to the two men. Sadly looking down—if you were in any clearer a state of mind then maybe you’d have noticed the way both their plummy tips throb even harder when you pout. “I don’t…know…”

“Well…” Gojo looks at Sukuna, and Sukuna looks back.

“Well.”

And there seems to be a silent conversation there that you weren’t privy to.

“We can always fuck her pussy and then ask her.”

“Y’know- sometimes I love the way you think.”

You’re not quite sure which one of the two suggested it, and which one of the two simply agreed - Gojo or Sukuna. Because they’d finally fit inside and now Gojo and Sukuna were pistoning their hips up into you like they were trying to make you forget the other.

Trying to make your mind nothing but a blur.

The pinkish lengths disappearing in and out of you nothing but a blur.

Both of their split-ended cockheads dig into the deepest grooves of your pussy, finding each of your favorite spots as if they were almost magnetized to them. It just felt so good to have them slide across your walls and slide across each other- those veiny lines on their cocks being pressed against the other’s shaft. Bulging out your tight channel like you never could have imagined before. Expectedly, knowing your body for a longer time, Gojo is the first to find your g-spot and preeeeess his flared tip against it.

He smirks down at Sukuna- who didn’t take more than a few more vicious strokes to find it himself. Though he can’t lie the blow it did to his ego— “What was that? Your cute lil’ womb feeling lonely, girlie?” Sukuna’s speaking down at your slurping cunt, “Awww don’t worry, I’ll help you-”

“Tch…” To which the other man was also concentrating a bit more on the route that his length was taking inside your channel. Gojo was hard and sloppy- the cap of dribblin’ pre on his shaft making it so that sometimes he’d barely even graze his tip against your channel until he’s doing it all over again. “Upset you can’t find the g-spot?”

“M’surprised a man like you could even find the clit.” Sukuna’s snarling back, purposefully dipping his thumb up to roll over that sweet nub.

“M’surprised a man like you was even given the chance to fuck her.” Gojo chuckles haughtily.

“Why were you surprised when a man like you was given the chance?”

“At least I won the match-”

“At least I won the girl—my girl.”

Gojo bristles, “You seriously think you won my girl over?”

“If the shoe fits-”

Gojo scoffs- and thankfully it’s the only thing he does. Thankfully he’s ignoring the vengeful temptation within him that’s telling him to just deck Ryomen Sukuna in the face one and for all.

Instead, he’s taking his anger out simply on your cunt. Both ice hockey captains swipin’ their rotund crowns inwards and attempting to fuck the decision out of you.

Faster.

Harder. 

Choose me. Choose me. Choose me.

“Sh-shit, how am I ever meant to choose—” You’re gasping through your cascade of tears, legs twitching- and you’re taking it as a sign to mean that your high was nearby. Though how you were expected to orgasm once more with the sheer amount of overstimulation that your body was wracking from, you had absolutely no idea.

And Gojo and Sukuna were fucking you like they didn’t even care about that in the first place.

They had their hands gripping onto your body- almost teamwork. “Don’t tell me that we’re gonna go this long without you even choosing, sweetheart…” Gojo purrs. He was the one holding you open, and Sukuna was the one taking advantage of that to twiddle n’ tug at your clit. 

“Yeah- don’t think yer getting out of this any time soon.” Sukuna agrees - agrees with Gojo Satoru for what was likely the first and last time ever in his entire life. You squirm your hips and he’s pinning you down to keep you from moving a single inch—“If ya don’t choose now then we’re gonna have another- hah, round.”

Eyes damn near bulging out of your skull, “A-another round?”

“Another round.” Gojo affirms. His head falling into the crook of your neck, “And another round- and another round- and another round and another round and another-”

“Aaaaaall the way until you finally choose, girlie.” Sukuna chuckles darkly—“Me or him.”

“Me or him.”

“I…I choose—” You start off- and you can feel the way that both Gojo and Sukuna lean in even closer to hear your ultimate decision. Who’s pussy was this? Whose girl were you? They’re slammin’ their hips into yours so hard that the skin of their pelvis grows bright red. “I choose-”

“Yes?” Gojo shoves his cockhead against a particularly sweet spot inside you.

“Mhm?” Sukuna was pressing down haaaard on your clit like the cutest button.

And it’s with great difficulty - and a few more rabid strokes - until you can speak. “I choose…that you both fuck me again.”

Such filthy, filthy words coming out of your pretty mouth- 

It’s enough to make both you and Gojo cum again- and for Sukuna to take one lingering look at you two before he himself starts to throb with his high. “Fuh-fucking hell.” Never stuttered in years since his first team tryouts. Never felt so overcome with his orgasm since he first discovered what the hell that was. 

They’re both pumping out looong luxurious stripes of their seed.

Your own high was nothing but a mere few trembles by this point—or so you think. That is, until those faint tingles burst into something so intense and white-hot that you see your vision blacken for a few seconds. A strange wetness seeping between your legs.

You wonder just what might have happened- until Sukuna’s low whistle sounds. “Squirting, huh?”

“All because of me-”

“Actually-”

You have to open your eyes and see for yourself- and it’s making you gape at the splashes of squirting sap that escape you. So much so that you start to wonder just where so much of it must’ve fit, so hard that it makes every single double thrust push you through your constant high. “Sh-shit, I did this…”

Again and again.

Only once the most of it has bated and left you unclenching can you focus on taking every single wad that they’re planting inside you. Emptying out their heavy balls. Using both globular cockheads to swipe the dewy droplets inwards. 

“Inside, motherfucker.” Sukuna spits out at the other man, guiding his ruby-red tip to swivel inside. 

“I already know, you fool.”

“Sh-shit, there’s so much of it.” The mess of it glazes your insides and creates a sort of second skin. Only temporary, however, because every time you were fucked- that sheen would splosh all over again. “I feel so…ngh.”

“Mmm, filled up to the brim?” Sukuna swipes his thick fingertip down your slit and collects the excess of ivory cum dribbling out of you.

Gojo helpfully supplies as well, “Properly stuffed full?”

Sukuna smirks, “Wet like a waterpark?”

“The sweetest treat with a creamy middle?” Gojo was ruttin’ his hips up furiously, properly fucking all three of you throughout your orgasm. Toes curling. Back arching. Even when his own high was starting to peter out now and he was only pumping you full—

“Like yer gonna explode?”

“Heh, like yer gonna end up pregnant-”

You’re throwing your head back with a mewl, clawing onto their muscular bodies- “Please-” Just fucked stupid until both their waves of bliss are fading out. Pouring pumps of wadded cum every time they underwent a peak of bliss, “F-fuck, please-”

“Please?” Sukuna raises one brow down at the way you sob, “Whaddaya mean ‘please’? I distinctly remember a certain indecisive pussy- and you, wanting to go another round n’ really decide? Right, Satoru?”

“Most certainly, Ryomen.” Your boyfriend - that traitor - is fucking agreeing with his rival for one.

When did that even happen—?

But you don’t have the time to think too deeply about it- because in almost no time, they’re pulling out. In the next blink you find your limp body laid flat across one of the large wooden benches in the locker room.

Gojo and Sukuna kneeled between your legs and looking absolutely famished. You could feel their cum pouring out of you triple-fold like this, a slow n’ slick ooze.

“Shit- look at the way she’s leaking.” Gojo nudges Sukuna.

Sukuna smirks back, “Mostly because of me, heh?”

“You fuck-”

“Ahem.” They’re snapping their eyes to you instantly, just so pretty when they kneeled before you like this—they should do it more often. Still twitching from the aftershocks of your high, “And you- ngh, want me here because…?”

“To eat that pretty pussy out, mama- duh.” Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Because no matter what, we belong to you.”

Gojo pipes up, “Just trying to figure out the logistics- I want to taste my girl first, you’ve already had your turn-”

“Eh? Fuck off, I’m eating her out first-”

“You already-”

“Why not both?” It’s become your mantra, of sorts. And you’re leaning back on your elbows against the bench, leads spreadin’ just a bit wider.

The two hockey look players between you and your pussy with widened eyes.

Before you’re reaching out and bringing their heads together to kiss your puckered cunt. Their lips meeting your pussylips. Their lips meeting each others—

A hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Gojo moans.

Sukuna can’t keep the blush off of his ears once his and Gojo’s tongue slide against each other and fight for purchase of your cream-covered cunt-

“Help me decide, boys.”

.

.

.

“Aaaaand we have Gojo Satoru and Ryomen Sukuna coming up to the center to take the opening face-off, ladies and gentlemen.” Different game. Same commentator. “This might just be the most anticipated moment in our play-offs: Tokyo Free Blades vs. Heian Hawks. Gojo Satoru vs. Ryomen Sukuna. The strongest center now vs. the strongest center in history—and which one of them will take the Stanley Cup?”

Gojo and Sukuna were skating up to the face-off circle, their hockey sticks at the ready and their eyes locked on one another.

It had only been a month or two of fooling around until yet another NHL play-off, this time in Shinjuku, had the two men facing each other. And they were ready for it- in fact, they almost seemed excited for it.

Your two boyfriends are lowering into position as the referee arrives to give them a concise speech, and you can’t help but jump up and down with your cheers. Still slightly sore from how hard they went on you. Still covered in marks down your neck and your thighs from both of them. You were in the fan section for the Heian Hawks, despite the Tokyo Free Blade jersey you wore - but at least the banner in your hand announced—Shinjuku Showdown! Go Go Toru and Kuna!

And yet, even then you knew that one of them would find something to whine n’ huff about until you gave them extra coddling. You hope you didn’t write one of their names bigger than the other…

It drew a few stares, predictably.

From fans around you that beamed or from the particularly fervent fan that couldn’t comprehend this betrayal. You just never would have expected that it would draw the attention of the game commentator itself-

“And what’s that? Isn’t that Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend?” To your acute horror and amusement, you’re suddenly seeing yourself splashed across the big screen. “Look here, ladies and gentlemen- Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend with her support for the Heian Hawks as well—raise that banner higher, my dear.”

With a cheer, you do as you’re told. You know this is about to take over your entire timeline very, very soon.

“Well well well, who could’ve imagined? Maybe the Prince of the Ice has some competition, eh?” Panning over the visuals to a smirking Sukuna and Gojo who was rolling his eyes- fondly, however. “Isn’t this the same lass that caused a fight between the two players during their last match together?”

Though you’re shaking your head with a laugh, Sukuna raises a thumbs up.

“Who’d have thought…maybe a friendship between two heated rivals really is possible after all?” The commentator muses out loud, and you’re dodging the phone cameras that are being shoved your way now. Being Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend always did come with a bit of publicity that you never did expect, but being the girlfriend of both of them…“Or maybe even…something more?”

Gojo and Sukuna look at each other.

They flip each other off.

“Or maybe not—” The man declares to roaring laughs, and Yaga is smoothly lifting his hand in a signal of dropping soon. “Let’s have a good game Gojo and Sukuna fans. Clean. Fair. For that Stanley cup. No one gets injured too badly and most important of all—rock me!”

The puck drops.

The game starts.

A/N. Shinjuku showdown? More like Shinjuku PLOUGH-down *throws tomatoes* Also fun fact: some of the commentary in here were taken from actual games!

Two months of car rides with the windows down, limbs hanging out the passenger side while Eddie passionately explains why this wailing seven-minute track is a “fucking masterpiece.” Sometimes you’d stop for gummy worms and neon-red Slurpees. Sometimes you’d wind up somewhere off Route 6, parked under a bowl of stars while he spins stories about cosmic gods who could shatter galaxies with epic guitar solos. Half nonsense, half magic—all Eddie.

Two months of burned dinners, of dancing in his kitchen to scratchy cassettes, letting the garlic catch on fire because he’d rather spin you under his arm than stir the sauce. A dozen ruined meals, but who cares when there’s takeout in the fridge and the air smells like home?

Two months of late nights on his couch, your book open in your lap, his sketchpad filled with dragons and dungeons and ink-smudged dreams. He’d doodle monsters while you turned pages, but you were always watching him more than reading. The way his brow furrowed when he was focused. The curve of his mouth when inspiration struck. The absent way he’d reach out, blindly tangling his fingers with yours. Sometimes he’d fall asleep there, head in your lap, curls splayed across your thighs. You’d stroke his hair, trace circles into his scalp, and wonder how someone so loud, so vivid, could make you feel this quiet. This safe. This wanted.

Two months of tiny rituals. Of new traditions. Of learning him and letting him learn you.

You were stitching a life together in fragments. Moments strung like beads on a thread. Little pieces of him, slowly becoming yours.

Sewing the tear on his Hellfire shirt. Painting tiny dragons for his campaign. Burning your thumb on a birthday cupcake you baked two weeks too early because you couldn’t wait to surprise him.

Two months of this soft, slow thing.

And then—there was the kissing.

God, the kissing.

Soft ones. Sleepy ones. Clumsy, breathless, giddy ones. Kisses that taste like cherry ice and cinnamon gum and Eddie, through and through.  

Your boyfriend was a good kisser. You didn’t have much to compare him to, but some things you just know.

You kissed him everywhere. On porches, in movie theaters. In the back of his van. In the hush of his living room. In the rush between class bells, sneaking out behind the gym, the thrill of it bubbling up up up like Pepsi Cola.      

Sometimes they were silly, all teeth and laughter. Sometimes they were syrupy-slow, honey-sweet, affection melting you like sugar on his tongue. Sometimes they were nothing more than punctuation—a press to your temple, a kiss to your knuckles.

A soft I’m here, I see you.

And sometimes, they weren’t soft at all.

Sometimes, they burned.

Like that night on his couch.

His thigh between yours, his mouth dragging heat down your neck. The roll of his hips, slow and deep, a rhythm that made your whole body light up like a struck match.

And just as something wild and dizzying began to bloom in your belly, just as you whispered his name—

He pulled away.

He always, always pulls away.

Sometimes with a joke. Sometimes with a nervous laugh and a mumbled, “You want water?” or “We’ll miss the movie.”

And sometimes, worst of all, with his forehead pressed to yours, voice frayed to a whisper:

“Sorry.”

You never asked why. Never pushed.

Because he’d always looked so… scared.

Like there was a fire in the room only he could see.

And you didn’t want to shatter something delicate by asking for too much.

But two months is a long time to wonder, and the weight of not-knowing was starting to bruise. 

Lately, in those quiet moments after he pulled away—after he kissed your forehead and stared up at the ceiling like he’s trying not to drown—you’d lie beside him and wonder:

Was it you?  

It all comes to a head on one beautiful, opportune Monday. 

Monday, in Eddie Munson’s opinion, can go fuck itself.

It starts with the death of his alarm clock. He must’ve knocked it off the nightstand in a half-conscious flail sometime around 4 a.m. It hit the floor, cracked open like a bad egg, and promptly gave up the ghost.

So yeah, he’s late. No coffee. No time to fix his hair. He yanks on a crumpled Slayer tee and the same jeans he thinks he spilled soup on last week. No time to care.

The van, by some miracle, starts. Then dies a mile and a half into the drive, coughing out one final, wheezing breath before sputtering into silence.

“Cool. Awesome. Fucking incredible.” 

He hoofs it the rest of the way to school, two miles of gravel shoulder with the sun in his eyes. Grit in his shoes. Sweat down his back.

And the day just keeps giving.

Late to class, again. His backpack’s unzipped and leaking a crumpled D- from last week’s quiz. Then, before third period, a rogue water fountain nails him dead in the crotch and he ends up giving a presentation on post-industrial America looking like he pissed himself.

At lunch, the gods laugh harder: a freshman trips, launching a carton of chocolate milk across the table. It drowns Eddie’s beloved D&D binder—maps, character sheets, weeks of world-building, soaked beyond saving.

He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flip the table.  

Just mutters a tight, “It’s fine, man,” and locks himself in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

By final bell, he’s got a stress headache, a ruined campaign, and exactly six stolen minutes with you.

Just long enough to hug you. Long enough to hear you say, "I’ll come by after tutoring, okay?”

Long enough to see you smile. The only thing that doesn’t suck about his day.

That smile almost saves him.

Until he trudges back to where his van died, still rotting on the roadside, and remembers Wayne’s pulling a double shift and they’re too poor for a tow.

So he walks home.    

And by the time he stumbles into the trailer, something inside him is fraying at the edges.

His skin feels too tight. His thoughts snarling inside his skull like static.  

He drops his bag. Stands rigid in the doorway, shoulders tight, spine wound into knots. The late afternoon light bleeds through the slatted blinds, painting the living room in that soft, decaying gold that makes everything feel like it’s fading.

It’s too quiet. Too still.

He lets his forehead thump against the door. Closes his eyes. Tries to breathe.

It doesn’t help.   

Something inside him thrums. Itches. Crawls.

Not just arousal. Not just loneliness.

Need.

Need for control. For release. For something inside him to shut the fuck up.

And he hates this part of himself. Hates how fast it turns from wanting into craving into obsession. The way it gnaws at his spine, coils around his throat and chokes.

So he does what he always does when the ache becomes unbearable:

Drags himself to his room. Cranks Sabbath until his ribs rattle. Collapses onto the mattress and throws an arm over his eyes.

And with the other—he spits into his palm. Shoves it down his jeans.

No lotion. No comfort. Just this: dry and rough and angry. A punishment more than anything else.  

A desperate effort to scrape it all out of him. To burn it off. Kill it.

His jaw clenches as he works himself hard and fast, staring at the ceiling like it might offer forgiveness. Like it could soak up the guilt bleeding through his skin.

He tries to keep his mind blank.

It doesn’t work.

It never works.

Because his mind always, always finds its way back to you.

To your laugh. Your breath on his skin. Your fingers in his hair. The way you said his name that night on the couch—

Eddie.

God. He could’ve come from that alone.

It lit something up inside him, and it broke something else. 

Because all he wanted, all he fucking wanted, was to slide his hand between your thighs.

To guide you. Teach you. Worship you until you were shaking, until you were gasping his name again. Only louder this time, needy.

He wanted to take you apart. To coax you open. To say: There you go. Just like that. Good girl.

He jerks harder now, chasing the edge like it might erase him. Like it might exorcise whatever’s wrong with his head.

Tries not to think of your voice, your face. Tries not to imagine you whispering please in the dark. Asking for more, asking for him.

He does, of course, but fuck it, it's fine, he’s right there, teetering on the edge, so close he can taste it—

And then it drops.

The wave collapses before it crests.

His hand falls still. His breath stutters. His cock aches, flushed and untouched, angry with the unfinished heat of it all.

Shame clamps around his ribs like a vice.

It’s become a routine, at this point. Heat, guilt, silence, disgust.

He wipes his hand on his shirt, though there’s nothing left but spit and shame, and prays the ceiling would crack open and swallow him whole.

It never feels good. Not when it’s like this.

Because whenever he looks at you, he sees everything.

Everything soft and warm and golden.

Everything he doesn’t deserve.

You’re too good.

Too kind. Too full of light.

And he’s—

He’s this.

Tangled up in guilt and fear, warped and wired all wrong. Buried under the constant, gnawing certainty that if you ever gave him that part of yourself, he’d ruin it. Take too much. Break something sacred.

Hurt you.    

Because no matter how many times he tells himself not her, not like this, his body doesn’t care. The part of him that craves control—quiet, aching, patient control—still wants to see you pliant beneath him.   

Wants you flushed and panting and pleading for more. Wants to draw out every gasp, every moan, every broken, holy sound as he takes you to the edge.

Wants to believe you’d trust him enough to let him see you like that, vulnerable and open.

To touch. To take.   

And that’s when the guilt sinks in deepest. Sharper than fangs digging into his sides.

Because you do trust him. You already trust him.

You trust him without knowing what he’s capable of wanting.

And you don’t know what that means to someone like him. Someone who’s spent most of his life being too much. Too loud, too intense, too hungry.

You’re such a freak, Munson.

You don’t know how deep this runs. How badly he wants to ruin you, in the kind of way that feels so natural it scares the shit out of him.   

Because if you gave him that part of yourself, let him guide you, teach you, take care of you the way he aches to—

He doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop.

Doesn’t know if he’d be gentle enough. Doesn’t know if he’d be good enough.

So he pulls away.

He always pulls away.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

Devotion and hunger. Reverence and ruin. All the fucked-up wires in Eddie Munson’s brain are twisted beyond salvaging. Lines so blurred he can’t walk them anymore. Isn’t sure he ever can.

And that part of him, the part that wants—it should never be in the same room as your first time. Shit, maybe not any time.

You deserve soft. You deserve space. You deserve to stumble through this at your own pace, with someone who doesn't come pre-loaded with instincts that sound like care and feel like safety but might just be another kind of selfishness.

You deserve better than a burnout metalhead with a hand down his pants and a head full of self-loathing. Better than someone who wants things from you he has no right to even imagine.

But his body won’t let it go.

His fingers twitch again, needy and insistent.

One more time. Just enough to dull the edge. Reset. Rewind. Pretend this day never happened.

Then he’ll take you out. Somewhere safe, somewhere easy.

Maybe the record store on Elm. Or that diner you like, the one with the vanilla milkshakes and the broken jukebox.

He’ll make you laugh, he promises to himself. That’s the plan. 

He closes his eyes. Spits into his hand.

Just one more—  

He doesn’t hear the door creak open.

“Eddie?”

Your voice cuts through the static like a blade.

His whole body locks, heart stuttering like a misfiring engine.

Fuck.

For a split second, he hopes maybe, just maybe, he imagined it. That you aren’t really standing there in the doorway, eyes wide and searching, backpack still slung over your shoulder. Like you didn’t just walk in on him like this—flushed, half-naked, drowning in his own shame.

Then you blink, and reality slams into him like a truck.  

“Shit—fuck—fuck—sorry—” He scrambles upright, yanking his hand from his jeans, fumbling for the button. Hisses when his still-hard cock catches on the zipper. “Didn’t hear you—thought I closed the door—fuck—”

The music is still howling behind him. He stumbles toward the stereo, half-zipped and red in the face, and slams it off. Sabbath cuts off mid-wail. Silence crashes down like a guillotine.

He turns back around, breaths coming sharp and uneven.

You’re still there.

Staring. Not leaving. Not saying a word.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs. Fight-or-flight with nowhere to go.

And then your gaze dips.

Lower.

To the flush on his neck. The strain in his jeans. The guilty distance in his body, like he’s bracing for you to flinch.

But you don’t.

And when your eyes meet his again, there’s no disgust, or regret.

Just this strange, near curious sort of calm.

You break the silence first, voice soft but impossibly steady. “Hi.”

His throat feels like sandpaper. “…Hi.”

The air between you stretches, tight as guitar string wire, thrumming with tension neither of you dares to cut.

“Sorry. You were just… saying my name.”

The words land like a sucker punch.

His stomach flips. His face burns hotter, and his useless, traitorous hands hover awkwardly in midair, unsure if they should reach out or retreat. 

You step forward, careful and patient, like he’s a wild thing caught in a snare.

“Eddie,” you say again, and god, it’s soft. Too soft. It cuts. “Were you thinking about me?”

Fuck.

He can’t hide. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

His eyes dart to the floor, shame burning like acid up his neck, but they flicker back up just as fast. Because he still wants to see you, even if it hurts. Even if it damns him.

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tries again.

He could lie. Could joke, like always. Toss out something lewd to make it less… intimate. But when your eyes catch his, he forgets how to do anything but feel.

Eddie Munson has never been good at pretending with you.

“Yeah,” he says. His gaze doesn’t waver this time.

Always.

You breathe in slow. Something shifts in your face, then. Relief, maybe. Understanding. Softer in the undercurrent, like a kind of quiet courage.

Like maybe you were hoping he’d say it out loud.

You nod. And then, steady, brave, beautiful, you say:

“Tell me.”

He blinks. Takes the better half of a minute to process two simple words. “…What?”

“I want to know what you imagine,” you say, still calm. “When you’re alone, thinking about me."

His whole body jolts like a live wire.  “I…” He laughs, startled, breathless. Shaking. “I don’t think you want to know.”  

“I think I do.”

And then you step even closer. Close enough that he could just reach out, if he were brave enough. If he didn’t feel so damn wrong.

Your hand brushes his, tentative, tender. And when he doesn’t flinch away, you take it fully. Wrap your fingers around his like he’s worth holding.

Like he’s not the kind of monster that could ruin someone like you.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice rough, cracked open by guilt.

“You weren't supposed to…” he trails off, head dropping, curls falling like a curtain across his face. He can’t meet your eyes. Can’t let you see all of him like this: bare, aching, twisted up in hunger and self-loathing.

You weren't supposed to see me like this.

Wanting. Weak. Caught in the mess of everything he’s trying to bury.

You squeeze his hand. “Eddie.”

Just that. Just his name. Soft. Sure. Certain.

And hears something crackle inside him: a hairline fracture he’s been pretending wasn’t there, splintering like glass beneath pressure. Behind it, the floodwater churns—cold, relentless, impossible to contain. Because he knows what he sees in your eyes now. That same thing he’s spent countless nights trying to crush inside himself. What he’s been trying to kill every time he wakes up with his hand between his legs and your name in his mouth. Want tangled with fear. So tightly fused at the root he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

That unbearable, unspeakable, beautiful truth.

The guilt claws its way back up like it’s got teeth.

It’s not something he can explain. Not in clean lines. Not without cutting you on the jagged edges of it.

Because what he wants to say is:

I didn’t pull back all those time because I didn’t want you.

I pulled back because I want you too much.

In ways that scare the hell out of him. In ways that don’t feel safe, not for you.

I want to ruin you in the most reverent way. I want to hear you beg. I want to be the one who teaches you what it means to need someone like that.

To need me.

Because he’s only ever known people who came into the world already knowing the rules. Who could play the game with sharp smiles and empty hands.

But with you…  

With you, it feels like trespassing. Because wanting you the way I do could hurt you.

And he’d sooner die than let that happen.

Because he breaks things. That’s what he does. That’s who he is.

Takes too much. Ruins them.  

I’ll turn something beautiful into something I can’t come back from.

He swallows hard, jaw locking. Shoulders tensing like he’s waiting for a blow.

And all he manages, small and hoarse and hopelessly inadequate, is:

“I didn’t want to rush you. I just… I want it to be good.”

A coward’s version of the truth.

But you nod, eyes soft.

“I want it to be good too,” you whisper. “With you.”

Then, without even flinching:

“I trust you.”

His breath stutters, chest tight. Eyes squeezing shut like he can block the word from settling into him.

The fracture in the glass grows, spiderwebbing across everything. The water rises higher, pressing harder against the fragile barrier.

He wants to believe you. God, he wants to earn that word. Wrap it around himself like armor—but it cuts. It draws blood on the way in.

“You can’t…” His voice trembles. Breaks. “You can’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I—” He chokes on it. Shakes his head like he can shake it off his skin. “Because even I don’t know what that means.”

The words taste like rust in his mouth.

But then he feels your hand on his cheek. Gentle. Certain. He leans into the touch before he even knows what he’s doing.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know what it means.”

You brush the curls from his forehead like he’s something worth holding.

“It means you make me feel safe.”

Your thumb comes to rest on the curve of his cheek, stroking gently.

“You make me feel seen.” Another stroke.

“Held.” Another.

“Loved.”

He flinches.

That last one lands like a blow. A rib-shattering strike that leaves him breathless.

“It means,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “that I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like… until you.”

Your smile—radiant, wondrous—burns through him like sunlight through stained glass. Too beautiful to touch.

“Eds, I’m ready,” you murmur. “But if you’re not… that’s okay. I mean it.”

He stops breathing. Eyes snapping open, wide, stunned.

Because he knows. He knows what it costs you to say that.

To offer softness like that after all the times it’s been taken from you.

After everything.

After assholes who used your trust like a weapon. People who made you feel wrong for saying no, like you were the problem for wanting to feel safe.  

It’s how he stumbled into your life in the first place, isn’t it?

That night in his trailer, your voice shaking when you asked him for something to make you feel brave. For something that should never require courage.

Then the night on your back porch, that party, your tears bleeding into his shirt.  

Both nights carved something permanent inside him.

Etched in lines under the skin. Sunk in deep. Stayed.

And he’d sworn, sworn, that he would never be one of them.

That he would never make you feel that way again.

And now, after all that—

You’re looking at him like you're doing the same thing to him.

Like you're becoming the same kind of person who hurt you.

The thought guts him.

It strikes him like lightning then. Like cut glass, something he’s always known, but becoming crystalline clear in this moment, sharp and sudden and slicing clean through his walls—

He loves you.

No questions. No caveats.

He loves you.

Eddie stares for a long, aching moment.

His chest heaves. His eyes shine, glassy and wide.

“It’s not… it’s not that I don’t want to.”

You nod. “I know.”

“It’s never—I never—” His gaze drops, throat working.  

But you don’t let him fall.

You reach down, slowly, tenderly, fingers sliding along his wrist, tangling with his.

A soft I’m here, I see you.

He breathes, shaky. His hand tightens in yours. And—as another crack splinters down the glass, as everything he's been holding back threatens to break loose—

He kisses you.

It’s everything.

Hot. Urgent. Breathless. Like the weight of all this emotion was just waiting to catch a spark.

Your hands slide down his neck, his chest, his stomach, down to the waistband of his jeans—but they hover there. Waiting. Letting him decide.

“I think about that night,” you whisper between kisses. “When you were on top of me. Between my legs. I couldn’t—can’t stop thinking about it.”

He groans, breathing hard through his nose. “Me too. Baby, god—”

He kisses you like he’s drowning. Because he is. Drowning in want, shame, every dark thought he’s tried to smother beneath bright colors.

Step by step, he backs you toward the bed until your legs brush the edge.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he lowers himself down first, shifts the center of gravity so that you're placed above him.

Because that’s what he needs.

Show me it’s okay to want you like this. Show me it doesn’t make me like them.

His hands are careful. His breath shallow. His eyes scan your face, reading for hesitation. But you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

You settle into his lap like you belong there, like this is exactly where you want to be.

And that’s what he needs right now.

Because when you’re in control… then wanting you feels safe.

When you set the pace, it means he doesn’t have to question every breath, every touch, every tremor under his palms.

If you’re the one moving, deciding—then maybe it’s not selfish. Maybe it’s not too much. Maybe it’s not wrong to feel this way about you.

“Do you still want to…?” You glance down, smile soft and teasing. “I could just… help.”

He nods before he can find his voice. Hands trembling, rings clinking.

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. Please.”

And when you start to move—hips slow, purposeful, grinding against the growing ache in his jeans—the room begins to tilt.  

“I think about you too, you know,” you whisper, low and lethal. “When I’m… touching myself.”

His eyes slam shut. “Fuck.”

“It’s true. I think about you all the time.”

“You can’t just—say shit like that—” he groans but you laugh, soft and dangerous, hips still rolling.

You kiss him again, slower now. Deeper. No pressure to go further. Just want. Trust. Presence.

He fists the linens on his mattress, kisses you back hard.

And this close to you, this close to unraveling, he starts getting greedy.

“What do you—ah, fuck—what do you think about?”  

“Mm, your hands,” you murmur, right into his ear. “Your voice. What you’d say to me while you’re inside me.”

He chokes on nothing but air, eyes squeezed shut. You hold down the rhythm, soft and steady.

It’s like every dumb adolescent fantasy he’s ever had collapses in on itself. Every dog-eared porn mag, every secret late-night movie—all of it fades away.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, watching the way your face is screwed up in concentration. “I’m—"

“It’s okay, Eddie. Let go.”

Then, softly, like a spark to gasoline:

“Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He’s done.

He comes with a hoarse groan, hips twitching as warmth blooms through his jeans. It slams into him like a Mack truck, too hard, too fast, fierce and unforgiving. His legs are trembling by the end of it, chasing a release he can’t contain. Fingers curled tight in the soft, worn cotton of your shorts to try and anchor himself.   

And when he looks up, vision blurred, you’re watching him.

Eyes locked on his face, pupils blown wide, lips parted in something like desire and awe and maybe even something else.

Your expression is so open, so unguarded.   

Like he’s beautiful. Like what just happened was beautiful.

You blink slow, lashes heavy, then smile.

It’s blinding.

One trembling hand reaches up and pulls you down for another kiss—warm, messy, soft around the edges, the high still settling. He feels your arm shift against his chest, a quiet inhale catching in your throat. Eddie watches, utterly entranced, as your hand slips out from beneath your waistband.

You were touching yourself.

But you waited. Just to see him. Just to be with him through it.

And you haven’t finished. You’re still aching.

“You didn’t…?” he starts.

You shake your head, cheeks flushed.

“Didn’t want to miss it.”

He groans, hands moving before he can stop them. Thumb brushing your waist, voice thick with awe.

“You wanna…” he breathes, barely believing, “… use my leg?”

Your nod is small. Lips caught between your teeth, eyes shimmering. All soft certainty. All permission.

And it floors him. Because no one’s ever looked at him like that, like he’s safe. Like he’s something you can trust with your body, your needs.

You shift, lifting your hips, and he braces you, helping you find the right angle. Steady hands on your sides, guiding you as you straddle his thigh. He plants his feet against the floor, lifting just enough to offer the resistance you need.

The seam of your shorts drags against him. You suck in a sharp, stuttering breath.

Eddie feels it like a punch to the sternum—that tiny, wrecked sound zipping through his bloodstream like the first hit of nicotine. His hands tighten on your hips.

And then you move.

Grinding slow at first, testing pressure, rhythm. Every drag of denim and cotton drawing out soft whimpers that catch in his skin.

“Yeah?” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “Feels good like this?”

“So good,” you breathe. “You always feel good, Eddie.”

He groans; it wrecks him every time you say something like that. Like it isn’t just praise. Like it’s the truth, pure and uncomplicated.

Your breath hitches against his mouth.

“Wanna… wanna make a mess on you.”

His whole body locks up, muscles going rigid like he’s been jolted by a live current. The part he’s been trying so hard to keep silent comes throbbing to life.

He shifts underneath you, near frantic, pressing his thigh up against your heat, adjusting the pressure until you gasp, sharp and sweet in his ear.

And he watches you like he’s starved.

Watches the way your jaw goes slack when the angle hits just right. The way your lashes flutter, the tiniest crease between your brows. The way your nipples go stiff under your shirt. The little tremor in your fingers as they slip back under your shorts, gliding through your arousal.

And he can feel it, too. Damp heat seeping through denim. Hear the slick, rhythmic drag of your knuckles. Sticky sounds of plush skin, matched by the soft, broken moans spilling from your throat.

He feels it, hears it, smells it. Drenched in it, drowning in it, he never wants to come up for air. Never wants to break the surface. Won’t ever come up unless you tell him to.

His mouth starts running, unbidden. No amount of shame could stop him from giving this to you now.

“That’s it, baby. Use me. Whatever you want. Fuck, look at you, so beautiful like this. Gorgeous. Yeah? Right there? There you go, don’t hold back.”

You shiver like each word hits something deeper inside you, hips rolling fast, hard, rough. Bearing your weight down, hand clenched tight around his shoulder.   

That’s what he wants most. For you to have this. To take it. To feel safe claiming it.

“Still good?” he breathes, kissing your shoulder.  

“So good,” you nod, voice shaking. “So close. Don’t stop—please—”

“Won’t. I’ve got you,” he promises. “Just like that. That’s my girl.”

“Oh my god, Eds—"

And then you fall.

Soft, like everything between you.

A sharp little gasp. A tremble through your thighs. A whispered, broken:

Eddie.

He feels the exact moment you let go.

Feels it in the way your breath catches, in the way your hands scramble for something to hold—fisting his shirt, his hair, pressing your face into his neck like you’re trying to sink into him.

Your hips stutter, grinding down one last time, chasing every ounce of feeling left in you. Your body collapses forward, breath shaking against his neck, arms curling around him like you might disappear without the anchor.

And he holds you through it. Holds you like he’s holding his entire fucking world.

Arms locking around your back, hands clenched in the back of your shirt, mouth moving against your temple.

“I got you,” he breathes, over and over. “You’re okay. I got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

I love you. I love you. I love you.

You collapse fully against him, hips jerking through the aftershocks, thighs twitching. Still trembling.

He feels every aftershock, every breath that shudders against his skin, and holds you tighter. Like he can absorb it. Soak the overwhelm right out of your body.

He kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw—whispering breathless praises into your skin. Make it stick. Keep you safe.

“So good. You did so good, baby. So fucking beautiful.”  

You breathe against his shoulder, shaky and dazed. Your chest heaves against his as you float back down.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, laughing softly as you nuzzle into his hair. “That was… holy shit.”

He huffs a stunned, stupid breath, eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

Eventually, you lift your head, just enough to see him. Eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

And you smile.

Not embarrassed. Not awkward.

Just soft. Glowing.

Radiant in a way that makes his throat ache, pressing hot behind his eyes like too much light after too much darkness.

“You make me feel so good, Eddie,” you whisper. “So fucking safe.”

And just like that, the glass shatters.

The dam breaks.

The flood rushes through, relentless and inevitable.

It fills every chamber of his chest, crashing in like cold, clear water that cuts deep beneath the skin, scouring away years of doubt and fear.

Your voice, your gaze. The way you touch him like he’s something worth holding. The way you speak to him like there’s nothing wrong with how much he feels, like his hunger isn’t monstrous. Like love isn’t a thing he has to earn through pain.

It rushes into all the hollow places. Fills him full of things he’s spent so long trying to seal up, starve out.

Hope. Tenderness. Acceptance.

He’s soaked in it. Drowning in it. Dripping with your scent, your heat, your hands sliding up his arms, around his neck. You’re pressed so close he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

There’s no stopping it now. No holding back.

It pulses through him, cell by cell. Can feel it everywhere, down to the marrow. Just how deep this runs. How thoroughly it’s woven into him.

How much he loves you.  

It’s always been you.

You, in every look that steadies him, in every gentle touch that tells him he’s not too much, not too broken. You, in every breathless laugh, every whispered Eddie that sounds more like a prayer than a name.

You, with softness that doesn’t flinch. Kindness that doesn't demand. Strength that chooses him, even when he can't choose himself.

And now that he sees it, truly sees it, it’s all he can feel.

The tide has finally taken him under. And he’s grateful for it.

Grateful to drown in this.

In you.

Because this love—your love—it’s been patient. Quiet.

Steady in ways he’s never quite known.

It’s been waiting. You’ve been waiting.

And he can’t stand to keep you waiting a second longer.

His voice cracks as he says it:

“I love you.”  

You go still for half a breath. Then your smile blooms, slow and stunning, like sunrise breaking over still water.

You lean in. Press a kiss to his lips. Another to his cheek. One more at his temple.

Your rest there, forehead pressed to his, and whisper it back:

“I love you, too.”

Your words land soft. Gentle.

His breath catches all the same.

Too.

A word has never sounded quite so holy to Eddie Munson.

It drops like a stone in water, ripples, reverberates, rings out through every nerve ending.

Because he’s been wanted before, but only in pieces. Only for what he could give. Only until he became inconvenient.

Used. Tolerated.

But loved?

Not like this.

Not freely. Not gently.  

That voice in his head, the one that whispers that he ruins everything he touches, it’s still there. But your voice—your love—is louder.

And for the first time in his life, he believes it might stay that way.

His heart’s still catching up, staggering under the weight of something he’d convinced himself he’d never get to feel.

And then—your soft little sigh.

Happy. Content.

It tugs him gently back to earth.

You curl into him again, arms wrapping tight around his neck, warm and buzzing and real. And Eddie’s arms won’t stop moving—can’t. His hands drift across your back in slow, reverent sweeps, tracing your spine, your waist, the curve of your shoulder blades.

Trying to memorize this. Press it into his bloodstream. Etch it into bone so it can’t ever leave.

So even on the days when the ache creeps in, he’ll still have this.

Your smile deepens against his neck, the silence draping like a warm blanket.

And then, light and teasing:

“So… what do you wanna do now?”

Eddie laughs.

Really laughs.  

It bursts out of him before he can stop it—a bright, breathless sound, a lungful of clean air after being underground for so long. Light spilling out through all the little cracks, in a way it hasn’t in years.

It feels new. It feels free.

It feels like you.

God, he loves you.

Loves you like it’s easy. Like it was always going to happen.   

He wraps you tighter in his arms, lets the moment settle like starlight. Then, with a spark of mischief creeping into his grin, he shifts, hands sliding toward your ribs.

Digs his fingers in just enough to make you squeal, twisting in his hold as laughter bursts out of you, squirming to get away.

“Eddie!”

“What?” he grins, catching your hips before you can slip off. “You asked me what I wanted.”

You smack his chest without any real force, still breathless with laughter as he pulls you back into him, tucking you under his chin.

There, he closes his eyes, breathes you in.

Hears the ripple of your laughs soften against his chest and smiles. Knows he’s made good on at least one promise he made to himself today.

Then—with his eyes wet, heart full, voice thick with everything he knows he’ll never be able to fit into words—Eddie Munson vows:

“Anything. We can do anything you want.”

a/n: sorry it's been a while gang! wanted to get this one right. can't believe we've breached 40k words and we're just now getting to dry humping. anyway. much to look forward to. we're barely getting started here...🙊

thank you for following this story and sending me so many kind words about it! it means everything to me 💙💙

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synopsis. months of dancing around one another, never too far yet always just out of reach, comes to a head when you finally give your tinder crush an ultimatum: put your money where your mouth is, or i'm blocking you.

★ ─ we almost broke up again ( new avengers!bucky, make up sex )

synopsis. after a mission goes awry and voices are raised, the entire watch-tower is forced to reckon with the fallout of you and bucky's relationship. thus commences the rest of the team's ploy to get you back together.

★ ─ nobody's son ( dbf!bucky, age-gap )

synopsis. your relationships have a life-span of 3 months before it all goes to shit... so perhaps it's time you stop looking for someone's son, and set your eyes on someone's father.

★ ─ never getting laid ( ex-fiancé!bucky, romcom )

synopsis. being natasha's maid of honour comes with three simple rules: be civil, be polite, and please don't start an argument with steve's best-man. that's easier said than done when the best-man just so happens to be your ex-fiancé, bucky barnes.

★ ─ when did you get hot? ( surgeon!bucky, rivals to lovers )

synopsis. working as an anaesthesiologist is stressful enough, the last thing you need is an entitled surgeon breathing down your neck. too bad that's exactly what you get when your high school rival walks through the hospital doors and proclaims himself the new chief of your department. worst of all? bucky is hot now.

★ ─ go go juice ( best friend!bucky, friends to lovers )

synopsis. drunk, horny, and alone, you're on a mission to entice any old flame to come satisfy your needs. in a twist of fate, your thumb slips and suddenly you're begging your best friend to come screw the brains out of you.

★ ─ don't worry i'll make your worry ( knight!bucky, royal au )

synopsis. amidst royal balls and pleas for your hand in marriage, you strike up a dangerous affair with the man your father assigned to keep you safe... in your defence, his sword is really big.

★ ─ house tour ( tfatws!bucky, new relationship )

synopsis. you've finally been handed the keys to your new house, so naturally the next step is to host a house-warming. the guest list? one super soldier, and a mission to christen as many surfaces as you can.

★ ─ goodbye ( neighbour!bucky, fake dating au )

synopsis. tired of your ex showing up at your door with crumpled flowers and a plea to get back together, you accidentally drag your unsuspecting neighbour into a ploy of feigned affection and play-pretend dates.

“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”

From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”

“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.

You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.

“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”

Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”

“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”

Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.

The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.

You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.

Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”

You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”

Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.

Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”

You didn’t even look up. “No.”

Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”

Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”

Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”

You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”

Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.

He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.

“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”

“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.

Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”

You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”

Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”

You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”

Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”

You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”

Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”

You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”

He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”

“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”

Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”

Walker bristled. “My shield is—”

You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”

Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”

Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.

Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”

You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”

There was a full beat of silence.

Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”

Simple. Like gravity.

Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”

“I never said that.”

That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.

Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.

Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”

You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.

“The Orlov diamond.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.

You just blinked, perfectly serene.

“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.

“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”

Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”

He blinked. “What?”

Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.

Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”

You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”

And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.

Everyone else had settled in to watch.

Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.

Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.

The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.

Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.

He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.

You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.

Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.

He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”

“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.

Finally, he matched your bet.

Cards were laid.

Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.

You only smiled.

“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.

Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.

Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”

You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”

Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”

You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.

“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”

Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”

Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later

Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.

She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”

This morning was no different.

You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.

You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.

It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.

“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”

Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”

Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”

Silence.

It was instant. Heavy.

Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.

Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.

Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”

She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.

“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”

Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”

Val ignored her. Of course.

“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”

She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.

“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”

The room went still.

And then — every head turned.

Toward you.

Slow. Simultaneous.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.

You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.

Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”

You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”

Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”

You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.

“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”

Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.

Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”

Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”

Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”

You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”

“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”

You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”

Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.

“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”

Silence.

Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.

You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”

Yelena snorted again.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”

Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”

You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”

Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”

Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”

Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”

“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”

Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.

Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”

You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.

“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”

“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”

You didn’t respond.

“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”

Your head turned.

Eyes on Bucky.

No words this time. Just a look.

And that was all it took.

He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone went still.

Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.

“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”

Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”

The room was dead quiet.

You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.

Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”

You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”

“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”

You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”

“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”

Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”

“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.

You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”

Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”

Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.

Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”

You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”

“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.

“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”

Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.

“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”

A pause.

“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”

Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.

“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“

And no one argued. Not after that.

You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”

He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.

“You always do,” he murmured.

Your bedroom, That night

“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”

Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.

Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.

He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.

The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.

You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.

And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.

It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.

“You know I do,” he murmured.

“Mm. You haven’t said it.”

“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”

You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.

“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.

Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.

“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.

You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.

The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.

The fabric pooled at your waist.

You made no move to cover yourself.

Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.

“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”

Bucky looked wrecked.

Absolutely still.

Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.

His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”

You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.

“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”

Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.

“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”

His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.

Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.

Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.

“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”

Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.

You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.

And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”

A beat.

“When I say.”

You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.

You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.

“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”

You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.

His breath was shallow now. Barely held.

You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.

You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.

“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”

Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.

His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”

He froze. Swallowed hard.

You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.

The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.

“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”

Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.

You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.

And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.

And you smiled.

“Good boy.”

You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.

The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t respond.

He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.

Your gasp hit the ceiling.

His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.

You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.

“Fuck—James—”

His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.

“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.

He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.

And he was right.

You shattered in seconds.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.

He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.

Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.

“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”

You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.

Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.

You always loved watching him strip.

It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.

He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.

You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.

“Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.

But he didn’t line up just yet.

No—he stared.

Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.

“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”

You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”

He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.

He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.

You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.

You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”

Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.

He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.

Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.

He didn’t thrust in right away.

No.

He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.

You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.

He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.

“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”

You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”

He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.

Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.

And then—

He lined up properly. Pressed forward.

And sank into you.

Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”

You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.

“You feel like mine,” you whispered.

And then he started to move.

He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

Relentless. Deep.

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.

You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.

The Pink Star flashed.

The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.

“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”

Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”

You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.

“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”

You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”

He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.