XOXO

imagining your hand wrapped around his cock, just as eager as him, stroking him at the perfect pace that he showed you he liked. imagining the way you'd spit on the tip and let it dribble down, easing the glide of your hand.

“fuck…” he whispers, so caught up in his fantasy, stroking his length through the thick fabric of his sweats.

but suguru's voice cuts through, snapping him out of his thoughts. “get a room, satoru,” he scowls. “you're a fucking freak, you know that?”

“yeah, yeah, tell me something new.”

satoru opens his eyes and looks over at suguru, his gaze skirting down to see the growing bulge in suguru's own pants. he smirks, blue eyes flicking back up to meet purple.

“i'm not the only freak here, huh?”

suguru rolls his eyes, making no move to relieve himself and trying to focus back on his phone. key word: trying.

neither of them has fucked you yet, but the hold you have on them is strong. their pretty roommate who’s as perverted as they are, fooling around together and going back to normal the next day. sharing heated looks, hungry eyes raking over each other’s bodies.

but, to their dismay, you went back home to see your family for the weekend. it’s barely been two days and they both already itch to be able to touch you again.

“at least i have the decency to jerk off in private.”

“unfortunately for me, that's true,” satoru sighs playfully. then, he laughs when suguru gives him another questioning look. “what? god forbid a guy appreciates a good view.”

and, oh, what a view it truly is.

while satoru was frantic and desperate as he fisted his cock, pulling ragged pants and deep moans from his chest, suguru took his time.

slowly pumping his thick cock, pulsing his palm around it gently, teasing his tip with his thumb where precum beads out. eliciting a shuddering breath out of him when he drags his thumb across the wet slit. the same way you’d run your tongue over it.

he focuses on the flustered head, tugging and squeezing, imagining the way you lather your tongue all over it and hollow your cheeks out. solely to ruin him.

“fuck, that's good,” he groans, voice hushed as if he's praising you while you’re right in front of him.

satoru's heady gaze keeps drifting over to suguru, watching suguru's pretty fingers wrapped tightly around himself. precum dribbling over his knuckles, the pretty vein on the underside throbbing with need, and of course, the ladder piercings that draw husky groans from suguru.

satoru spits onto his cock, using the glide of his hand to make it slick with his own saliva. a lewd, wet sound bounces off the walls of the living room, complementing each stroke of his fist over his aching cock.

“she has us fucking whipped,” satoru says, and a breathless laugh tumbles out. his head tips back against the sofa, frosty hair scattering.

he knows that what they’re doing is completely depraved. jerking off to their roommate who isn’t even there. but he can also guess that you probably miss them as much as they do - if there was anything that you all had in common, it was the perverse tendencies.

“haven’t even felt that sweet pussy-- oh, shit, shit… haven’t felt it wrapped around me and she still drives me insane,” satoru murmurs, voice strained with pleasure.

his abs tense as he feels himself getting closer, his dick twitching in his grip at the thought of your pussy clenching around him. he bucks his hips into his fist, desperate, fucking his own hand to the thought of you, wishing it could be yours. a moan slips out, uninhibited and needy.

suguru speeds up his strokes slightly, his breathing growing heavier. “it’s only been just over a day and this is the second time i’m jerking off because of her. fucking pathetic.”

satoru laughs again before a choked moan cuts him off, his hand almost a blur as he moves it up and down. his hips jerk violently, cock twitching eagerly like it wants to cum inside you. to make a mess of you, rather than his own palm.

“yeah, we’re absolutely haah fucked. fuck, ‘m gonna cum. oh, fuck…”

with a few more furious strokes and moans that sound too similar to whimpers, satoru cums all over his stomach and hand. his body goes completely lax against the sofa, his stomach contracting with each pulse and rope of cum that his cock shoots out. he keeps his hand going until he’s finished and spent, left panting beside suguru.

he glances over to his best friend, noticing the angry red of suguru’s tip as he continues to jerk off, not having cum yet. suguru’s eyes are half-lidded, heavy with desire. he’s biting down on his lower lip, muffling the little sounds that are eager to make themselves heard.

satoru grins, sitting back up. “hey,” he says, “wanna cum in my mouth?”

suguru gives him a side glance. “you really are a freak.”

“well, i don’t hear you saying no, sugu. i know you love fucking our roomie’s mouth, makes me kinda jealous.”

“jealous of me, or her?” suguru already knows the answer; considering how his best friend is, he can guess which one it is.

“her, duh. anyways, can i?” satoru asks again, bright eyes locked onto suguru’s.

“fine. i’m already close.”

“perfect.”

satoru grins again, moving closer to suguru and ducking his head to take the head of his cock into his mouth. as soon as his lips close around it, suguru groans softly, eyes fluttering shut when satoru’s tongue flicks over his tip, tasting the saltiness of his precum before he takes his length deeper.

he sucks hard, eager to make him unravel. his tongue laps at suguru’s dick, dragging along a prominent vein as he takes it even further until it hits the back of his throat.

another beautiful groan falls from suguru’s mouth when he feels satoru’s throat constrict around his cock. “fucking-- i’m gonna cum, satoru,” he warns through rough, heaving breaths.

your snowy-haired roommate hums, a blissful vibration that triggers suguru’s orgasm. his tensing fingers thread through satoru’s hair, holding the back of his head as he releases strings of ivory into his eager mouth. his hips shoot up once involuntarily, making satoru choke but he keeps it there, swallowing every drop of cum that doesn’t leak out.

“fuck, i hate how good that felt,” suguru mutters, coming down from his high.

it’s only when his dick begins to soften that satoru pulls off, beaming like he just got one of his favourite sweets. suguru reaches out to swipe his thumb over satoru’s chin, cleaning his cum off it and he presses it against satoru’s lips which automatically open to lick it up.

“don’t lie, we’ve done worse and you love it.”

a smirk tugs at suguru’s lips. they have done worse and you have no clue. it’s cute watching you get flustered and turned on simply watching them kiss. he wonders how you’d react if they did anything more in front of you.

a/n: the ending definitely isn’t hinting at the next fic i have in mind hehehe (also dividers by @uzmacchiato )

The sheets beneath you are uncomfortably damp with your sweat, but you don’t have the energy to roll over just yet. You feel hot and itchy with frustration, and you scowl up at the ceiling above you as your fingers curl into fists. But even though you feel like laying in your now grubby-bedding for the rest of the evening, you can’t let yourself wallow. There’s going to be a knock on your door any minute, and this is not a position you want to be found in.

With an irritable groan, you haul yourself off the bed and to your feet. Your muscles ache and you feel too warm, but you reach for your clothes anyway. The worn cotton of your shirt feels scratchy against your skin, but maybe that’s just because you’re still over-sensitive and irritable.

You can never quite bear to look at the aftermath of what you’d been doing, so you avert your eyes as you gather up the bright silicone and plastic devices littering your mattress. It’s embarrassing now that the adrenaline has worn off and disappointment is beginning to set in, so you end up gathering them all up more roughly than necessary.

The term ‘toy’ seems incongruous to you. It sounds too childish, too immature. It makes you sound like a stupid kid, as though you aren’t a young adult past twenty fumbling your way through sexual self-exploration. It’s embarrassing, and much more frustrating than you ever would have predicted – despite all of your clumsy, desperate attempts at pleasuring yourself, you’ve never quite managed to reach that peak of pleasure you’ve heard other people talking about.

You grumble quietly to yourself as you try to wipe away the sticky lube that’s still coating your thighs. Your muscles are a little achy from all the tensing you’d been doing trying to come with that stupid vibrator, not even accompanied by the satisfaction you had been hoping for.

It’s not as though you’ve never gotten the opportunity to experiment with others; you’re not unforgivably ugly, you don’t think you have a bad personality, and for the past few years you’ve been surrounded by military men that certainly aren’t known for being picky. And it certainly isn’t like you haven’t received your fair share of offers. 

It just never seemed right. You’re not overly concerned about ‘saving’ your virginity or anything like that; it’s just that putting yourself into such a vulnerable position is scary. You’re aware of the irony, of course, that you’d trust many of these people with saving your ass from catching a bullet in the field, but allowing someone to see you so intimately feels like a step too far.

You’re still sweaty and flustered and naked when a knock sounds from your door, and you freeze. The doorknob turns, but doesn’t open; in that moment, you’re deliriously grateful that you had turned the lock – it’s something that you’ve forgotten to do on far too many occasions.

“Lass, you in there?” Oh god, it’s Soap. 

Cursing quietly to yourself, you jolt into action. Your pants are crumpled at the bottom of your bed where you had shed them, and you hurriedly gather them up and struggle your way back into them.

“Gimme a minute!” You yell, praying he doesn’t notice the somewhat frantic edge to your voice.

You stagger slightly as you worm your way into your pants, and then lunge to grab the stupid dildo you’d just been trying to use. You feel your skin prickle with humiliation as you try to force the stupidly large silicone cock into your already full underwear drawer, jamming it shut roughly to hide it from sight. You don’t want to even imagine what Soap might have to say if he were to see what you had been doing; you think you might have to go full deserter mode and abscond into the wilderness.

“Did ye forget about drinks?” Soap’s drawl carries through the thickness of the door. He doesn’t sound even slightly put out – if anything, he sounds a little amused.

You pause, close your eyes, sigh. Fuck. You had not, in fact, forgotten about drinks, you just thought you had more time.

“No, I– just a minute!” You yell back, shoving your shoes on and trying to fix your hair.

You had completely lost track of time, and now you don’t even have time to rinse your sweat-damp skin off – you’re going to have to sit through drinks with the squad all grimy, like a physical reminder of what you had been up to for the last two hours.

When you finally unlock the door and wrench it open, Soap is standing on the other side tapping a staccato rhythm on his thighs with his open palms. He’s dressed casually in just blue jeans and a black muscle shirt, and he gives you a look of semi-disbelief.

“What the hell were you—”

“Gym.” You interrupt, landing on the only explanation you can think of for your sweaty skin and messy hair.

Soap blinks, but apparently decides it’s not worth the effort to continue that line of conversation. He just shrugs, then turns and starts making his way down the hall, slowing his pace for you to catch up.

You exhale; Soap can be like a bloodhound when he suspects there’s gossip to be had, and you’re relieved to have dodged a round of his relentless questioning. You suppose he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes, and he knows you well enough not to press you. Or, perhaps it’s because you come across as such a non-sexual being that  it doesn’t even occur to him that there may be another explanation.

There’s an unofficial tradition that when the squad is on base, everyone gathers in the sparsely decorated recreation room for drinks and card games on Thursday evenings. It usually makes for an enjoyable night; Gaz and Soap can always be trusted to supply whatever bottles of alcohol they’ve managed to get their grubby little hands on, and it’s always amusing to watch Captain Price get increasingly more irate as Soap pretends not to understand the rules of whatever card game they’re playing. The whole illicitness of having contraband on base only makes the whole thing more exciting; the CO’s on base often turn a blind eye to the activity, so long as it’s kept under control.

But tonight, you’re distracted.

The others had offered a bit of good-natured ribbing when you and Soap had turned up late, but before long you’re all settled in a loose circle on the poorly-stuffed couches in the corner of the room. Gaz has already unstoppered a bottle of bourbon, and is attempting to convince a visibly unimpressed Price to play a game of Kings with them. You curl up on one of the worn-out couches opposite them, watching with a small if slightly stiff smile.

The atmosphere is relaxed and pleasant, almost enough to make you forget about the irritating buzz of unfulfilled arousal under your skin. You shift, trying to keep your movements small, subtle, to avoid the notice of your team. Your denim jeans are nowhere near as comfortable as usual, and you wonder briefly if you should have simply worn your cargo pants just to avoid the harsh friction of the denim.

You sit there feeling… unmoored. You fidget, drink your smooth bourbon in sips in an attempt to avoid wincing, and try not to look as obviously out of place as you feel. It’s been like this, recently. Joining the task force has been an accomplishment for you, a source of immense pride – you’re the youngest member (just narrowly beating Gaz for the title) and a woman to boot, and though the squad has never treated you any differently it’s hard to kick the belief that you have something to prove. 

You engage in conversations the best you can, but you’re distracted and you know it must be obvious. Your preoccupation gets you a couple of furrowed brows and glances, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to give you some space.

You don’t even realise the extent of your distraction until a big body settles down on the loveseat next to you, and you jolt. True to his name, Ghost had appeared near silently, escaping your notice until he lowers himself down to sit next to you.

And damn, you forget how big he is sometimes. It’s an average sized loveseat, but the lieutenant takes up over half of it. He’s obviously being mindful not to consciously crush you, but he’s not being overly cautious when it comes to avoiding touching you. He’s dressed unusually casually, and his thick, muscled thigh is wrapped in blue denim as it presses carelessly against yours. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice low and smooth as he nudges your knee with one of his big knuckles.

You haven’t been a member of the task force for long, but you would know Simon Riley by his hands alone, by the earthy salt-spice in your nose as he leans a little closer to peer at your face. You tilt your head up, unable to stop the small reflexive smile that breaks over your face at the sight of him.

“Yeah.” You breathe, hurriedly straightening up where you’re sitting. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

His sudden proximity isn’t doing your current state any favours, and you take a quick sip of your drink in an effort to collect yourself. It’s taking a herculean effort not to stare at the way his biceps are bulging against the straining material of his black cotton t-shirt.

“What’re you thinking about?” Ghost asks as he stretches out his legs with a tired groan. The sound is gruff and gravelly, and you feel blood rush uncomfortably to your cheeks. 

“Nothing.” You say quickly.

He doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious, but Ghost never pushes and he rarely speaks more than he has to. He just gives you a glance, brief and knowing and far more penetrating than it should be, before turning his head back so he can watch the boys playing their card game. He’s holding a crystal tumbler filled with dark amber liquid, but he hasn’t yet pulled his mask up to drink from it.

Your eyes drop to the thick, pale scars that mar the backs of his hands. You trace the path of the scar tissue, eyes lingering around the thick knuckles and broad palms, the way that he holds the glass so casually confidently. He’s got nice hands, probably made all the more attractive by the fact that you hardly ever get to see them. Seeing Ghost without his usual long sleeves and gloves makes you feel like a Victorian pervert snatching stolen glances at a passing lady’s ankles.

A quiet snicker causes your eyes to dart back to his face, and you’re mortified to find that he’s caught you staring.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” He asks. Even through the mask you can tell that he’s smirking, though it doesn’t feel as though he’s making fun of you.

“Just one of those days, I guess.” You say without meeting his eyes.

It’s an evasion at best, but Ghost nods ponderously as though he’s giving this great thought. His stare is penetrating, those big brown eyes watching you as though he can see right through you. Maybe he can. You try not to get too caught up staring at his pale eyelashes, darkened by smears of eyeblack.

“Did something happen?” He asks. The question is casual enough, asked as he lazily swirls his whiskey around in his glass, but his gaze is sharp and assessing.

“No.” You sigh, finally looking properly at him.

It’s a little frustrating, but the squad has been like this with you from the start – protective. Your whole military career has consisted of you veritably clawing your way up through the ranks, and you’ve been surrounded by coarse, gruff men that have underestimated you all your life. 141 is different – they don’t baby you, but the way they treat you is unmistakably softer than how they typically treat each other. The concern can be touching, if a little tiring sometimes.

And maybe it’s because he’s your lieutenant, but Ghost’s attention has always been just this side of overwhelming. It feels like you’re pinned beneath his dark eyes, his gaze somehow sharpened as he watches you from beneath his more casual balaclava, the skull pattern printed on his jaw adding another layer of intimidation. But his shoulders are relaxed as he sits next to you on the small couch, settling the weight of his attention over you like a blanket.

You’ve always respected him, admired him. How could you not? He’s practically a living legend, his reputation larger than life, and he’s scary as fuck. But he’s also softer than you had expected, gentle when he needs to be. He still rides you hard in training, pushing you to your limits and taking no quarter, but you can’t begrudge that. Not when you know he’s working to keep you alive. Perhaps that’s how the attraction had first bloomed; once it started, it was hard to stifle.

Ghost hooks one finger into his balaclava and pulls it up just high enough to expose his mouth, and he presses his glass to his lips to take a sip of his drink. You struggle not to stare like a moron, but he makes it so difficult. His lips are full and pink, and there’s a rugged scar bisecting his top lip. His stubble is dark blond and short, and it doesn’t hide the various scars and marks that decorate his strong jawline. 

You almost jolt when he pulls the mask back down, hurriedly averting your eyes and forcing yourself to look out across the room. It’s not just the 141 that’s decided to take up in the rec room this evening; there are soldiers from other units littered all around the room, laughing and joking, playing lazy games of pool on the table in the corner and smoking. The smoke alarm has been jimmied off the ceiling and the window is open, and even Price is turning a temporary blind eye to the blatant disregard for regulations in favour of puffing on one of his cigars. 

Ghost shifts on the worn-out fabric of the couch, and lays an arm over the back of the headrest behind you. It’s a casual, thoughtless movement, but it ends up pushing his body slightly closer to you in a way that makes you feel as though you’re about to catch fire.

You cross your legs, but the seam of your jeans presses into your pussy in a way that sends a frisson of heat up your spine. You hurriedly uncross your legs, and attempt to school your expression into casual neutrality as you force yourself to tune back into the conversation.

“–ach, c’mon, Captain,” Soap is saying in a wheedling tone that he probably thinks is endearing. “One round of strip poker won’t kill ya–”

“No.” Price says in a voice like thunder, brooking no argument as thick cigar smoke pours from his nose. It gives the impression of an enraged bull.

Soap either is ignorant to the warning, or is choosing to wilfully ignore it. Judging by the sly gleam in his eyes, you can guess which. He turns to you then, and waggles his eyebrows.

“C’mon, lassie, you’ll play, won’t ya?” He asks with a grin that promises trouble. “I guarantee you’ll be a sight better than any o’ these louts.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gaz pipes up, already grinning. “I was looking forward to seeing the Captain in his jocks–”

Price promptly knocks his drink back, before pushing himself up to his feet with a grim groan. “Right. That’s enough of you lot for one night.”

Gaz and Soap break into peals of laughter, settling back into their seats as they watch their captain march away.

“Offer’s still open, love,” Soap says, still snickering when he looks over to you. “Wanna play?”

Ghost shifts, his wide thigh knocking into yours as his arm stretches behind your shoulders. He lets out a short exhale through his nose, but when you glance up at him you find him as stoic and hard to read as always.

You just roll your eyes. It’s not the first time that they’ve tried to rope you into strip poker, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You can always trust Soap to start stripping his clothes off when he’s three drinks in, whether he’s playing a game or not, so it’s not surprising that he tries to involve other people in his bad decision making.

And it’s not a big deal, really. There’s been countless missions and operations that have ended up with all of you staying in uncomfortably close quarters with each other. You’ve seen them naked countless times, and the same with them for you. It’s never meant anything, and you know that Soap’s teasing is exactly that – you don’t think they’ve ever once looked at you through any sexual lens at all.

But even still, the joke flusters you more than it should.

“Think I’ll be joining Cap in going to bed, actually.” You say, clearing your throat and setting your glass down on the low table in front of the couch.

The playful booing from Soap doesn’t do much to change your mind, and you stick out your tongue at him and Gaz as you push yourself up from the couch. You try to ignore the loss of heat at your side when you move away from Ghost, though you can’t help but glance back at the lieutenant. He’s not looking at you, his gaze directed into his glass. You try not to feel disappointed about that.

You say your goodnights, and retreat from the rec room.

By the time you make it back to your dorm however, you’re already playing the conversation back over in your head and wondering if you had made the wrong decision.

Perhaps you should have just played the damn game. Despite your inexperience with all things sexual, you’re not actually all that shy about your body. On missions, you and the squad are often forced into tight quarters, and they've all seen you in various stages of undress before. It's hard to be self-conscious around a group of people that have seen you at your worst, whether that’s soaked in blood, unshowered, sleep-deprived, or injured.

But you were so keyed up from your earlier failed attempts at masturbation that the thought of being so physically exposed in front of your squad is mortifying. It feels as though your unresolved arousal is still simmering through your veins, turning your thoughts slow and soupy and stupid. 

It’s not so surprising. Your preferred method of dealing with stress is coming back to your private bunk and messing around with your vibrator until you’ve forgotten all of your problems. The problem is, you’ve never quite been able to reach that climax you’ve heard so many talk about.

It’s not for lack of trying, and it’s not as though you haven’t come close to that toe-curling finish you crave so much. But it’s like there’s some sort of block, something that always holds you back before you can go plummeting over that edge. Something that makes the buzzing pleasure dissipate before your eyes like smoke, leaving you worked up and so frustrated. It’s probably inevitable that all those ruined finishes have built up like sludge in your veins, leaving you slow and distracted and irritable.

You eye your underwear drawer thoughtfully as you perch on your bed, before reaching inside and drawing out the same dildo you had been using earlier. You wonder if it would be too much to try again tonight – the muscles in your calves still feel a little bit over-worked from training all day, and you have a feeling that straining in an attempt to reach an orgasm you’ll likely never attain will only make it worse.

But the thought of Ghost in that stupid tight cotton shirt stays firmly stuck in your mind, and that really makes the decision for you. Before you can think too much about it, you’re sliding your jeans off and climbing atop your mattress. The sheets are dirty anyway, after all. May as well have some fun before you change them.

You slide your panties off next, then kick them to the side. It’s difficult not to feel a little pathetic, but you push those feelings aside. So what if you have an embarrassing little crush on a superior officer? It’s not like that’s unusual within the military, and you’re quite certain that dealing with all that unresolved attraction like this is the most sensible thing you can do.

You fish out the bottle of lube you had been using earlier, and drizzle it liberally along the dildo’s length before setting it aside on the blanket. While you’ve used your dildo plenty of times, you still struggle to grow accustomed to the stretch of it. It’s a good dildo – a vibrating one in the rabbit style, designed to stimulate your g-spot and clit at the same time. It was damn expensive too, but it’s one luxury you’re willing to indulge in.

You close your eyes, slide it between your legs, and hit the power button. A low bzzz emanates from between your thighs; you jerk at the immediate barrage of pleasure, your abs tightening and your legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.

Your body is quick to react, sweat prickling under your armpits and your heart thudding quickly in your chest. You can feel electric pleasure coursing through you as you press it against your clit, your toes curling into your sheets.

You bring the vibrator lower, your clit throbbing a little at its sudden absence before you press it inside, sighing. It slips inside much too easily – you’re almost embarrassed by the easy slide. You’re so wet, both from your failed attempt at masturbation earlier and from sitting beside Simon fucking Riley all evening. It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and you clench around it with a quiet moan. 

You cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in your usual attempt to build up an orgasm. You wish, with sudden and mortifying clarity, that it could be replaced with a person. More specifically, a person with big hands and firm muscles that still have some soft give to them, and a toe-curlingly gravelly voice.

You squirm, shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside you. Without meaning to, you imagine Ghost. It’s hard not to, considering your close proximity to him all evening. Your cheeks heat as you imagine Ghost actually being here, watching you all still and silent with that penetrating dark-eyed stare of his. 

You huff out a breath, arching off your bed. This is always the best part. You have to ensure that you relish the build up, before it all fizzles out from between your fingers. You whimper, soft and quiet, clenching around the stiff silicone as it buzzes away inside of you.

Right as you press the soft little vibrating bunny ears to your clit, there’s a knock on the door. Then, horrifically, like a scene from your fucking nightmares, your door opens.

“Kid, you–”

Ghost is already half-way through the door when he lays eyes on you, and then he goes completely still in your doorway.

“Fuck.” You hiss, scrambling to knock the stupid thing off. 

You fumble for it, panicking. The end is slippery and you can barely manage to grip it. When you finally do, it’s difficult to pull out, your body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonising few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately featuring one of those awfully thought-out designs that makes you have to cycle through every single one of the settings rather than hit an off-switch.

And then, finally, silence.

Ghost is living up to his name right now; he’s as stock still and silent as a dead man, stiff as a board as he stares unblinkingly at you. You’re not even sure that he’s breathing, but you can see the whites of his eyes as he gapes at you, frozen.

You stare back at him blankly, hoping that your bed comes to life and swallows you whole just to put an end to your mortification.

At last, Ghost blinks, then finishes his sentence. “You left your phone.”

He lifts his arm. In his large, thick fist, is your stupid goddamn phone. You must have left it on the couch when you had gotten up to leave. You might have wondered at the lieutenant voluntarily bringing it to your dorm for you, but you’re hit with a wave of humiliation so strong that it wipes your brain completely blank.

“Ah.” You say, and your voice cracks. “Thanks.”

There’s a moment of mortifying silence, and then Ghost steps into your room. Your heart jolts right up into the base of your throat as he closes your door behind him. The click of the door is as loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled over the room.

Ghost still hasn’t blinked. He’s watching you with eyes that look almost black in the dim light of your room, intense as a predator. 

“I–” You attempt to speak, and your throat clicks dryly. “I didn’t–”

Far too late, you realise that your legs are still splayed open. You snap them shut, inhaling a choked breath through your nose.

“I thought I locked the door.” You finish lamely. 

Ghost apparently decides to simply disregard that, which you’re honestly a little grateful for. Instead he steps towards you – the enormous bulk of him feels as though he’s completely filling every bit of space in the room, sucking out all the damn oxygen.

“...‘S this why you were so distracted this evening, hm?” He says as he approaches the bed. “You were in a mood ‘cause you wanted to get back to playing with yourself?”

It’s not a question, exactly. At least, it’s not phrased like one. Ghost’s tone is knowing, with an undertone of gruff amusement. You’re certain that you’re not imagining the rough, breathless quality to his voice either, though the thought sends nerves fizzing through your bloodstream.

“No.” You deny uselessy; it’s plainly obvious what you were doing, after all. “No, I just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His eyes are still glued to you, even though your thighs are now pressed together. Before you can stop him, he reaches down and takes a hold of your hot pink vibrator where you had been trying to hide it beneath your thigh.

“Cute little thing.” He comments, tilting his head to look at the dildo hanging between his thick fingers.

Mortification burns through you. A panicked sort of screech escapes you and you yank it back out of Ghost’s stupid big hand, shoving it under the blankets. 

Perhaps if it had been anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t be burning quite so intensely. But this is Ghost – your lieutenant, the gruff man that you’ve looked up to ever since you joined the task force. He’s not a man famed for his patience, nor for his eloquence, which is making this situation all the more unbearable.

“Lt,” You wheeze, scrambling to sit up and cover your pussy with your hands as you squeeze your legs closed. “I swear I didn’t– I’m sorry–”

But Ghost doesn’t seem interested in your apologies. He’s still watching you as though he can see right through the damn blanket, as though he’s measuring you up and trying to come to a decision about something. In that moment, you hate your reaction to him – no matter how humiliating this situation is, you want him to approve of you, even now.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grunts, and then he sits down on your bed.

You gape at him. It feels as though your brain has stalled; you’re pretty sure you’re not reacting correctly right now. You probably should have screamed when the lieutenant walked right into your room without knocking. That surely would have sent him straight back out again. And even now, you should probably be ordering him out, telling him to leave. 

But you don’t.

“I was.. um.. finished anyway.” You manage to croak out. You sound so pathetic that you nearly make yourself cringe.

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, his eyes as dark as ever beneath the mask. For a moment, you think he’s not going to answer at all.

But then he says, “Didn’t look like you finished to me.”

Blood rushes to your face so quickly that it makes you light-headed as you catch his meaning. Oh, what the fuck. This is just adding salt to the wound now.

“I wasn’t trying to–” You start, then cut yourself off. “That’s not why I was– I was just trying to relax.”

In the ensuing silence, you realise how silly you sound. At the very least, Ghost doesn’t laugh; he just tilts his head to the side, consideringly.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– sir–”

“Let me see, sergeant.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Ghost’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You have room to refuse. You could tell him to get out of your dorm right now, and he’d do it. Knowing the lieutenant, he’d never bring it up again, either.

You drop your knees apart, spreading your thighs in an unpracticed, self-conscious sort of motion. 

Under the lieutenant’s sharp gaze, your skin prickles and your nerves strain. Even sitting down on your bed, he’s a veritable behemoth of broad shoulders and thick corded muscle. His hulking form towers over you even now, and you feel so damn small as you lay there propped up against your pillows in nothing but a t-shirt.

Ghost has seen you naked before, obviously. You can’t afford to be prudish in the military, where you never know when you’ll next have true privacy, and you’ve changed out and showered with the squad countless times. It’s never meant anything, and the men in 141 have never made you feel anything less than comfortable with them.

This, however, is different. This isn’t just a case of catching a quick glimpse of your nude form as you shower in the group shower rooms when you’re out on missions – your whole damn pussy is out on display for him, still glistening wet and sticky from your ministrations and the lube you’d used.

Ghost’s inhale is as loud as a thunderclap. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in another person’s presence. You feel a little ridiculous laying like this as he watches you, but another part of you feels so humiliatingly desperate for some kind of approval from your lieutenant. 

At first, that approval is nowhere to be found. Ghost is notoriously difficult to read, and you’re beginning to sweat as you lay there waiting for a response – any response.

At last, he makes a noise. It’s part grunt, part hum, and part groan.

“You’re still wet, sergeant.”

Are you imagining it, or is his voice an octave deeper than usual? 

Your eyes trace his face, trying to imagine what he looks like beneath the mask. You can see the suggestion of his nose, the square curve of his jaw. His darkened eyes are watching you so carefully that you feel as though you’re physically being pinned in place.

You swallow. “It’s just– I–”

“You didn’t get to finish.” Ghost interrupts, with the air of completing your sentence for you. 

You try to speak, but nothing more than a strangled sort of murmur escapes. You swallow hastily, then try again.

“I wasn’t going to. Sir.” You tack on the title at the end as an afterthought, but this whole situation is so far beyond professional that you probably needn’t have bothered. “Finish, I mean. I… I never do.”

You’ve admitted it before you can really think about it, and then you regret it wildly. You can’t help but wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary, but then again the boundaries are currently so blurred that they’re virtually impossible to discern.

“You never finish.” Ghost repeats it. Slowly, staring right at your face, as though he’s confirming what you’ve just said. 

It sounds so much worse in his deep, gravelly voice.

Embarrassment blooms, thick and sickly in your stomach. Your legs start to twitch closed, too embarrassed to be having this conversation with your cunt bared like this, but then Ghost’s big paw of a hand reaches out to settle over your knee, keeping you open and exposed. It’s so rare to see his hands ungloved, and the bare skin of his callous-roughened hand feels almost scorching hot against your inner knee.

“I don’t– I’ve tried,” You say, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re just digging yourself further into a hole, here. “But I don’t– I’m not able to. I mean, I’ve come close, I’m just not able to… you know.”

You trail off lamely, feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever. Why are you telling him this? Why the fuck haven’t you reacted properly, and kicked him the hell out of your room?

Deep down, a shameful little part of you already knows the answer to that. You’re feeling awfully, sickeningly hopeful. Having Lieutenant Riley in your dorm, sitting on your bed and staring so hungrily at the wet, swollen parts between your legs feels like something out of your wildest wet dreams.

His eyes flick towards your pink silicone rabbit dildo, half-hidden under your blanket, and he grunts consideringly before reaching out and taking it into his hands again. It’s standard-size, but it looks small in his big hands.

“You ain’t doin’ it right, then.” He says, so bluntly that you just blink at him. “Show me how you use it.”

For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if you’re experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations right now. Surely you can’t really be experiencing this right now – and yet the lieutenant is still watching you, and you’ve never disobeyed a direct order before. 

He hands you the vibrator, then waits expectantly.

And… well. All you ever try to do is impress him. 

You shuffle your legs open a little wider, ignoring the flustered heat that scalds your cheeks. You’ve never been all exposed like this in front of another person, and the weight of Ghost’s eyes on you is reminiscent of being under a spotlight.

You swear his eyes darken even further when you press the stiff silicone rabbit dildo to your cunt, if it’s even possible for that gaze to get darker beneath the thick balaclava and eyeblack smeared over the narrow strip of skin that’s visible.

The dildo sinks in so easily that it’s almost embarrassing, and your breath catches both from the stretch and the way Ghost leans in a little closer to see. Far from turning you off, you feel your body throb in response to his proximity, and your cunt flutters pathetically around the plastic toy. You shift, attempting to get a little more comfortable, but you can’t dispel the nerves fizzing in your blood as you attempt to push the dildo a little deeper under Ghost’s sharp gaze.

His big, hulking body is so perfectly still as he watches you that it’s making you a little nervous. The only reaction that you get from him is a small, considering hum, but even then you can’t figure out what it means. Your movements are a little clumsy, so hyper-conscious that he’s watching every single thing you do that you end up fumbling a little. He’s looking at you in the same way he assesses threats, his intense dark eyes examining every movement and reaction you make. It makes you feel small and jittery, especially when you realise that he’s judging you by what you’re doing.

“You gonna turn it on?” He asks, and oh god his voice has definitely dropped lower and huskier. You know you’re not imagining it. 

You can’t even bring yourself to respond with words. You just make a strangled sort of sound of agreement, then clumsily hit the on button. The toy buzzes to life once more, and your toes curl absent-mindedly into the sheets as the soft silicone bunny ears pulse against your clit.

It feels nice, but you can’t manage to concentrate on the feeling. Hyper-aware of Ghost’s attention, you let out a quiet moan as you shift the vibrator inside you. It’s a little exaggerated, but you can’t help it – you feel like you should be putting on some kind of a show. 

You glance back at Ghost’s face, trying to guess what he’s thinking; even through the mask, you can tell that he’s frowning. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. Have you done something wrong?

“This how you usually do it?” He asks.

You swallow thickly, feeling a bit stupid. “Um.. yeah.”

Ghost grunts. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“No wonder you can’t come.” He says wryly.

You go still, eyes widening. In the silence, the bzzzzt! of your stupid vibrator is louder than ever. A sudden wave of shame washes over you, and you start to close your legs again in an effort to block the sight of the toy stuffed into your pussy.

“Oh,” You snap sourly, your embarrassment making you irritable. “So you’re the pussy expert now?”

That startles a loud bark of a laugh out of the lieutenant, a sound so rare that you find yourself desperately trying to commit it to memory.

“Think I might know a bit more than you, sweetheart.” He says. He’s relaxed now, his wide shoulders rolling back. He’s always so effortlessly confident, always so assured in himself and his abilities in a way that makes you feel like a silly little girl. 

Judging by the way the corners of his eyes are just slightly wrinkled beneath the mask, Ghost is smirking at you. He finds this funny.

“What about when you’re with other people, hm?” He asks, and his eyes drop back down to try and get a look at you again. When he realises that your legs are clamped tight together, he reaches out to guide your thighs apart again. “No one’s ever impressed you?”

His hands are big and rough and hot, and your willpower crumbles like wet paper as you allow him to open your legs all over again. The vibrator is still buzzing sadly inside you, mostly forgotten about; the stimulation is nice, but it’s never been enough for you.

You huff a weak laugh. You should have known that this would come up, and now you find yourself floundering a little.

“No one’s ever tried.” The confession comes out like a whisper, like a secret.

You can see the moment Ghost understands; realisation settles heavy over him like a physical weight, and the whites of his eyes flash as they widen just slightly. For a moment, he says nothing at all. He doesn’t move – it doesn’t even look like he breathes. 

“No?” He says, except it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds rough, and you can feel the almost convulsive motion of his fingers tightening around your knee. 

You shake your head wordlessly, beyond embarrassed now.

Ghost’s wispy blond eyelashes flutter softly as his eyes dart down to your pussy, still humiliatingly stuffed with your stupid little vibrator. He takes a moment to stare, then looks back up to your face. He’s so frustratingly confident about everything he does, not an ounce of shame in his posture even as you wilt beneath him.

“Never messed around with anybody?”

“No.” You say, and it comes out on a wheeze. He holds your gaze without faltering, and you realise that he’s expecting you to elaborate. “No, I– it just never happened. I was never… um, I was just always too busy, I guess.”

“Too fussy, more like.” He mutters, quiet enough that it seems like it’s a comment meant just for himself. You don’t know how to take that, so you chew your lip and stay quiet.

His eyes drop down to the vibrating dildo again, and you recognise something that looks like a flash of hunger. It feels like there’s pressure building up beneath your skin, tight and hot, and your thighs fall open a little further. You feel raw and so, so exposed, but you don’t even care when Ghost is looking at you like that.

“Let me try.” He says, the words falling out sharp and harsh as though he they’ve burst out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s not like Ghost to speak without thinking it through, perfectly calculated, and your breath catches a little at the offer.

How could you ever say no to that? You don’t really think that he’s going to succeed in making you come – at this point you’re pretty sure your body is a little bit broken and you’re just not capable of orgasming at all, and that’s whatever – but the chance to get fucked by Ghost? To lose the lingering vestiges of your viriginity to your ridiculously hot, mysterious, massive lieutenant? It’s like something out of a dream.

“Okay.” You choke out, nodding stupidly. “Yeah.”

You want to be touched. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt the yearning for physical contact this strongly in your life; you’re practically holding your breath as you wait for Ghost to make a move.

Finally, he reaches out. His first move is to pull the stupid little dildo out of you, still vibrating, and you feel yourself clench convulsively around nothing as he leaves you empty and wanting. He spares it a brief, evaluating glance, and you feel yourself burn as you realise he’s examining how you’ve soaked the toy.

He tosses it to the side, barely even taking the time to switch it off first, then turns his attention back to you. He’s got that same kind of laser-focus he usually only gets out on the field, and you take a moment to feel incredibly grateful that you’re never going to be on the receiving end of that terrifying scrutiny on the battlefield.

It feels like your skin is too tight for your body, every nerve and synapse strained and primed as you wait for him to touch you. But he’s slow about it, as though he just wants to torture you a little bit. 

When he finally reaches out to lay his hands on you, he doesn’t touch where you want him to.

His callous-roughened hands land on your hips, and pull you down the bed towards him. In the same move, he half-climbs up on the mattress, his huge form practically dwarfing you. Your head and shoulders are still cushioned by your pillows, but your legs are splayed open around Ghost where he kneels on your bed.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, unable to resist trying to catch a look at the outline of his erection pressing against his trousers, and oh. Fuck. He’s big. You knew he’d be big, of course, he’s big all over, but Jesus Christ, maybe you’re a little out of your own depth here–

His thick fingers tangle in the hem of your t-shirt, stretching the fabric out. “Take this off.”

You scramble to do as he says, grabbing at your top and pulling it up clumsily. You realise a moment too late that you’re not wearing a bra, but you suppose at this point it hardly matters. You drop your shirt to the side, and try not to feel too horrifically self-conscious beneath the burning hot gaze of the lieutenant.

Though you can’t see Ghost’s face, you can hear the soft exhale he blows out through his nose, just faintly muffled by the fabric of his mask. His eyes are trained on your chest, darting between each of your tits as though he can’t decide which one to settle on. After a long moment, he reaches forward and cups your left tit with one of his enormous hands, thumbing absently at one of your nipples.

It’s silly; Ghost has touched you before. Lots of times. A nudge of the elbow accompanied by a conspiratorial eye roll, a clap to the shoulder, rough hands pulling you to your feet after training or applying white-hot painful pressure to injuries. But this – you’ve never been touched like this before, not by Ghost, not by anyone.

The shaky breath you let out as his big, rough thumb rolls over your firm nipple comes out as a strangled sort of moan that honestly startles you a little. The noise catches his attention, and he snorts.

“Can’t be that sensitive.” He mutters, but then he reaches to thumb at your other nipple as though trying to be sure.

It’s because you’ve never been touched like this by another person before, you tell yourself. Truthfully, you’ve never even touched yourself like this before. You’ve never bothered to play with your own tits; you’ve always just gone straight to breaking out your vibrators. Now, with every brush of Ghost’s scarred fingers over the tight bud of your nipples, you think you must have been crazy to skip over this part of yourself. But then again, there’s no way that your own hands on yourself would elicit the same sharp jolt that shoots from your breasts down your spine.

“Sir–” You breathe, struggling not to squirm where you’re laying. You wonder, somewhat deliriously, if it might be rude to demand your lieutenant stuff his thick fingers into your pussy. You can already tell that they’re going to feel so much better than your own.

Ghost glances up at you, his eyes unreadable as he watches you bite at your lip. God, his little wispy eyelashes are so blond—

“What?” He says, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Say it.”

“Want to try your fingers.” You breathe before you can second-guess yourself. 

The laugh that rumbles out of Ghost’s chest is low and smoky. It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, so big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. You’ve witnessed those hands crack bones and snap necks and break down doors, and yet you can’t help but wonder desperately what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.

He adjusts himself on the bed; he’s a big man, hulking and huge as he kneels on your mattress, his weight causing it to dip. His palms wrap around your ankles with ease, and he hauls you into place with a grim efficiency that goes straight to your pussy.

“Big brute.” You say, a little breathlessly.

He ignores you, using his arms to hold your legs open and wide for him. And all you can do is just lie there as he stares, because goddamn it’s like he’s been carved from steel and you can’t break out of his grip. Not that you want to break out of his grip anyway, but you’d really appreciate it if he actually got moving instead of just staring.

“Fuck,” He grunts after a moment, with the air of talking to himself. “Been hiding this all this time, huh?”

“Jesus.” You breathe in response, subconsciously letting your legs drop open even more.

He makes a low noise of appreciation, and finally reaches out to touch you properly. One thick thumb swipes through the seam of your cunt, and you feel the way he’s smearing the clear sticky wetness that’s been leaking steadily out of you. With his now slick thumb, he drags up towards your clit and circles it with agonisingly light pressure.

You let out an embarrassing choked whine, your toes curling at the sensation. Somewhat ironically, Ghost is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your attempts, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow.

“D’you always get this wet?”

You can’t even tell if he’s asking you mockingly or if he’s being genuinely curious; it feels like every inch of your focus has narrowed down to the feel of his big thumb rolling those tight little circles around your clit, his touch scorching against you.

It’s not exactly surprising that Ghost is good with his hands. You’ve seen the way he handles weaponry, locking and loading and aiming to fire with the kind of swiftness that comes from muscle memory, working with unwavering speed and precision. He’s the same in hand-to-hand combat, moving with aggressive fluidity that overwhelms his opponents. You’ve caught hits from him before in training, and you know from experience that a punch from those big hands feels like getting hit by a cinder block.

But even knowing how deft and skilled his hands are, it knocks the breath out of you when he slides his middle and ring fingers inside of you, still rubbing steadily at the swollen bump of your clit. 

When you exhale, it accidentally comes out as a moan. Your cheeks burn, but there’s really no space in your brain right now for embarrassment to sink in. Two of Ghost’s fingers are the equivalent of at least three and a half of yours, and you feel yourself break out into an overwhelmed sweat when they twist and rub against the sensitive squishy spot in the front wall of your cunt.

You’re so damn worked up, your arousal coiled like a knot in your lower belly from your failed attempts to get yourself off all day. Your back curves, humping yourself near mindlessly back up into his hand as he plays you like a goddamn instrument.

You barely even have time to consider how unfair it is that Ghost is so good at playing with you like this when he doesn’t even have a pussy himself, because then he pulls his fingers out of you.

“Oh, no, don’t stop–” You start to protest breathlessly, your chest still heaving, but the quick glance the lieutenant sends you has you falling silent.

Ghost glances down at his fingers. They’re all glossy from fingering you, and he takes a moment to eye up the way they glisten in the dim light of your bunk. You might have felt self-conscious about it, if you couldn’t see the unmistakable gleam of hungry interest in Ghost’s dark brown eyes.

He wipes his hand on the crease of your hip, but you don’t even get the chance to protest before he reaches up to hook his fingers into his mask. You go still, holding your breath in surprise as he pulls the material up until it bunches up around the bridge of his nose.

And that’s– well. You’ve seen his jaw before, and his mouth (Jesus, you had seen it earlier that evening, when he had been sipping on his smooth whiskey of choice), but the sight of his strong jawline and blond stubble and corded scars on his pale skin always manages to knock the breath out of you. And this time, he’s rolled his mask up even further than before, revealing a nose that’s clearly been broken at least once before.

You probably shouldn’t stare so blatantly, especially knowing that Ghost always takes such pains to keep his face covered. You’re not even sure if the other guys on the team have seen his uncovered face, except for Price, and you know that they’ve developed a habit of averting their eyes when he pulls his mask up for whatever reason. It’s a habit that you never quite managed to develop yourself; you’re never able to stop yourself from gaping at him like a moron, drinking in all of the minutest details. He’s never said a thing about your penchant for staring, so you can only hope that he’s chosen to ignore it.

You’re so busy staring that it takes you by surprise when he grips your jaw with one massive hand and pulls you into a rough kiss.

The sound you make is small and startled, but it’s swallowed by Ghost’s demanding mouth. His lips are dry and a little chapped, but they feel scorching hot against yours. You reach up to grab at his arms – mostly just to ground yourself – but you find yourself almost immediately distracted by the firm bulge of his biceps beneath your hands.

Listen, you’ve kissed people before, plenty times. You’re in your early twenties, and just because you’re inexperienced sexually it doesn’t mean that you’re inexperienced full stop. But this, right now, kissing with Ghost, makes you feel as though you’ve been doing nothing but fumbling your way through all of those encounters, like you’ve been kissing wrong all this time.

It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in your gut, which expands and spreads throughout your body until you find your fingers grasping desperately at the short cotton sleeves of Ghost’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his thickly muscled arm.

Ghost doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. It’s like a full-body experience with him; he puts his hands, his whole damn body into the kiss. He clutches you to him, holding you close even as the force of his kiss bends you backwards into the pillows beneath you. At the same time, it’s all you can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, your attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Ghost’s hands running over you, stroking you sides and squeezing at your breasts and groping at the soft flesh of your hips and ass. 

 “Hah,” You gasp out when Ghost’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of your jaw. His mouth is hot against your skin, bruising, and you feel yourself grow embarrassingly wetter, just from a little kissing.

“You good?” Ghost grunts into your throat as he nips at the base of your jaw.

“Uh huh.” You manage to get out, still clutching at his meaty arms like they’re a lifeline. “So good.”

His breath is hot on your throat when he rumbles out a deep chuckle, and then his tongue flicks out against your earlobe. It makes you forget how to breathe for a second, and you’re distracted when Ghost’s hand changes course, easing beneath your legs so he can press his fingers against your clit again.

Then he pauses, and his fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside you. You tremble, horny and humiliated as you realise that your arousal is glistening all over your damn thighs, impossible to miss.

“Fuck,” Ghost mutters. “All this for me, sweetheart?”

“Hnng,” You whimper like an idiot as his fingers return to your clit, now slick and slippery. “I’m just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to explain. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of you again and kisses you hard. The soft breathy noises you make are muffled into his mouth, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He’s built like a damn mountain, your thighs stretched wide to accommodate the bulk of him as he settles against the core of you.

He likes that – he presses in close, and you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through the roughness of his jeans. You’re so sensitive that the coarseness of the fabric is almost unbearable, but you’re able to ignore it because you’re so distracted by the sensation of his erection because holy fucking shit that can’t really be how big he is.

You gasp, the sound high and breathy, and you try to grind against Ghost, but it’s impossible because he’s so fucking heavy and he’s pinning you down on the mattress beneath him. Instead, all you can do is squeeze your legs and pull Ghost in even tighter, increasing the pressure between the two of you.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Ghost whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He drags his lips up your throat, then talks against the corner of your mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself again without wishing it was me.”

The wave of desire that rocks through you almost pulls you under, and you swear you might have actually gotten so horny that you blacked out for a second, because from one second to the next Ghost has somehow managed to muscle his way back down between your thighs so that he’s eye-level with your cunt.

“What are you–” You start to say, but then he loops his forearms under your knees to tug your legs wider, and you realise just how close his face is to your pussy. You swear you’re actually pulsing with arousal, and you wonder a little wildly if he can see that.

“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” You blurt out, before Ghost has even gotten his mouth on you. He chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but in this moment you really don’t mind being the prey — not if it means you’ll be devoured by that mouth.

Then Ghost’s mouth is against you, wet and burning hot. You cry out, barely noticing as Ghost throws one of your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open.

It’s just the right side of overwhelming. Ghost’s mouth feels like it’s going to swallow you whole – his tongue is huge and flat and firm as he licks over your clit, making your thighs quake on either side of his head. It’s entirely unlike any of the fumbling masturbatory attempts you’ve ever made – you always enjoy messing around with your various little sex toys, but you’re swiftly beginning to realise that it could never compare to real human contact. Or at least, contact with Ghost.

His hands move from your waist to your asscheeks, his big palms squeezing the plump flesh there before using his grip to pull your body closer so that he can bury his whole face between your legs. The rougher material of his mask presses harshly into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but you hardly even notice it.

Your pussy has never been this wet before; it feels like you’ve sprung a goddamn leak. You might have felt embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the way Ghost groans against you, his wide tongue laving flat and rough against the seam of your cunt as he practically gulps down all the sticky arousal you have to give him.

“Oh god– fuck! Sir…” You sigh, spreading your knees farther apart so that Ghost can wedge his head further between your thighs.

Your ears burn as your room is filled with sounds of him tonguing at your cunt, the lewd wet squish of him working you over until you’re keening, your hips twitching clumsily until his hands tighten where he’s gripping the plump flesh of your ass to keep you still. Then all you can do is twitch as he licks over your clit in repetitive lapping motions, working in circles and then dipping down to shove his searingly hot tongue inside you. You can feel his teeth press against your labia even as he sucks at your clit, and the sensation sends hot bolts of pleasure rocketing down your spine.

Though you don’t mean to, you’re pretty sure that you make his job harder. You can’t stop wriggling, tossing your head back against your pillows and squirming on Ghost’s tongue in a wild overstimulated dance, like a fish caught in a net.

Finally, Ghost seems to have enough of your unco-ordinated flailing attempts to grind against his face. He reaches around your thigh with one arm to reach your clit so he can keep it stimulated as he gulps at the sticky sweetness of your cunt like a man possessed – the action also works to keep your hips pinned down and still. You stop your frantic moving, but your spasms and sounds increase tenfold.

You can hardly believe it, but you feel something coming. A sweet, torturous build up starts in your belly, and you sweat and gasp as he licks and suckles at you relentlessly. You’ve never found yourself in this state so quickly before, with your legs trembling and your breathing heavy and shaky. 

“Oh.. oh…” You breathe, beginning to arch your back.

You know this feeling – this is where that sweet climax builds and builds, only to dissipate at the last agonisingly close moment. But this time, with Ghost’s big head between your thighs as his mouth moves against you, sucking, tasting, eating up everything you have to offer, the breath-taking pleasure doesn’t show any sign of slipping out of reach. It feels like for once you might actually reach that peak.

But then, right as you’re certain that you’re about to tip over that long-awaited coveted release, the bastard pulls away.

“No!” You practically shriek, attempting to sit up. “No, I was so close–!”

“Lie back.” Ghost orders, his voice like the crack of a whip. 

You drop back obediently before you can even register that you’re moving, so conditioned to react instantly to that tone of voice coming from Ghost’s deep rumbling baritone. Your eyes are wide and betrayed as you stare at him, admittedly a little baleful.

God, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when he’s staring up at you from between your legs like that. His eyes are dark and hungry beneath the mask, and since it’s all pushed up and rumpled around his nose you get a toe-curlingly good look at his lower face. His chin is wet and smeared with your slick, and his lips are plump and pink and swollen from all the kissing and suckling he’s done to you. In a moment of near-delirium, you think that you understand now why he covers his face – his mouth is pretty in a way that shocks you, in a way that needs to be hidden for decency’s sake.

“You’re gettin’ greedy,” He grunts, turning his head and sinking his teeth into the crease of your thigh just to make you yelp. “Wait for it, love. It’ll be worth the wait.”

You don’t think you have much of a choice, so all you can do is lay back and hold on for the ride. He presses his mouth to you again, and you whimper softly as he tongues at your clit. 

“No one’s ever eaten you out like this?” He asks, the words muffled into the damp curve of your thigh. It’s stupid, because you know he knows the answer to that is a resounding no, but it seems like he just wants to hear you say it out loud.

“No.” You say, your breaths sawing their way out of your chest.

“Hnn.” He makes some kind of grunting sound against you, his tongue flicking out to taste you again. “That’s why you’ve been so tense, huh? So fuckin’ desperate for someone to touch you?”

“That’s not– ‘m not tense,” You manage to get out, your breasts heaving as your thighs tense up where they’re thrown over his shoulders. “Maybe.. Maybe you’re too relaxed.”

Ghost huffs a hot little laugh at your hip because you both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. You doubt anyone has ever accused Ghost of being too relaxed before, but you don’t have time to feel stupid for it – not when Ghost is devoting the full force of his attention on you, deep breaths huffing against the wet skin of your pussy and making you shudder.

“That’s it,” He croons, his voice uncharacteristically soft and lilting. The rumble of it ripples through your limbs like lapping waves, his battle-roughened palm stroking and smoothing down your ass and thigh as he hauls you closer. “Relax, sweetheart. Fuck, such a pretty pussy. Fuckin’ criminal of you to keep this hidden away all to yourself.” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ Christ, you’re wet.”

You’re not even sure that he’s talking to you. It seems more as though he’s talking to himself, and it just happens to be you he’s talking about. Your cheeks burn as the feeling of vulnerability sets in, but you keep your legs spread wide as he kisses your clit with his swollen pink lips. You want so badly to be good, for him to be pleased with you, that you push past your embarrassment as best you can.

There’s a budding anxiety in your belly that Ghost is wasting his time here. As much as you crave his touch and the build up, you worry that he’s going to get frustrated with you and your inability to actually orgasm.

But Ghost doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He seems perfectly fucking happy between your legs, and even with his mask all clumsily rucked up around his nose he presses his face into your pussy with his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Even when you shift a little in an effort to get him to go a little harder or faster, he just pins you still and continues at his own leisurely pace.

When he reintroduces his fingers, pressing inside and stretching you out with a light sting, you hiss and try to lift your hips again. His rough calloused knuckles brush against the inside of your soft inner thighs, making them quiver as he goes three fingers deep.

“Shhh, atta girl.” He mumbles into you, his words coming out wetly muffled since he doesn’t even both pulling his face back. “Fuckin’– shit, so good.”

The praise shoots liquid and molten through you, and you have to bite back a pathetic keen as you pulse around his fingers. You’re sure he must feel it, because he lets out an answering rumble and laps against your clit, then closes his lips and sucks.

“Oh god–”

“Shhh.” Ghost scoots forward so your knee can hoist over his shoulder. Then he angles his chin to kiss the skin on the inside curve of your knee as he pumps into you with slow, slippery fingers and ungodly squelching noises that only sparks you hotter. You can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears dotting your face anymore.

Though Ghost’s eyes are heavy-lidded and a little fogged over, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The focused intensity of his gaze spears you through, because you’ve never been looked at like that. No one has ever seen you like this, no one has ever put effort into you like this, no one has ever been so determined to please you before. You don’t know how you’re ever going to recover from this; you have a terrifyingly distinct impression that he’s going to live up to his promise to ruin you for anyone else.

It feels as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you nearly sob when Ghost pulls back. You’ve never been so close, and you want to scream when he takes his gorgeous fucking mouth away from your clit.

“Fuck.” You wet your lips, realising you were panting like a dog and your mouth is bone dry. “Fuck, Ghost, just—”

“Quiet, lovie.” His reply is hoarse and firm, his throat working hard to swallow as he peered down between you, his clever thumb delving slick circles over the taut bump of your clit, his other three fingers fucking with easy rhythm and purpose. It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, it makes you feel as though you’re about to break apart.

His fingers are pulled out, and then you feel firm pressure pressing into you yet again. Your head lolls as you attempt to sit up, your eyelids fluttering as you realise that he’s pressing your stupid dildo into you again.

“Oh, you bastard–” You start to complain, but Ghost doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak properly.

The dildo slides into you so easily, your sticky slick mixing with his spit making the slide almost effortless. You sigh, a build-up of pressure making your whole body feel as though you’ve been stretched out and pulled tight. 

Now that you’ve been pushed to the edge, you linger by it. Ghost keeps you on that edge for what feels like hours, until your breaths are burning in your chest and the ligaments in your calves are screaming from all the straining you’ve been doing. Every roll of Ghost’s thumb over your clit sends sparks racing through your nerves, and your breathing is harsh and uneven as Ghost starts fucking you with the stupid vibrating dildo. The rhythm he sets is firm and unrelenting, pushing the silicone toy in and out and visibly relishing the wet squish of your cunt as it takes it deep.

Ghost huffs against the wet skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. It seems like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, judging by the subtle roll of his hips against your mattress as he absorbs himself in fucking you with the dildo. 

He experiments with the angle, adjusting the dildo until you cry out, jerking against the bedding, and whining “There!”. You needn’t bother telling him, though; Ghost has a sharp eye, and he’s so goddamn attentive. He’s already repeating the stroke, pushing the dildo in and bumping it against the same sensitive spot he had hit before.

It feels good, but it’s not enough. Now that you’ve felt the firm hot pressure of his fingers spreading you wide and the wet hunger of his mouth devouring you, you don’t think anything else will do.

He shifts, you catch the rolls of his hips against your mattress again, and you feel as though you’ve caught fire. You think of the glimpse you had caught of his hard cock, pressing against his jeans and making the fabric stretch taut, and you find yourself speaking without thinking.

Ghost pushes the dildo in once more, and you reach down to grab at his wrist as you ask breathlessly, “Can I try yours?”

He pauses; goes so still that it’s honestly uncanny, his eyes practically boring holes into you as he stares at your face. You grow flustered, your own eyes widening in response to your own words. Just because he’s deigning to touch you with his fingers and his mouth, doesn’t mean he’s actually planning to fuck you. Jesus, he’s your fucking superior officer. What were you thinking?

“I’m sorry,” You squeak. “That wasn’t appropriate. Fuck, forget I said that–”

Even beneath the mask, you can see the bob of Ghost’s Adam's apple as he swallows thickly.

“You sure?” He interrupts your rambling before you can get started. “I don’t... ‘m not good with virgins.”

There’s… there’s so much you could say in response to that. Namely, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s bad with virgins, as evidenced by the throb of arousal still pulsing through your soaked cunt. He’s just had you sobbing at the mercy of his fingers and mouth, and all he has to say when you ask for more is that he’s not good with virgins?

Instead, what you say is a rather lame, “I’m not technically a virgin.”

Which is true. Sort of. Based on a technicality – you had bullied your damn vibrator through your stupid hymen years ago, and you’ve always thought the idea of virginity was a stupid one, anyway. 

“Plastic cocks don’t count, darlin’.”

Blood rushes to your face so fast you feel light-headed as humiliation burns through you. Jesus, okay. That’s just mortifying. 

“Oh, you think your cock is special, then?” You scoff, attempting nonchalance.

Ghost shifts, letting your legs drop from his shoulders, and kneels up on the mattress so that he’s looming over you. Fuck, every time you get a visceral reminder of how big he is, you feel a little faint. It’s like having a veritable wall of muscle caging you into your bed. Your thighs are spread wide to accommodate the size of him, and you find yourself absolutely captivated by the sight of him with his muscles straining against that stupid tight t-shirt, still panting lightly from his greedy gorging on your cunt.

He reaches out and drags a hand slowly from your cunt up over your belly, between your breasts, up over your sternum, to rest over your collarbones. It’s gentle – he doesn’t put an iota of pressure against your throat – but all you can fucking see is the swell of his bicep and the dark ink of his tattoo and the prominent veins running down the chiselled muscle of his forearm.

Good fucking lord.

“You’ll find out.” He says.

And oh. Okay then. Yeah, you sure fucking will.

He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, and you can’t help but strain to try and watch. He pushes them down carelessly around his thighs, but doesn’t make any move to strip them off any further. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’re laying on the bed completely nude and exposed, while Ghost has only pushed his jeans down far enough to pull his cock out, but you don’t have any time to feel self-conscious about it.

His cock curves up against his belly, red and twitching. He’s fucking rock hard, and bigger than you had been expecting, bigger than any of your stupid little toys. Your mouth goes dry, and your eyes widen comically. Fuck. No wonder he’s confident. He’s not lacking in any way.

“D’you’ve a johnny?” He asks, one big paw of a hand taking his cock and stroking lazily at it until a bead of pearly precum oozes from the angry red head.

You’re distracted for a moment, staring at the way he fists his cock, before you blink back to yourself. “What?”

“A condom.” He enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone he thinks is a bit thick.

“I know what you meant,” You snap, embarrassed. “But– no. Why would I? I’ve never…”

You can see the way his eyes crease and realise that he’s frowning beneath the mask, and you’re hit with a sudden bolt of panic – is he going to change his mind now? You can see the hesitation in the lines of his shoulders, but you think if he changes his mind about fucking you, you might just die.

“It doesn’t matter,” You blurt, “You don’t need one. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.”

Ghost cocks his head, but remains still. It’s almost unnerving, and you feel your toes curl into the bedsheets as you wait for an answer. He looks fucking predatory, hulking over you like a fucking behemoth as he watches you assessingly. You try your best to look confident, but you have a feeling that you just look desperately hungry.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the fabric of his mask and pulls it back down to cover his still slick-shiny mouth and jaw, and you’re gripped with sudden overwhelming panic and dismay that he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leave you here wet and empty and wanting. In that moment, you throw your dignity into the wind.

“Please,” You beg pathetically, wriggling a little bit against your sweat-damp bedding in an effort to grind yourself against him. “Please, please, it’s fine, I swear, you don’t need one–”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grinds out, his voice rough and a little hoarse. “How can a virgin be such a fuckin’ slut?”

Some part of you wonders if you should be offended by that, but instead a frisson of heat runs down your spine. You know you’re not a slut – you’ve never searched for any sexual attention, and you’ve never even experienced someone else’s touch – but goddamn you want to be a slut for your lieutenant right now.

Despite his harsh words, when Ghost hooks your legs over his hips and aligns himself with you, he’s gentle. He’s acting like you’re something fragile; he’s so big that your legs are spread wide around his waist, his shoulders so broad that he’s blocking out the dim light from your lamp, and yet his touch is light against you as though he’s afraid to break you.

He’s still gripping his cock hard, and he slides the tip of it against your slick heat. You have a brief moment of alarm; even through the haze of arousal, you can recognise that this is going to be a tight fit. You breathe deeply, then begin to wiggle your hips in an effort to take him inside you.

He hisses, then one of his big hands grabs at your hip. “Fuck, stay still.”

“Put it in.” You beg, your voice coming out thick and stupid-sounding. “Fuck, please, c’mon, c’mon–”

“Kid,” Ghost bites out through clenched teeth, his voice low and gritty. “Need you to shut the fuck up for me.”

You manage to bite down on your lip, but you can’t stop yourself from pouting mopily at him with wide, wet eyes. You don’t understand why he’s making you wait – can’t he see how mean he’s being? You’re so fucking wet, so empty as you clench down on nothing, and your clit is so desperate for any kind of stimulation that it’s throbbing needily. The head of his cock catches at your opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.

Ghost is still watching you closely, his brown eyes flickering from where the head of his cock drags through your sodden folds up to your pleading pouting expression. You can only imagine what kind of a sight you make, because his chest growls with a choked sort of groan.

“I know,” He murmurs, almost mockingly soft with you. “I know, you want it. Gotta give it to you slowly.”

You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to give it to you slowly, that he can go as fast and hard as he wants to, but some sense of self-preservation shuts you up. Instead, you nod clumsily as he rubs his cock over the slick folds of your cunt, lubing himself up with your own arousal. The feeling of his cock dragging over you, iron hard and velvety soft, so close to where you want it, is enough to have your head spinning dizzily.

You want to beg again, but you’re still trying to follow his order to be silent. You shift restlessly, biting back a whimper when he taps his cock thoughtfully against your clit.

Finally, he decides to put you out of your misery. 

The thick crown of his cock pushes against the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of your cunt, and the gasp you let out is positively punched out of you. He goes slow, just like he promised, but you can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, and yet he’s somehow not even halfway inside. 

“Fuck,” You wheeze, punctuated by a strange little yowl. “Oh god, wait–”

You feel stuffed just from the first few inches, drunk already on the quiet little grunts he’s making. The stretch and the sting and the pressure inside you is glorious, so tight that you can barely even flex around him and you can’t even decide if it’s good or if it’s too much. Your eyes are hot and wet as overwhelmed tears begin to overflow, and you find yourself arching in a weak attempt to flex away from him and the devastating stretch.

God, he’s massive. You knew he would be, of course, but his size seems so much more significant when you’re being impaled on the end of his cock. Fuck, you can feel your vision go blurry as your eyes fill with overwhelmed tears. You’re mortified when a sob is ripped from your chest, harsh and thick.

“Shh, shh.” Ghost coos, his deep voice syrupy thick as he leans over you, the enormous bulk of him caging you into the mattress until your whole world consists only of him. “Just a little bit more.”

“Fuck,” You choke out, trying to arch away again but failing because he’s so big that there’s nowhere to go. “It’s not gonna fit!”

“Shh, lovie,” He rumbles, ducking his face down so that the rough cotton of his mask is pressed against the sweaty skin of your neck. “Relax’n let me in.”

“I– ‘m trying–” You whine, clutching at his biceps. “Jesus–”

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry from the tears clumping your lashes together, only to be met with the sight of Ghost’s deep brown eyes staring at you from beneath the black mask. He’s looming above you, his gaze made all the more intense by the fact that it’s the only part of his face you can really see.

“All that messin’ around with those plastic cocks, but you’re still this tight for me,” He says, his voice so deep that you feel it reverberate into your bones. “Deep breath.”

The breath you inhale at his instruction is rough and ragged, and he snorts a low breathless laugh in response.

When he finally drives his cock all the way in with one smooth stroke, all the breath is driven from your lungs. It feels as though his cock has been pressed all the way up into your chest, and the noise you make when you squirm on it is utterly pathetic. 

Ghost’s hands are like steel clamps when they close around the plump flesh of your thighs, holding them up and pressing them back until they’re pressed against your belly. He looms over you, still almost entirely clothed as sweat beads over his thickly muscled neck. It’s like getting pinned down by a mountain, and you whimper as you’re speared open and prone by the weight of Ghost pressing down upon you.

He hasn’t even started to move yet, but you still feel overfull and raw.

“Too big,” You mumble, struggling to catch your breath. You choke on a sob and feel your eyes burn with unshed tears as your back arches. “Ghost–!”

“Shh.” He grunts. “Call me Simon when I fuck you.”

That… that does something to you. Molten heat rockets up your spine and pools in your belly, and you swear your pussy floods. It’s stupid, how being granted permission to call your lieutenant by his first name is somehow so much hotter than anything else he’s done so far.

“Simon,” You try it out. It comes out a little shaky, your voice little more than a weak whisper, but you swear you can see his eyes sharpen. 

Apparently having come to the decision that you’ve adjusted enough, Ghost pulls his hips back only to drive back in. 

“Oh!” You yelp, hips jumping, but there’s nowhere to go. 

All you can do is lie there as he slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales you, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and you try to bite down on your tongue, try to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but you can’t. It’s like Ghost is puncturing your lungs and every time he fucks into you, you let out the most pathetic little mewling ah ah ah sounds.

You’re not quite prepared for how different this feels; it’s nothing like your stupid plastic dildo. Ghost’s cock is bigger, but it’s also hotter and with more give than you expected, and you’ve never been able to fuck yourself like this. Your plastic toys could never compare to the sensation of being pinned by your giant of a lieutenant as he ruts into you.

Ghost reaches up and roughly pushes his mask up so his mouth is exposed again before he leans in deeper, almost folding you cleanly in half, stretching in to claim your mouth in a kiss that’s not quite a kiss, but rather a fierce mash of lips and tongue as his rhythm picks up, riding you down into the mattress until you realised the screaming noise isn’t coming from either one of you, but the cheap standard issue bed frame.

All you can do is gasp with each deep, raw fuck. There are tears tracking lazily down your cheeks, having overflowed from your burning eyes, and you honestly think your lungs might collapse. You’re bent like a fucking pretzel, in a way that’s making the muscles in your thighs scream, as Ghost pounds into you. 

He’s fucking relentless, but also shockingly aware of you beneath him. He doesn’t put too much pressure on you when he holds you, he never goes hard enough to hurt, and he knows just the right amount of weight to pin you down without being too much.

Your pussy is sloppy around him, wet squishing noises getting louder and louder as he finds more rhythm against your tight walls. Your whole world of awareness has been narrowed down to Ghost and Ghost only; his fingers digging into your thighs, your name in his mouth, his sweltering body pressing against yours. 

He’s holding back, you can tell by the way his voice is caught in his throat. He’s keeping all his dangerous muscles at bay as he pulls out and presses in again. Rough, fast, but not enough to break you, just enough to make you scream until you bury your face to the side and try to cover your mouth with your arm.

“Yeah, you needed this,” Ghost grunts, his uncovered mouth nipping at the hinge of your jaw. “This’s why you were so fuckin’ distracted earlier, hm? You thinkin’ about how much you needed to cream around a real cock?”

“Uh huh, yeah,” You slur out, not even sure what you’re agreeing with. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, every nerve in your body raw and sparking. You must sound so pathetic, but Ghost seems to like it.

“Ain’t gonna be distracted anymore, are ya?” He rumbles, laving his tongue over your jaw in a way that feels filthy. “Just needed your little pussy filled, that’s all.”

You cry out for him because you can’t help it, delight bubbling in your throat every time he plunges into you. He keeps his pace for a bit, all rushed and blazing, transfixed on watching you suck him in, leaving slick trails along his shaft. But gradually he gets bolder, more desperate, big hands squeezing from your thighs to your hips.

You get lost in the feeling of him in your belly, searing and harsh, fat tip rolling against the spongy spot inside of you until you feel like you might snap. You feel him in your ears, your head pounding with every snap of his hips. You swear you even feel him in your toes, lightning zaps of pleasure down your nerves.

Then he leans back, lifting his weight off of you so you can breathe properly. He leaves his hand on your collarbones like a placeholder, his palm spread over the base of your throat like a reminder, a way to keep your attention on him. 

“Fuck,” He grits out, “That’s it, doll.”

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that Ghost’s gaze has shifted, no longer focused on your face but now instead fixed firmly between your legs as he watches the thick shaft of his cock sink into you. He obviously likes how you feel inside; you can hear him cursing and grunting quietly as his free hand grips your hip for leverage. 

With his mask rumpled up around his nose, you’re gifted with an incredible view of the way his teeth are sunk into his lower lip. Each time he sinks his cock into you again, he makes a raspy little groan, eyes fluttering briefly shut. It’s so painfully endearing that your heart quivers in your chest.

Your legs burn from being spread around his thick waist — any attempt for you to lock them around his back is useless, your legs slipping everytime his ass flexes with his thrusts. Every hasty drive of his hips has the ridge of his cock sliding against the spongy spread of your walls, making you feel more stuffed every time he ruts into you. With every sudden movement you feel the entirety of his fat cock; the veins are throbbing, skin heated and silken within you. Part of you marvels how you’re even able to fit him inside you.

“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”

Ghost leans in again, grips your legs so he can rearrange them over his shoulders, and you think you might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Ghost is fucking into you even deeper. You think you might actually be crying. There’s no question as to whether you’re drooling.

Your hands move to his arms, nails sinking into the hard muscles of his triceps as you cling on for dear life. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting of your nails scratching him; or perhaps it only urges him on, because his movements take on an edge of desperation.

“Gorgeous girl,” He grits out, jaw clenched. “Squeezin’ so tight. Fuck. Gonna make you cream.”

 You had forgotten about his promise to make you come, too lost in the hazy pleasure of his cock. But now it seems as though he’s been seized by the compulsion to fuck you to the edge; he reaches a hand down so that his thumb can join the fray, and it startles you into moaning breathlessly aloud. 

His thumb is merciless against your clit. You’re vulnerable to his touch, clit spread and on display from the stretch of his thick cock inside of you, and he takes full advantage. His fingers are thick and blistering hot as he rubs at you, and you choke as your toes curl.

“Simon–” You manage to eke out before you lose the weak thread of your thoughts, scattering into nothing as he stimulates the stiff bead of your clit. 

He grunts to show that he’s heard you, but he doesn’t seem any more capable of words than you are as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. You’re practically blinded by your wet eyes, blinking frantically to try and clear your vision as you reach out clumsily to throw your arms around Ghost’s blisteringly hot neck.

It feels as though your skin is stretched too tight over your body, hot and prickly and too much. You’re trembling, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as agonising pressure builds in your lower belly. 

“Fuck, love.” Ghost says, his voice little more than a snarl. “You gonna come?”

No, You think hazily. No, you never come. But even as you think it, part of you recognises that it’s never felt like this before. Your stomach tightens, toes curling, your lungs burning, your eyes rolling. You hardly even know what’s happening.

You recognise that something is building, but it almost seems secondary to the way that Ghost is rutting into you like a man possessed, hitting that spongey spot in the back of your pussy that you’ve never managed to reach yourself and making your legs spasm every time even as his thick thumb rubs frantic circles around the bump of your clit.

“Fuck, fuck–” You wheeze, bucking your hips against him.

It doesn’t grow and dissipate in the way you’re used to. Rather, it creeps up on you almost without you noticing, until you’re whimpering and clinging to Ghost like he’s a lifeline. Your bottom lip trembles as you sob weakly, practically on the brink of diving into an oncoming tidal wave of desire. Then that coil in your stomach snaps like a rubber band, sudden and sharp as a slap to the face. 

Your back arches, your vision whites out, and you cum so hard that the world stops, your ears ring, your body goes limp. Your cunts sucks tight around him, pulsing, feeling every inch of him. It feels so sweet, that white-hot buzzing pleasure rushing over you and wiping your brain completely clean. 

You’re a little delirious from being stuffed with such a fat cock; every thrust just prolongs your pleasure, like his penetration keeps you from squeezing your very first orgasm out right away. It’s mindless ecstasy, your nails burrowing into the skin of his biceps as you desperately clutch at him for some kind of leverage. Ghost doesn’t falter, his hips continuing to work into you, wringing your orgasm out until you feel as though your brain is melting.

You sob – an actual, genuine, wet-sounding sob as your chest heaves for air and your eyes burn with overwhelmed, rapturous tears. Your head is spinning even as your climax subsides, leaving you limp-limbed and weak as Ghost continues rocking into you.

“Look so lovely when you come, sweetheart,” Ghost grunts into your ear, his bulky chest weighing you down as you clutch feebly at his shoulders. “God, that’s a sight. All for me, yeah?”

His praise only makes it worse, makes your eyes sting until there’s tears down your cheeks and stars behind your eyelids. He sounds so smug, but you can’t deny that he has reason to be. He’s the first man to ever touch you, first man to ever fuck you, the first person to ever tip you over the edge and wring an orgasm out of you. Fuck, you think your brain might have been reduced to mush permanently; you wonder wildly if you’ll ever be the same after this.

Despite the sting of Ghost’s punishing thrusts into your already oversensitive cunt, your body sings for him. The rhythm of his hips is getting gradually sloppier, as though he doesn’t care as much for precision now that he’s succeeded in making you come. Soft, guttural little grunts fall from his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist to reposition you so that he can fuck quick and shallow. It’s almost tender, as though he’s aware of your growing sensitivity as you mewl under him.

There’s a profound, instinctual pleasure in seeing Ghost lose himself in your embrace. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded and his mask is still all rucked up, revealing the way his mouth is lolled softly open as he pants. You find yourself wishing feverishly that he had taken off his clothes too, because you think you would give anything to watch the roiling muscles of his chest and shoulders as he ruts into you.

Then just when you think you’re beginning to recover from the shattering, mind-numbing oversensitivity, Ghost comes inside of you.

He stops rutting to ride out his orgasm, his cock throbbing, pulsing, spurting inside you until you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt. And he comes a lot. 

You’re stuffed so tightly with his cock that his cum has nowhere to go, and ends up leaking thickly from where your cunt grips around him, messy and hot and spilling over your thighs and his. The sound he makes is breathless, all open-mouth and head lolled back as he groans, blissed out as he finds release in your cunt. 

The minutes afterwards are a blur. 

You close your eyes for what feels like only a second, but the next time you blink your eyes open you find yourself feeling miserably, uncomfortably empty and sticky as all that oozy cum leaks out of you. You somehow missed Ghost pulling out of you, and your thoughts are muzzy and embarrassingly slow.

For a moment, you think you’re alone. You’re becoming more aware of yourself, and you realise that you’re shivering weakly alone in your sweat-damp sheets. Where did Ghost go? Part of you, still a little hazy, wonders if he had left you alone as soon as he had come, and you feel your lower lip tremble at the thought. 

God, you feel pathetic. You shift feebly on the sheets, and suck in a sharp breath when you feel the ache inside you, proof that you’re going to feel the shadow of Ghost’s cock for days. You feel drunk off the afterglow, yet you’re swiftly becoming more and more aware of yourself and all the aches and pains that are coming to the fore now.

It feels like you’re too big for your body, and you’re clumsy when you try to sit up. Pushing yourself up makes a whole new set of aches light up, and you let out a quiet keening grumble.

You’re so caught up with trying to ground yourself that you jolt in surprise when big, paw-like hands land on you, pushing you back down onto the bed. “Shh, hey, lay down.” Ghost says, the rough edges of his accent softened. To your bewilderment, he has a damp cloth in his hand; he went to the bathroom, you realise hazily.

Maybe it’s just because you feel raw after your experience with him, pulsing like an open nerve, but you sniffle and blink and then suddenly there are tears dripping down your face.

“Thought you left.” You mumble, trying not to sound like a needy little idiot.

Ghost glances up at you, unblinkingly. His mask is fixed firmly back in place, and he looks annoyingly put-together; it’s an embarrassingly stark contrast to the way you’re still nude and shivery and teary-eyed.

“No.” He says simply.

The damp cloth is warm when it makes contact with your skin, and you relax as he drags it along your sweaty back and over your legs. He’s a little rough about it, but you don’t think it’s on purpose. Gentleness doesn’t come naturally to Simon Riley, and yet you can feel that he’s trying and that makes a warm glow settle in your stomach, replacing the cold anxiety that had settled in when you thought that he had left you alone.

When the cloth reaches the tender skin of your pussy, you hiss and try to pull away. It all feels too sensitive, and you feel your face crumple up as he wipes away the mess of slick and cum between your thighs. He gentles his touch as much as he can, but you still mewl at the electric zaps of oversensitivity that jolt up your spine.

When Ghost pauses and pulls the cloth away from you, you blink your eyes awake. Your vision is still all wet and blurry from tears, but you can still see the shape of Ghost as he stares down at you. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, even after having been cleaned up, and Ghost’s stare is burning.

You wonder if he’s about to leave now – you can recognise this whole thing had gotten out of hand, and you just about manage to stifle the panic at the creeping realisation that you’ve just fucked your superior officer. Ghost must have realised at this point that the two of you had just ripped through all those fraternisation rules, though it’s always been difficult to tell what he’s thinking. But you trust him – you have to, in your line of work. You have to trust that he’ll handle things.

Ghost tosses aside the cloth, and his big overbearing body climbs back into bed beside you. It’s a standard-issue bunk, and yet it feels comically tiny when Ghost has been added to the mix. He’s surprisingly agile, even despite his big size, and you barely have time to realise that he’s joining you in bed before he’s wrapped a thick arm around your middle, hauling you closer.

You’d love to act chill and cool about the fact that he’s now essentially cuddling you, but you miss the mark by a long mile. You take a breath, and allow yourself to relax into his big burly chest. He’s still fully clothed, and the rough texture of his jeans against your tender bare skin makes you shiver lightly from oversensitivity.

Your hips are sore from being stretched so wide, your joints weak and watery, and you’re perfectly content to close your eyes and forcibly ignore all your concerns about fraternisation or how you’re going to face Ghost in training. It’s a problem for another time.

“You still alive?” Ghost grunts, and his palm coasts down over your back to settle at your ass, his fingers squeezing absent-mindedly into the soft flesh there.

He sounds amused, which makes you grumble in irritation. He takes up so much space, his big body filling up all the free space on the bed and making you feel so fucking small as he holds you so that your back is pressed against his stomach.

“I dunno,” You mumble, words a little garbled. “Think… think you might have fucked me stupid, Lt.”

Lying like this, with his front pressed against your back, you can feel his laugh rumble into you. He’s touchy too in a way that surprises you; his hands are constantly moving, swiping over your sides and groping at any part of you that’s squishy-soft.

“Think I might have,” He agrees, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “But I think you needed it, sweetheart. You were practically cryin’ out for it all day.”

You feel your face heat at the insinuation that he had noticed the arousal you thought you had hidden so well. But you still feel so fuzzy inside, and you can’t manage to drum up any genuine reaction.

Ghost’s roaming hand slips down between your legs, and you hold your breath as he reaches your swollen, tender pussy. His fingers are so big, but he’s aware of his strength and keeps his touch light, cupping rather than groping, his calloused palm catching on your puffy clit.

“Told you a real cock would be better,” He rumbles, and you feel the soft material of his mask rubbing against the back of your sweaty neck. “You’ve got a fussy little cunt – ‘s only gonna be satisfied by the real thing.”

You’d love to jab back at him, but the feeling of him rough palm against your oversensitive clit has your thoughts fizzing out into nothingness. All you can do is let out a quiet little whimper, and rock your hips into his touch. To your utter bewilderment, you feel your arousal, which you had previously considered entirely sated, pulse back to life.

As if Ghost can feel your cunt throb beneath his hand, he snickers. “Yeah. Fussy and greedy.”

He leans down, and you feel his lips brush against the back of your neck through the cotton of his balaclava. You quiver, and part your legs without conscious thought to give his thick fingers more room to work. Despite your exhaustion, and your soreness, and your sensitivity, you find yourself wanting. You wonder, with an edge of hysteria, if your body has somehow managed to rewire itself to only accept pleasure from your commanding officer’s hand.

“Ghost– Simon–” You breathe, your hips jumping as you grind into his palm.

“Yeah,” He says again, as though he knows exactly what you need and want. “One little orgasm wasn’t enough, was it?”

“No.” You choke out, throwing your head back so that it’s resting against Ghost’s broad chest. “No, ‘t wasn’t.”

You can hardly believe that your body is winding up for more, but Ghost’s touch is searing hot against your tender skin, and you can already taste the pleasure he’s going to bring you. This time, without the edge of urgency, you think you might even enjoy it more.

“Um… Ma’am…” You start to say, awkward and stilted, but she raises a hand to stop you.

You shut up immediately, cowed.

Ardmore flicks through whatever it is she’s reading for another minute. In the silence of her sparse, impersonal office, it feels like an eternity.

Finally, she lifts her head and fixes you with a stern look.

“You know, I’m trying to figure out just what it is you do, exactly.” She says, and her voice is just as cold as her eyes. 

You swear it feels as though the temperature in the office drops.

“Oh.” You say. You’re trying to keep your voice light, but it just comes out strained. “I, um. Well, I suppose I manage the–”

“The purpose of the Recombinant Support Team,” Ardmore cuts across you cleanly, as though you had no voice at all. “Was to handle the administration for the unit so that they could focus on their missions.”

There’s a slight pause.

“Yes.” You say weakly, though you’re not sure if she was actually waiting on a response or not.

“As far as I can see, you do very little of that.” Ardmore is staring at you with an impassive expression. “You seem to spend most of your time doing their laundry.”

You feel your skin get hot and prickly with embarrassment. You don’t always do their laundry. Just… just a handful of times. But you don’t get a chance to defend yourself before she’s continuing.

“You have no experience, no real skills. I can’t rightly see how you got hired in the first place. You should have been reassigned when the useful members of your team were killed.” She huffs, the first edge of irritation beginning to creep into her tone. “But Quaritch has always liked a pretty young face.”

The prickling humiliation gets worse. Your shoulders are hunched, and you can’t meet her eyes.

What she’s getting at is something that you have been aware of on some level, despite your attempts at denial. You know that you were always the least efficient member of the team, but you had thought that you had worked with enough enthusiasm to make up the difference. And even when you were the only one left, no one had ever complained.

But you weren’t completely stupid. You know that the Colonel didn’t treat you like just any assistant.

“I–” You start to say, but she interrupts you yet again.

“I’m going to give you a choice.” She says, folding her hands in front of her.

There’s a pause, but this time you don’t speak. You just wait, your tummy clenching anxiously. This doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good. Are you being fired? Or demoted? Or finally reassigned? You suppose it was just a matter of time.

“The Colonel has become increasingly difficult to handle of late,” Ardmore says, setting the datapad down in a way that comes across as too casual. “He’s unruly, resistant to command. Seems to think he knows how to deal with the Na’vi insurgents better than anyone else.”

You blink. You had been aware on some level that there had been tensions between Quaritch and Ardmore, but you don’t know why or what happened. No one tells you anything around here, and you’re too focused on just getting by to really worry about the bigger picture of the RDA’s long-term goals on the planet.

“You’re aware that he left the city, unsanctioned, three days ago?’

That makes you tense. It’s an accusation, really. 

Of course you knew – there had been some kind of disagreement. You knew that Quaritch had asked for a ship and been denied, but not the particulars. You also knew that they had received some intel about Sully’s whereabouts, and had disappeared on their ikran mounts before anyone even knew they had gone.

You’re aware of all of this because you’ve already been chewed out by the higher ups in SecOps. You’re meant to be up to date with the Recoms every move, after all, so it’s easy to drop the blame in your lap.

“Y-yes,” You say, guilty and anxious all at once. “I didn’t sanction that–”

Ardmore continues over you, once again completely ignoring your attempt at speaking. It doesn’t seem like she cares much if you know what she’s talking about; you get the impression that she’s off-loading some of this onto you like this is a stopgap therapy session.

“The reason he was brought back was to complete a specific mission, and he has failed that mission several times.”

Retrieving or killing the betrayer and insurgent, Jake Sully. You know this one. It’s hard to miss the holovids shimmering all over Bridgehead, declaring him an enemy of humanity.

“So… is the Colonel being recalled, or something?” You ask.

Ardmore looks as though she’s stopping herself from rolling her eyes through sheer will power.

“The Recoms represent a significant investment by the company, so no, they’re not ‘being recalled, or something.’” Her voice is harsh in a way that makes you sit up straighter, your stomach curdling. “But they do need some… incentive to ensure they stay in line.”

You nod dumbly. “An incentive.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

Truthfully, you haven’t been following along with her reasoning very well in the first place, but now you’re flummoxed.

“Me, ma’am?” Despite your confusion, you work to keep your voice as even as possible. Ardmore is clearly already irritated about your very existence; you don’t want to give her a reason to hate you even more.

Your caution goes to waste, because Ardmore’s eyes flash in aggravation anyway. You suspect that there’s nothing you can do to please her, and it makes your spine go stiff. Your knees are watery, too – if you were standing, you might have gone weak.

“Yes, you.” Ardmore says sharply. “Next time the Recoms are sent out, you’re going with them.”

The order falls between you two like a lead balloon. You blink at her, turning the words over in your head. It takes you a moment to parse their meaning, and then another moment to discern that she’s one hundred percent serious. The General isn’t the type of woman to make jokes, but the statement is so bizarre that you honestly can’t quite get your head around it.

“Out.” You say at last. “Into… into the field?”

The General’s nostrils flare slightly as she takes an inhale, like she’s trying to regulate her patience. Then she forces a smile.

“That’s right.” She says. “Quaritch has been reckless recently. Let’s see if he takes the same type of risks when he’s toting you around behind him.”

You gape at her. You understand the basic premise. Quaritch has become a pain in her ass, so she’s decided to shackle a weight to his ankle to ensure he doesn’t go rogue like he’d done before. 

But why does that ankle weight have to be you?

Your mouth is dry when you swallow. “Uh… I don’t… I don’t know if that… I don’t think the Colonel would care too much if I got killed in the field, ma’am.”

Ardmore snorts a little, which isn’t a reaction you had been expecting.

“Right,” She murmurs, glancing at the datapad. “You were on sick leave the day we rolled out against the Metkayina. The rest of the Support team were with the Recoms, but not you.”

You blink, picking anxiously at a hangnail on your thumb. “Uh… Yes, ma’am. I had a cold.”

You swear her cold blue eyes actually flash at that.

“A cold.” She says the words slowly, as though tasting them. “A bad cold, was it?”

You hesitate, because no, it hadn’t been a bad cold. It was really little more than a case of the sniffles, but Quaritch had looked at you with such an expression of disgust when you had blown your nose near him that you had thought he was going to have you quarantined. Instead, he had ordered you to take a few sick days.

You hadn’t thought about it too much at the time; you had been all too happy to take the excuse to skip what you had thought was going to be the straightforward arrest of Jake Sully. But now, you can recognise that it’s a little strange that you were pulled off duty just for a runny nose, especially by a hard-ass like Quaritch.

“It could have been contagious.” You say weakly.

Ardmore ignores that.

“Pack a bag. Keep it light.” She says bluntly. “They want to head out tomorrow.”

There’s any number of reasons you could give to illustrate how this is a bad idea. You’ve never been outside Bridgehead, you have no combat training, you aren’t even very good at the job you have! The Recoms may not have complained, and Quaritch may not have demanded your reassignment, but that doesn’t mean that he actually wants you around. In the last few months, you’ve hardly seen him at all!

But you’re stressed and confused and not thinking clearly, because the only thing you blurt is; “Tomorrow? But they just got back!”

“Quaritch has a fire under his ass at the moment.” Ardmore grunts, already picking up her datapad again. “But that isn’t much good if he fails again.”

She redirects her attention to her datapad and it’s clear that you’re dismissed. But you’re not quite ready to go.

This is the stupidest plan you’ve ever heard. You’re not the smartest around, but even you can tell that this is irresponsible, ridiculous. Why send a civilian out with two Recoms, who have been engineered to fight back against the nine feet tall, vicious hostiles that want all humans dead?

“You said there was a choice.” You manage to say without your voice trembling. “What… what’s the other option?”

Ardmore’s eyes flick up to you.

“Other option.” She repeats without inflection. She sets the datapad aside again, then clasps her hands to look over you properly.

The once-over is brief, and you get the distinct impression that you’ve been found wanting.

“If you choose not to go, then there is no need for you on this planet.” Ardmore says after a pause. “Your presence here is superfluous. With only two Recombinants left, there’s not much need for a Support Team as they now report to me directly.”

“So–” You begin, blinking.

“So,” Ardmore cuts across you again. “You’ll be sent back to Earth.”

The words land like a suckerpunch to the chest. Your breath hitches, and you stare at Ardmore with wide eyes.

You’ll be sent back to Earth.

You can’t let that happen. There’s nothing for you back on Earth. Your city is a wasteland, buckling under the weight of a population that it doesn’t have the resources to sustain. Pandora had been a new start for you – signing up for the RDA had been an act of desperation. The thick smog of the cities had begun choking up your lungs, the oppressive atmosphere of the dying planet contributing to your chronic migraines, and you had known in that instinctive, bone-deep way that if you didn’t get off-world soon you would die in that dark, mouldy apartment that you were spending most of your paycheck renting.

You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t. 

And judging from the way Ardmore is looking at you right now, she knows it.

“I’ll go pack my bag then, ma’am.” You say, defeated and dull.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

The jungles of Pandora are beautiful. You’ve only ever seen photographs, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. It pulses with energy and life, vast swathes of lush greenery stretching up towards the sky like hands. When you stare down from the Samson aircarrier, you can see the lines of rivers criss-crossing like veins. Up here, you really can almost subscribe to the idea of the planet as one big living entity, like the native Na’vi believe.

It’s so different to the decaying atmosphere of Earth and the industrial hellhole of Bridgehead, but you don’t really get the opportunity to admire it properly because you’re so focused on the fact that Quaritch is angry with you.

It’s not necessarily obvious, but you’re rather embarrassed to admit that you’re incredibly attuned to Quaritch’s moods. It’s partly a survival instinct; Quaritch can be a scary motherfucker, and you feel a certain pressure to ensure that he’s kept happy. You tell yourself it’s because you’re the last member of the Support Team, but that doesn’t quite ring true.

The truth is, you have a big fat embarrassing crush on the Colonel.

You tamp it down the best you can, but Quaritch doesn’t help things. You know that he’s aware of your crush; it’s obvious in every interaction he has with you. He calls you pet names – baby, honey, cupcake – he pats your rump when you walk by, his hands linger all over you.

You’ve become so accustomed to his attention that when he turns surly, you swear to god you turn into a sad wilting houseplant taken away from the sun. 

You know you’re acting like a total loser, but it’s like you can’t quite help yourself. Quaritch’s attention is intense, and it feels all consuming in the most exciting way, so when it’s taken away it feels like a shock to the system.

It’s not that he’s ignoring you or anything, but for the few days after you’re first assigned to follow him and Wainfleet, he’s cold. He doesn’t engage much in conversation, just grunting at you, and there’s no head pats or even little ass slaps. You pretend it’s not completely pitiful to be so affected by his irritation, and you pretend not to see the sympathetic looks Wainfleet sends you when you gaze after the Colonel.

You’re good at pretending.

But one day, maybe four days after you first set out, he softens again. You’re not sure what the trigger is, but you’re so relieved that you’re not about to question anything.

And that brings you to… whatever this is. The unconventional part of your dynamic with your boss.

His cot on the air transport is tiny and narrow by Recom standards, but you fit on it just fine. With Quaritch on it too it’s a narrow squeeze, but neither of you mind. The low hum of the Samson engines thrums through the metal floor of the cargo hold, a steady rhythm beneath the quiet creak of the cot’s frame and the slick wet sounds of your mouths moving together.

Quaritch is massive even in repose, resting heavily on his back. You’re curled against his chest, one of his big arms looped around your waist to keep you anchored against him. His lips are much bigger than yours, but you’ve done this so often now that the honeyed slide of your mouths together fall into an easy, languid rhythm.

The dim red standby lights paint Quaritch’s broad Na’vi features in warm contrast, the little freckles on his face incandescent in the gloom. His golden eyes are heavy-lidded – you’re not sure if it's from arousal or fatigue. It’s the end of a long-day, and he and Lyle had been trekking around various tribes all day. He hadn’t said anything when they’d gotten back, so you had assumed that it hadn’t gone well. 

When he’d tugged you into the small room where the cots are held, the only compartment on the transport where the air is regulated for humans, that only confirmed it. Lyle had watched the two of you go, rolling his eyes.

Your breath catches as his tongue slips against yours, dominant even in leisure. One large hand slides down from your neck, tracing the curve of your spine before settling firmly on your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you squeak.

His mouth moves over yours with practiced ease, coaxing you to open, to sigh, to melt. And you do, instantly. Your hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers tangling into the knot of his braid at the base of his skull, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat.

When he pulls his big head back, breaking the kiss, a thin string of saliva pulls taut, creating a bridge between your swollen mouths.

“Damn, you’re messy,” he huffs, thumb swiping over your glistening mouth, smearing moisture. 

His gaze darkens, but he doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Instead his broad nose nuzzles at the side of your neck, placing slow wet kisses to your jaw. Your body is quivering under his attention at his hot breath huffs against your sensitized skin.

“I gotta favour to ask, sweetpea,” He murmurs, tongue lashing just under your ear.

“A-a favour?” You repeat, shivering. 

“Mhm,” He hums, reaching up to prod a thumb at your lower lip again just to watch the soft flesh give. “Just a small one.”

You blink, trying to collect yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, feeling every point of contact between you and your boss right now. God, this is so inappropriate. You’re pretty certain that if Ardmore were to learn of this little routine, where you make out with the Colonel every damn evening as a fucked up form of stress relief, you’d be reassigned to work in the onbase McDonalds so fast your head would spin.

“Uh… yeah.” You say, sounding completely fucking stupid. “A favour. Mm. What is it?”

There’s a soft huff of breath against your damp throat, and it takes a moment to recognise it as a laugh.

“Need you to approve a weapons requisition for me.”

You’re still feeling a little damn slow on the uptake, but you nod anyway. That’s not really a favour, is it? That’s part of your job. Weapons requisition forms are pretty standard, and he usually just leaves any paperwork he wants you to sign on your desk. Maybe he’s only asking because you’re out in the bush, and there’s nowhere for him to drop it off or something. 

“Of course I can do that.” You say breathily, already leaning up to him in the hopes of getting another kiss. You’re so relieved that he’s not angry with you anymore that you think you’d agree to anything.

God, you know you’re pathetic, but when he gives you that sharp, arrogant smile, sharp canines gleaming, you feel your stomach give a sharp lurch. You try not to squirm too obviously, but your thighs press together instinctively.

“That’s my good girl,” He purrs, his chest rumbling as he leans down once more. “Keepin’ the team goin’, aintcha?”

It’s so obviously not true, just a bone he’s throwing you, but you nod your head anyway. It’s good to feel wanted, to feel useful. It’s not a feeling that you’re used to here on Pandora, always living with the heavy awareness that you’re only here because Quaritch has taken a liking to you on a whim. Even then, you’re not stupid enough to think that just because he likes to make out with you whenever he’s had a hard day, that he’s sweet on you. 

The Colonel is a man on a mission, and you’ve never been under any illusion of where your place with him is. It’s just… stress relief. When the Colonel has a mad day, he often seeks you out for lazy make out sessions, fingering, a little groping. Never any more than that, no matter how you writhe and beg.

“You gonna get that?” He murmurs against your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse point.

“Huh?” You pant, mind hazy and a little stupid. 

Your conscious awareness has narrowed down to his mouth on your neck, the suckling motions of his tongue as he licks over the marks he’s leaving. A prey instinct in the back of your mind has kicked in and is screaming at you for allowing such an enormous predator to pin you down and press his sharp teeth to your throat, but you’re so horny and dazed that you stuff that survival impulse down deep.

“I said,” He nips at your earlobe, pulling a breathy squeal from you, “Are you gonna get that?”

At first you don’t notice the beeping, too busy chasing his mouth again, lips parting eagerly. But then he pulls back to look down at you, cat-like eyes darting over your sweaty, dazed expression, and you begin to come back to yourself.

Your head snaps around, your eyes falling on your datapad where it sits across the room on your own cot. The screen is lit up as it vibrates, emitting steady beeps.

General Ardmore calling.

You let out a startled shriek, scrambling out of the cot.

Quaritch lets out a low huff, falling back onto the standard issue bunk and lazily pillowing his head with his two arms. He watches you with darkened eyes, looking both amused and annoyed. 

You scramble to straighten your uniform—it’s wrinkled, blouse misbuttoned, one strap of your bra peeking out near your shoulder. You yank it back in place, flustered.

“Oh, god,” You hiss, panicked. “Shit.”

You ignore the low rumbling chuckle from behind you as you grab the datapad. Low-level panic is causing your fingers to tremble, but you clear your throat and affect a pleasant expression as you answer the call.

The connection is a little spotty this far out, and the video feed flickers as Ardmore’s familiar scowl appears on-screen.

“Ma’am.” You greet, attempting to surreptitiously smooth down your hair.

Even through the fuzzy video, you can see her cold eyes narrow.

“Sitrep.” She barks, audio crackling.

You clear your throat, struggling to gather your thoughts. “Yes. Um. The… the Recom unit scoped out another one of the Reef clans–”

“Any sign of the kid?”

Behind you, the cot creaks as Quaritch shifts, listening in.

“Not yet, ma’am.” You say, fighting the urge to glance over your shoulder.

Even through the shitty videofeed, you can feel Ardmore eyeing you, assessing you. You’re hyperaware now of the rumpled clothes, you’re messy hair. Can she see the hickeys Quaritch’s sharp teeth have no doubt left on your throat? All you can do is pray that the connection is too bad for her to see details.

“And Quaritch?” She asks.

You hesitate, just briefly.

“He’s conducting interrogations with the clan.” You say. “Within mission parameters.”

Truthfully, you don’t have much of an idea of what goes on when Quaritch and Wainfleet move out into the wild. They leave you on the transport with the other humans, mounting their ikran and flying off to intensify the search for Quaritch’s son. When they get back they smell of gasoline and ash, and neither will offer any information about what they’ve done.

“That wasn’t my question.” Ardmore’s voice crackles, but you can hear the undertone of impatience.

You steady your voice. “He’s focused, ma’am.”

You don’t look behind you, afraid of what you might see on Quaritch’s face. He knows that Ardmore calls every night for a sitrep, he knows that she’s using you to check up on him, but you’ve never talked about it. It’s probably part of the reason he’s so reticent with information, why he keeps you in the dark on his plans.

But Ardmore doesn’t seem happy.

“Have you been out in the field with them?” She demands. “That’s what you’re there for.”

There’s no point in lying. You can tell by the look on her face that she already knows the answer, and you know where this is going.

“Um… no, ma’am.” You say hesitantly. “It was deemed too dangerous for a non-combatant–”

“I want you out there with them tomorrow.” She barks, as you had suspected.

You deflate a little, anxiety curdling in your stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes flick briefly past the camera, then back to you, calculating.

“And you are not to involve yourself beyond observation,” she adds. “No heroics. No fraternisation.”

Your cheeks burn, hearing the unspoken accusation. “Understood.”

There’s another pause, during which Ardmore studies you like a pawn on a board she hasn’t quite decided how to use.

“Keep the channel open,” she says finally. “If anything changes, I expect to hear it immediately.”

You’ve barely begun to answer when she hangs up, the videofeed going dead. In the ensuing quiet, the hum of the air carrier and the low hiss of the oxygen tanks only seem to emphasise Quaritch’s silence.

Finally, you turn, and as soon as you catch sight of Quaritch you flush. He’s still stretched out on the cot, right where you’d left him, but what you hadn’t noticed was the unmistakable bulge in his cargo pants. God, you’re glad you hadn’t glanced behind you in the middle of that call – you’re certain you would have lost your train of thought and humiliated yourself in front of Ardmore.

But then your eyes lift to his face, and the warm simmer of arousal that had started in your belly is tempered. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark – no longer in arousal, but now in unmistakable annoyance.

“I guess I’m coming with you two tomorrow,” You say, keeping your voice as light as possible as you stand. “Where did you say you were going?”

Instead of answering you, Quaritch stands up. He fixes his vest, ignoring his hard-on. His ears are flattened against his skull, and your stomach sinks as you realise that he’s angry.

“Next time,” he says, voice rough, “you tell her less.”

“Oh.” You say, voice small. “Right. I’m sorry. I just–”

But he’s not interested in speaking to you, because he doesn’t wait for you to finish speaking. He just grunts, stepping past you and heading for the door. 

You watch him leave, lip trembling.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Quaritch and Wainfleet are keeping their plans from you again.

It’s obvious in the way that Quaritch doesn’t look up from his datapad once, even with you sitting by his side jabbering away. He towers over you, enormous even when sitting, with his broad shoulders and lithe waist. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he stabs a big finger at the holodisplay. He’s not the best with technology, and his ears are pinned flat against his skull in irritation.

The transport judders, an air pocket causing the small aircraft to lurch, but it barely puts a pause in your story as you lean into his side.

“But Elena said that if Kyle was going to keep sleeping around on her, then she may as well…” You trail off slowly, realising that the only one listening to you is Lyle. 

Quaritch is still frowning at something at the datapad. You squint and crane your neck, but can’t quite catch a glimpse of what he’s looking at. 

“Do you want help with that?” You ask.

You’re already reaching for the pad, used to helping him with whatever he needs, but this time he lifts it up out of your reach.

“No,” he grunts. “Leave it.”

You blink, surprised. He never usually refuses your help. If anything, he usually shoves whatever piece of tech he’s messing around with into your hands and leaves you to sort it. But this time, he angles the datapad out of sight so you can’t see what he’s doing.

It shouldn’t be surprising at this stage, but you still feel the little sting of hurt.

Lyle leans forward. “What did Elena do next?”

“Huh?” You blink, distracted now.

 Lyle is watching you, tail coiling impatiently, waiting for you to finish your story. 

“Oh, right.” You clear your throat, gathering yourself. If Quaritch is going to be like that, fine. You’ll just ignore him for a while until he decides to act right again.

“Right. So, Elena said that if he was going to keep sleeping around, they may as well just open the relationship.”

Lyle gasps, letting out a low cackle of delight. 

The rest of the flight is quiet, the silence only broken by you and Lyle murmuring together. Quaritch is distant, focusing on whatever is on his datapad. His huge hulking body is pressed right against yours, but he may as well be miles away.

It’s not until later that you really regret not asking more questions, demanding answers.

It’s late by the time the air carrier landed at a sort of village, and you’re forced to rely on the too-bright artificial floodlights to illuminate the surroundings. It’s some sort of Na’vi settlement, though it doesn’t look like any that you’ve seen photos of. It’s built between the roots of what had once been an enormous tree though its surroundings are sparse, as though the plantlife has been purposely burned back to create an ashy expanse of dirt on which they’ve constructed their raw-hide tents and wooden yurts.

The people, too, come as a shock. You’ve never actually seen a Na’vi before – the Recombinants don’t count, too human in nature to really count as alien – and you’re a little taken aback by how… different they look. It’s not just the red and black paint, or the shaved heads, or the near nudity. It’s the way they move; catlike, crouching low to the ground, hissing at each other.

Mangkwan, Lyle had muttered to you lowly.

Crates are hauled off the carrier and dropped into the dirt with heavy, final thuds. The Mangkwan swarm the crates immediately. Someone laughs, sharp and breathless. Another lets out a shriek of delight when a crate is cracked open and the contents revealed. Long blue fingers drag over dark metal like it’s something holy. The rifles are lifted, weighed, admired, before being passed hand to hand with reverence that tips quickly into glee.

You watch with a dry mouth, feeling sick to your stomach. You’re not sure what you’ve agreed to be a party to by ordering those damn weapons, but watching the exhilaration in those strange alien faces has you feeling an irrepressible feeling of sinking dread.

And then there’s the woman.

Nine feet tall, slender in that muscular Na’vi way, she towers over you. She moves like a panther, as though she’s aware of every inch of her body as she saunters around, her face lit up with a dangerous sort of delight.

You can only assume that this is the leader of the clan. Her skin is ash-streaked like the others, but unlike the others her body modifications are minimal, and she hasn’t shaved her head. Her tight braids are crowned with a headpiece that fans out in a way that reminds you a little of a frill-necked lizard you’d seen once in a nature doc.

She’s a little bit terrifying. It’s difficult not to stare.

Quaritch is sauntering around. Ostensibly, he’s overseeing the weapons drop, but to you it seems like he’s… showing off. Peacocking, almost, displaying how powerful he is, how strong, how he keeps his promises. It’s important to emphasise those things to his new allies, you know this, but the way he looks at the woman makes you… edgy.

He had pulled you in front of her, his enormous hands cupping your shoulders and pinning you in place for her perusal. The way the Na’vi around you treat her with nothing short of obeisance only solidifies your initial impression that she was the leader of the clan.

“Here she is,” He says, his chest all puffed out. “The little girl who organised all these weapons for you.”

He says it in English, then repeats it in Na’vi. You bristle at being called little girl, but don’t dare to correct him. Not while the woman is staring at you, mouth parted, like she wants to eat you alive.

You’re pretty sure you’re the first human she’s seen up close, though admittedly she doesn’t seem too interested in the human soldiers behind you who are unloading the crates. She stares at your face and features, your hair, the dimensions of your body, as though she’s trying to unravel you with her eyes alone.

When Quaritch shows the strange Na’vi woman – Varang, he had called her – the FT-M3A1 Flamethrower, he stands so close to her that he’s practically pressed up against her back. His hands linger in a way that you’re so familiar with, because it’s usually your body that they’re lingering on. 

And Varang leans back into him as they press the trigger together, hungry flames spraying out and catching onto the raw hides that they use for the village tents. Her girlish laughter rents the air as she watches the fire catch and spread across her own village.

“Booyah!” Quaritch booms, grinning wide as he watches Varang torch one of her own people’s tents.

“Booyah!” Varang echoes, almost girlish with excitement, hollering it like a war cry.

The smell of gasoline is choking even through the breathing mask, and you have to tamp down your nausea as you watch her spin on one foot, grabbing at Quaritch’s hand as the other Mangkwan descend on the shipment. 

Quaritch disappears into the tent after Varang, the beaded curtain parting just long enough to swallow his broad shoulders before falling closed again.

Your stomach clenches so hard you thought you might be sick, though you try to brush your instinctive panic away. You tell yourself that he’s just gone to talk strategy, to negotiate, to do whatever it is he does when he’s being the Colonel instead of… whatever he’s been to you. 

But the way Varang had smiled at him, so thrilled and coy, the way the curtain settles behind them, the finality of it, makes something ugly twist in your gut.

You wait for them to come back out, flinching as a Mangkwan man lets off a spray of gunfire behind you. But the curtain remains still, and no one returns.

An hour later, you’re still sitting by the cookfire in the Mangkwan camp, with Wainfleet tense at your side. Your fingers fiddle constantly with the pack at your side, the one keeping breathable air flowing steadily to your mask.

“Stop messing with that.” Wainfleet grunts without looking at you.

His eyes are fixed on that stupid beaded curtain hanging over the entrance of Varang’s tent. He’s barely looked away since the Colonel had disappeared inside.

You had realised pretty quickly that the leader of this tribe, Varang, was crazy. Like, clinically fucking insane.

It was the way she had laughed, high and girlish and totally incongruous with the way she had wrought destruction on her own village. Her eyes had glinted wildly in the reflection of the inferno, and when she had turned to Quaritch you had seen desire there. Admiration, even.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Wainfleet finally tears his eyes away from the beaded curtain, only to give you a look of disbelief.

“What do I think they’re doing?” He repeats. 

Under his disbelief, there’s the unmistakable thread of sympathy. God, he feels sorry for you.

You wince, then turn away again. Probably best not to think too much about it, or you might be ill.

Behind you, the air is rent with sporadic gunfire and ululations from the triumphant Mangkwan who are still messing around with the brand new shiny weapons. You don’t even flinch anymore; they’ve been like this for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop anytime soon.

Wainfleet barks something at them in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is poor; you’d taken a few classes when you were new and idealistic, but it was tough. Still, you know enough to know that he’s ordering them to stop wasting ammo. You doubt it’ll make a difference though – the only person they seem to respect enough to take orders from is Varang herself.

Sure enough, the two causing the ruckus merely sneer at Wainfleet, hissing.

The ones that aren’t shooting into the sky are dancing around the fire, their movements rough and hypnotic. When the fire spits sparks, they cheer. The atmosphere is charged, celebratory. You’re not sure what the weapons mean to them, but it doesn’t feel good.

A few are sitting near you and Wainfleet at the fire. They’re staring at you, hard. Anytime you make eye contact with them, they hiss at you, chuckling throatily when you flinch. Again, you suspect you’re the first human they’ve seen up this close. Or maybe it’s just that they usually kill your kind when they’re this close. It certainly looks as though they’re thinking about it.

Ever since you stepped foot on Pandora, the RDA had been impressing upon you how dangerous the Na’vi were, how vicious and bloodthirsty. Looking at these people before you, you can believe it. The relish that they wield the weapons with is alarming, and you feel a seed of panic in your stomach. 

You had done this, even if you didn’t realise it. It was you who had ordered the weapons, it was your signature on all those forms.

“Fuck,” You moan, burying your face in your hands. “Ardmore is going to kill me.”

Wainfleet doesn’t bother reassuring you. He just keeps watching the curtain.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Varang has taken to watching you. A lot.

It feels… challenging. Or appraising, maybe.

You avoid her to the best of your ability. You can’t look at her without thinking of the way she and Quaritch have gotten so much closer recently. They spend most of the day together; ostensibly talking strategy, but you see the way their touches linger. Even the way they look at each other like they’re the only two people in the world, as though everything else is just background noise. When she laughs at something he says, his mouth quirks in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s pleased. Really pleased.

It makes your chest ache.

But as the days pass, you realise something. When she’s not watching Quaritch with those bright, lamp-like eyes, she’s watching you.

It had been easy enough to ignore at first. You’ve taken to avoiding Varang, and by association Quaritch, since that night the weapons had been delivered. Perhaps part of you had been hoping that Quaritch might notice and come looking for you, leaving Varang’s side just to ensure that you are okay, but you were destined to be disappointed on that front.

You only make it two days without seeing them. You had hoped that you would be returning to Bridgehead after dropping the weapons off, convinced that your little excursion out into the wilds of Pandora had come to an end.

 But instead, Quaritch insisted that you were staying.

You’d been too flustered and bewildered to argue, simply retreating back to the aircarrier. 

It was big enough to comfortably transport everyone it needed to transport along with its cargo, but it wasn’t built for staying on longterm. The bunks are narrow and cramped, and highly uncomfortable. The only net positive was that you could take that stupid mask off and breathe the stale processed air.

That’s where you are, all curled up on the bunk that Quaritch had been sleeping in before he met… her. The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but despite yourself you still find his scent comforting.

You’re trying to catch up on reports, but your mind is buzzing and you job at the datapad more violently than you should. You’ve never been very good at keeping your paperwork in order, and you know that your quality has slipped even further since all this started.

You’re currently struggling through a report for Ardmore, chewing absently on your lower lip as you try to find a neutral way to word your explanation for just what’s happened over the last few days. Things had spiralled out of control so quickly, and it’s hard to ignore the hard knot of anxiety in your tummy when you think about it.

Apparently, Quaritch had met Varang before, on the Recoms last excursion into the forest. She had connected their neural queues together and performed some kind of freaky alien connection, and now Quaritch seems to be obsessed with her. 

At least, you’d like to blame the freaky alien connection; Wainfleet certainly did. He’d told you all about the connection, all about what Spider had told them. The first connection for a Na’vi baby was their mother, then father, then the trees. You’d be lying if you said that you understood it all, but Wainfleet speaks with such grim gravity about it. You know the only connection he’s ever performed is with his ikran, and the idea of connecting with another person seems to unnerve him. He also seems convinced that the reason Quaritch is so… enamoured with Varang is because she’s taken the place of the first connection.

You’re not so sure. You’re not blind, after all. You can see that Varang is one of the hottest women you’ve ever seen in your life. She might stare at you, but when she’s not looking you stare right back.

You had been fascinated by the Colonel’s Na’vi form, no matter how you’d tried to hide it, but despite the new body his body had still very much been human. But Varang? She’s so alien to you. Your eyes trace her narrow waist, her small bound breasts, the way her hips sway like a metronome when she walks.

How could you blame the Colonel for being so enchanted with her? You can see why. They both have the same wildness to them, like their sharp edges fit together. 

You’re so lost in your miserable thoughts, that you barely notice the door sliding open or the heavy footsteps approaching.

“The hell you doin’ in here, kid?”

The Colonel’s voice has you jolting, looking up in surprise. And the sight of him standing there, breathing mask around his neck, with Varang at his side? Oh, that has you bolting upright.

Quaritch approaches with the ease of navigating familiar surroundings, and normally the sight of him coming to seek you out might have your heart thrumming. But instead, your attention is drawn to the woman following behind. 

Varang’s big golden eyes are flicking around the bunks, curious about the surroundings but clearly finding them wanting. Within seconds, her eyes land on you and stay there. 

“Sir,” You blurt, your voice pitched higher than is entirely natural. “I– The General wants a report.”

He lets out a low, unimpressed rumble.

“She’ll survive without one for the next few days,” he says. “We’ll report to her when we’ve got something to report.”

That makes you hesitate. You absolutely do have something to report. Several things, in fact; starting with Quaritch’s new infatuation with the tsahík of the Mangkwan. You had also been hoping to do a bit of damage control before Ardmore learned through the grapevine that the weapons that had been requisitioned by you had been gifted straight to a hostile Na’vi tribe.

“I don’t want to get in trouble.” You murmur, frowning.

That makes Quaritch laugh, the familiar low chuckle that has the hair on your arms standing up. Up to this point Varang had been standing quietly by his side, eyes fixed on you. It feels like being under the watchful gaze of a predator, and you’re afraid to make any sudden movements. In this environment, in the air carrier with its sleek metal walls and artificial air, she seems more naked than ever. 

Next to Quaritch in his fatigues and vest, and you in a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, her long legs and lean waist draw your eyes like they’ve been magnetised.

You look away from her, flustered.

Quaritch turns to say something to Varang in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is still weak, but you catch the gist of it. Something along the lines of; ‘Such a good girl, isn’t she?’

You’re not sure if you understand all the nuances, but Varang finally looks away from you. She raises her eyes to Quaritch, and her mouth splits into a wide, fanged smile. She looks wild and fierce under her paint, and you feel gooseflesh beak out on your skin. If she wanted to, she could split your spine up the middle with one hand. And with the way she looks at you, sometimes you think she does want to.

You feel distinctly humiliated. They’re talking about you in another language as if you’re not right in front of them, and Varang’s eye contact feels predatory and feline. You don’t miss how Quaritch’s big fingers coast over her waist, or how she coyly sways into him.

Quaritch turns back to you then. “Pack your things. You’re staying in the village.”

You double take.

“In the– what?”

Quaritch isn’t waiting around for you to wrap your head around that new order. He’s already stepping back, heading back to the main control centre of the aircarrier, but he speaks over his shoulder.

“The air carrier is rolling out tomorrow alongside the Mangkwan.” He says. “Varang here has so kindly agreed to help us with our search for Sully.”

“Oh.” You say, determinedly not looking in Varang’s direction. “Okay. But why do I–”

“You’re staying here.” Quaritch says firmly. “Don’t need you out there gettin’ in the way, or gettin’ yourself hurt.”

Getting in the way? 

You stare at him in disbelief.

“But–” You begin, “Sir, my job is to–”

“Your job is to do what I tell you to do.” Quaritch barks. “Ain’t much good to me if you get yourself killed in the field.”

And with that he’s gone, already yelling orders at some of the soldiers in the control centre. You’re left alone with Varang, who isn’t even blinking as she looks at you.

You simmer with rage, feeling like a pot that’s about to boil over. This is such bullshit. You’ve done nothing wrong! Why have you been sidelined like this? It’s true that you’ve never been an essential member of the team, but you’ve received direct orders from Ardmore to stick with him. And besides that, you were hoping that he wanted you to stick with him.

It’s not like you and Quaritch were ever in a relationship. He never struck you as the type, anyway. If anyone had bothered to ask, you would’ve said he didn’t want strings, didn’t want expectations, didn’t want to answer to anyone. You’d never talked about what the two of you were doing. You’d just fallen into it, assumed there was some kind of unspoken understanding there. It hadn’t been serious, but it had been consistent. He’d pulled you into dark corners of his office for quick kisses, his hands always finding your ass when you walked past, and you’d spent too many long evenings pressed against him, making out like it was nothing more than stress relief. Something easy. Something contained.

And now he’s found some local tail to occupy himself with, and you’ve been quietly shuffled out of the picture like you were never more than a convenience to begin with.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

And even worse is that fact that even though he’d walked off without a second glance, Varang is still there.

Her braids are pulled tight to her head, and with her ash-painted skin and black-rimmed eyes, there’s nothing to soften her features. But her eyes are what unsettle you the most. They’re such a clear shade of honey-gold, but there’s nothing bright about them. They’re dark, always sharp. You don’t know how to place the look she gives you.

 There’s no open hostility, no contempt, but you can’t help but feel as though she hates you. There’s too much energy in her stare to be anything else.

She’s a full foot shorter than Quaritch’s towering frame, but her presence is palpable. Ignoring her is impossible; it feels like she’s sucked all of the air out of the room.

When she steps closer, you don’t manage to stifle your flinch. She crouches, peering closer at you, and you feel like you’re a bug under a magnifying glass.

You keep your eyes fixed on her face, wary and on guard. Her tail coils behind her, slow and undulating like a rattlesnake.

And when she speaks, her voice is almost menacing in its softness. You’re a little distracted by how close she is, so your attention isn’t solely on her words, but you’re pretty sure you catch the gist of it.

“I will take your mate.”

Your spine stiffens, and your eyes dart to the door Quaritch had disappeared out of. There’s no chance that he had heard her, of course.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Did she think that Quaritch was your mate? And if so, she was planning on taking him from you? To steal him for herself?

Maybe you were overreacting. It’s not stealing if he was never really yours. But you’re shocked by her boldness. There’s not an ounce of apology in her smug gaze as it flickers over your face, watching you carefully. Her tail is coiled and pleased. She seems confident, as though she doesn’t have an ounce of doubt in her ability to do so.

And you hate to admit it, but you don’t doubt she could take him from you, either. You’ve seen the way he looks at her, the way he wants to please her. You can’t really blame him, either. She’s… well, she’s alluring as fuck. Even now, with her in your space and vaguely threatening you, your body strains towards her like you’re entranced.

She’s still staring at you, as though waiting for an answer.

There’s nothing you can do but muster up your best glare, then gather up the scraps of your dignity and stalk past her. You don’t look back once as you flee, unwilling to spend one more second under her golden-eyed scrutiny.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Varang’s tent is one of the most solid structures in the village, with stitched animal hide reinforced and anchored into the ashy ground with wooden posts that have no doubt come from the remains of the enormous burnt tree that this village is nestled under. You hadn’t thought that Na’vi built with wood – something about not upsetting the flow of nature – but every dealing you have with the Mangkwan makes you think that you know nothing about the Na’vi at all. 

Maybe you need to break out that little Pandora for Beginners book you had downloaded on your datapad back when you first arrived here.

Quaritch had left you here hours ago, saying something about staying out of trouble and seeing you when he got back, but he was distracted. His mind was clearly elsewhere, taken up with hunting Sully and retrieving Spider. And, you suspect, taken up with Varang, too.

So now you wander around this weird little yurt, unsettled by the… decor. There are bones everywhere, threaded into hanging decorations like windchimes and suspended from the tent ceiling, or carved into strange little bowls containing all sorts of powders and ointments. There are other decorations made from woven plant fibres that you can only assume have been stolen from other clans, as they don’t match the style of anything else. It seems cluttered on first glance, but as you look around, trying not to feel as though the strange skins overhead are about to fall down on you, you begin to see that everything is arranged with some kind of order.

You step around the various decorations hanging from the animal hide ceiling – narrowly avoiding what you think may be a spine – and continue your exploration.

At the back of the dwelling, past yet another beaded curtain, is what you can only assume to be the sleeping area. It looks… cosy. The floor is lined with plush furs, providing a soft-to-the-touch cushion that you’re sure would be very comfortable, if you could stop imagining Varang coiled around Quaritch upon them.

You’re trying not to feel too bitter about whatever the hell it is that’s going on between them. You think you’ve been doing a decent job, but watching the Mangkwan mount up on their ikran and take off after the air carrier, leaving you behind like a spare part, is kind of doing a number on you.

She’s my Jolene, you think miserably.

You spend the day in the tent. You finish a preliminary report to Ardmore that you don’t send, and then you just… lounge around, lost in your thoughts. There’s nothing to do but think – you don’t even nose around, because you’re terrified of disrupting something of Varang’s that might cause her to come back and eat your head off.

Quaritch has always sort of treated you like a little pet. The worst part though, was the way you kind of liked it.

As the least competent person on the Recom Support Team, hired last and trusted with the least amount of work, you’ve always been aware that the Colonel hired you because he thought that you were soft and pretty to look at. You had thought that you would be offended by that, but instead you’re… kind of flattered. No one else had ever seen anything worth remarking upon when it came to you.

You liked the head pats, the pet names, the way he’d guide you by the elbow or keep you tucked just behind him like something fragile but owned. It was humiliating, if you thought about it too long. It was also intoxicating. Being useful was nice, even if you knew he was only indulging you.

It’s stupid and humiliating to admit, even to yourself, but you miss the attention, the casual possessiveness, the way he used to keep a hand on you like he was absentmindedly checking you were still there. You miss being noticed, being managed. Being indulged. Now his focus slips past you too easily, caught by something sharper and louder and far more interesting than you ever were, and it leaves you painfully aware of how conditional your place with him has always been.

And why were you being kept in Varang’s tent anyway?! It felt like salt being rubbed into an already raw wound.

‘I will take your mate’, she had said. There was nothing ambiguous about that.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

To your bewilderment, even when Quaritch and the Mangkwan return from their outing, you’re not permitted to return to the air carrier.

It feels like the worst kind of joke, having to share a tent with the two of them. Quaritch had returned with a supply of spare masks for you, but there had been no conversation about it. It’s like he had just assumed you’d be happy to move in with him and his weird witchy alien girlfriend. 

God, it boils your blood.

Varang had even set up a tiny little sleeping area for you, right next to theirs! She had maintained eye contact with you as she had done it, arranging those small plush furs so close to theirs that it was impossible to take it as anything other than mockery. Why the hell did she want you so close if not to wave in your face what you couldn’t have?

And then to watch you so closely for a reaction! God, she’s the worst.

You refuse to give her the reaction she’s so clearly hoping for. You just turn up your nose, and move the furs immediately to the other side of the yurt. 

She watches you set up your new sleeping station, scowling, and you feel a rush of triumph. She’s not going to get to you that easily.

You’re so used to having Quaritch’s attention all to yourself, but now it’s split. He doesn’t even really ask you to do anything anymore. Now, it’s like you’re a pet for real. You spend most of the ensuing days lounging in the furs, bored out of your mind. 

When Quaritch had first come back to the tent and seen your new bedding set up on the opposite side of the tent, he had rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation.

“Sulkin’ don’t suit you, baby,” He warns even as he steps past you. “Gotta adapt.”

You scowl, and don’t bother answering.

Quaritch is always busy, either planning with Wainfleet or whispering and grinning with Varang. When they come back to the tent, you make yourself scarce. You really don’t want to see whatever goes on between them when they’ve got privacy. The scenes that your imagination offers up when you finally sneak back into your little furs at night to sleep are bad enough.

One good thing that comes of your strange little stint in the Mangkwan village is that your grasp on the Na’vi language improves drastically by being so immersed in it.

During the times that you’re avoiding Quaritch and Varang, you wander around the Mangkwan. They’re not as scary as they had initially seemed to you. They don’t bother you when you walk by them, at least, and some even exchange some words with you. You assume it’s down to your proximity to Quaritch, or maybe the fact that you’re currently staying in their tsahìk’s tent. 

But their tolerance doesn’t extend to Wainfleet, who they often brush off, hissing at him.

You’ve spent the day wandering the village, eager to escape Varang’s relentless staring. You swear that her scrutiny has gotten worse recently, or maybe it’s just because now that you’re sharing the tent with them, it’s difficult to escape her attention unless it’s fixed on Quaritch.

By evening time, you end up sitting with Wainfleet for a while, watching while the Mangkwan eat and dance and wrestle with each other. Sometimes you can’t tell if they’re playing or fighting – everything just seems so violent, enough that you flinch into Wainfleet’s side every time they clash.

At your side, Wainfleet is cleaning his sniper rifle. His eyes are watchful, darting around the gathering in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t trust anyone around him. On your other side is Zari, a Mangkwan woman who has taken to the human-style weapons with great relish. She’s learning how to use a rifle just like Wainfleet’s, and she’s watching him and trying to copy his cleaning motions with her own gun.

A few days this week you’ve tagged along with Wainfleet to watch him train the Mangkwan with the weaponry, just to get out of the damn tent. Zari is one of the few that deign to exchange some conversation with you in Na’vi, so that you can improve. She was injured in a raid, so she seems to find extra enjoyment out of training with the guns, and she has plenty of time to speak with you.

As you hold a fairly clumsy conversation with Zari, you struggle to ignore the stare piercing into the side of your head.

You’ve begun to get a little better at pretending you don’t notice Varang’s ceaseless staring, but Zari is quite clearly affected by it. She’s tense at your side, ears pinned to the side of her head and tail held very still at her side. Occasionally her eyes dart towards her tsahìk, before glancing quickly away again.

You simply refuse to look in Quaritch and Varang’s attention. You know that they’re sitting together, probably leaning all into each other’s space, tails entwined like usual. Watching them like this makes you feel a little crazy. Bad enough you need to share a sleeping space with them, listening to them whisper and giggle like goddamn teenagers at a sleepover. You don’t need to watch them playing footsie over dinner, too.

Zari is shifty enough under Varang’s watchful eye that your stilted conversation doesn’t last very long. You huff quietly when she ducks her head to return her full attention to her gun again.

Varang is doing this on purpose, you know it. At first the staring had felt like a challenge, like she was mocking you. But now it feels as though she’s trying to be intimidating, like she doesn’t want you making friends around the village or getting too comfortable. But then why invite you to stay in her tent? 

Sighing, you turn to Lyle to speak in English.

“I still don’t get why I’m not allowed to stay on the air carrier with the rest of the humans.”

Wainfleet just grunts. “Boss doesn’t want you staying with the soldiers.”

You frown. There’s a kernel of logic there, you suppose. As the only civilian woman on this mission, it could be argued that you were removed for your own safety. But that argument fell apart when you considered that you had been moved into a tent with an alien woman that hated you and probably wanted you dead for being previously entwined with your boss.

“I don’t like staying in the tent,” You complain, feeling like a petulant child. “Why can’t I just stay in your tent? You know I don’t take up much space.”

Wainfleet doesn’t answer, his attention taken up with oiling the bolt on his rifle.

You scowl, irritation settling heavily over you. Around you, the Mangkwan are still eating or dancing, shoving each other and issuing challenges, or yipping in victory. While a few of them still side-eye Wainfleet, not fully happy with his presence, you don’t even seem to register to them. Quaritch, at the other side of the fire, is the subject of reluctantly admiring glances.

As eclipse approaches and the sky darkens into a deep burnt umber, Zari pauses her cleaning in favour of turning to you.

“Tsahìk will want you to return to tent before dark.” She says, speaking slowly for you.

Despite yourself, you like Zari. She’s been nice enough to you, though her shaved head, bone piercings, and war paint is still alien enough to you to give you pause. But just like all the Mangkwan, she has that weird, almost worshipful reverence towards Varang.

You hum to show her that you’ve heard, but make no move to return to the tent. Why the hell would Varang care if you were back before dark?

 Instead, you look at Wainfleet with a pout.

“I hate her.” You grumble, kicking your feet. 

Wainfleet just grunts.

Irritated, you turn your scowl on him. “Seriously? Is that all you have to say?”

“Kid,” he says tiredly, finally looking around at you. “I ain’t stupid enough to get all twisted up in… whatever this is.”

He makes a vague hand gesture that seems to encompass you, and Quaritch and Varang, and the tent behind the gathering. 

You bristle instinctively. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wainfleet finally sets the gun down, giving up the pretense of distraction. When he turns to you, he looks a little bit pained.

“Look, I didn’t really get what was between you and the boss even before this,” He says lowly. “But whatever the hell is going on between you two and the witch lady really ain’t my business.”

You gape at him, mouth open and stunned.

“Nothing is going on between us!” You say when you finally manage to regain your senses. “I thought that maybe the Colonel– that maybe– I don’t know! But there’s certainly nothing now that he’s with her.”

Wainfleet gives you the kind of look that suggests he thinks you’re an idiot.

“You sleep in their tent with them.” He points out.

“Not with them!” You snap reflexively. You feel like a prickly cat, overdefensive. “That’s just– that’s where the Colonel put me!”

He just huffs, shaking his head, and turns away.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Whatever. If you wanna get fucked nasty by them, I’m pretty sure all you gotta do is spread yourself out in that crazy lady’s stupid furs and wait for them to pounce.”

Once again, you’re struck dumb. Wainfleet has never spoken to you so bluntly. You’ve seen him in action mode, intimidatingly serious and quiet, but most of the time around you he’s been pretty light-hearted. He plays up the stereotype of stupid army grunt, but he’s wicked sharp and unfailingly loyal. 

He’s been stressed lately, on edge around the Mangkwan and tense ever since they’ve been armed, but this is the first time he’s directed any of that stress towards you.

“I– I don’t–” You say stiffly, but you can’t even bring yourself to finish.

God, this is embarrassing. Do you want to be fucked nasty by them? You’d been so distracted by your changing circumstances that you haven’t thought anything of the sort. At least, not really. Nothing that you’d be willing to admit to.

Wainfleet has picked up his gun, finishing cleaning and oiling it with quick, jerky moments. The conversation is clearly over.

Humiliation simmers in your belly as you gather yourself up, refusing to look Wainfleet’s way. To your immense frustration, you feel tears pricking at your eyes.

Since you came to Pandora, you’ve been so damn lonely. You’d been a bit of an outcast within the Support Team, with such an obvious gap between capability and experience. The way that Quaritch had treated you had set you apart from them, and you’d never managed to make any friends even after they had been wiped out in the battle with the Metkayina. 

You weren’t friends with Wainfleet exactly, but there had been a sort of camaraderie you’d had with him that you’d taken comfort in. Now, you’re embarrassed as hell.

What had you been thinking, dumping all your problems onto Wainfleet? He’s a soldier, and he’s currently got much bigger problems with the ongoing conflict – he doesn’t have time to listen to you whine.

You slink away from the cookfire like a kicked dog. 

The idea of returning to Varang’s tent and having to watch her and Quaritch curl up close whispering to each other feels like way too much for you to deal with right now. So you decide instead to return to the air carrier. You doubt Quaritch will even notice that you’re missing.

As you slip out of the village, you garner a few curious looks from the Na’vi you pass. Thankfully, no one tries to stop you.

The huge shining metal frame of the Samson air carrier is tucked into the sparse vegetation a short walk from the village. It sticks out like a sore thumb; the Mangkwan avoid it, and the human soldiers avoid approaching the clan without Quaritch’s directive.

It feels like it’s been an age since you’ve been to the Samson, though it can’t be more than a week since you’ve arrived with Quaritch and he’d struck the deal with Varang. So much has happened in the last week, but at the same time you’ve been doing hardly anything other than stewing in your own thoughts.

Still, you’re eager to get inside the carrier, looking forward to the opportunity to remove the damn breathing mask and get some sleep. The cots are austere and uncomfortable, but at least you’ll get a break from Varang’s stupid yurt.

As you approach the Samson, you see some of the soldiers gathered around outside, guns in hand. You think for a moment that they’re just practicing their shooting, though it strikes you as off that they’re doing so as dark falls.

Then you get closer and hear the sloppy laughter, and see the glassy eyes, and you realise that these morons are drunk. They have their guns, but they’re just shooting at some of the glowing mushrooms that are growing in the underbrush. They’re not hitting much, either, their shots going wide and spraying dirt up.

The sound of their slurred goading and snickers has your steps faltering.

Shit. 

You know exactly what these guys are like when they’re drunk, and you know it’s not a good idea to go anywhere near them. It’s an even worse idea to go near them without either of the Recoms near you – their enormous stature is usually enough to scare off even the most persistent of creeps.

You think of the way Quaritch had insisted that it was safer to stay in Varang’s tent, how he had been insistent that you weren’t to stay on the Samson. As much as you hate to admit it, he might have been right.

But you’ve already stormed away from the village, and the air carrier is right there. Maybe you can slip by without them noticing.

You aim for nonchalance as you attempt to skirt around them, giving them a wide berth. You figure if you don’t look at them, if you don’t acknowledge them, there’s a chance they’ll stay in their own little orbit of stupidity and leave you alone.

The ramp to the air carrier is within a stone’s throw when one of them staggers back, laughing, and catches sight of you.

“Hey,” he calls, voice thick and sloppy. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond. You pretend you didn’t hear it, your feet crunching softly over ash and dead leaves as you keep walking. When Quaritch had started going around barefoot, you had copied him without thinking too much about it. You regret that now – if you have to run, it’s going to be harder.

There’s snickering behind you, and even without looking you’re unnerved to find that they sound like they’re closer now.

“C’mon,” another man says. “Don’t be like that.”

A shot cracks through the air, close enough that you flinch despite yourself. Dirt sprays up a few feet ahead of you, glowing faintly where some bioluminescent spores are disturbed. The laughter spikes, ugly and filled with macho overconfidence.

You freeze, shoulders tense. Jesus Christ. 

“Whoa, she jumped,” the first guy snickers. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at them, keeping your body angled away. There are three of them. Maybe four. It’s hard to tell in the low light, as they’re still standing in a loose group. You can’t see their faces all that well behind their masks, but their weapons are loose in their hands and their posture is sloppy in that particular way that means they think they’re untouchable.

The moment feels fragile, and you have a distinct awareness that these men are drunk and reckless enough to snowball things well past the point of no return.

“I’m just heading back to the carrier,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “You guys should probably pack it in. It’s, uh, getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for one wild and naive moment you actually think they might listen. But then they share a look, and burst into ugly, snickering laughter.

​​“Jesus,” one of them says. “Hear that? She’s givin’ orders now.”

Another takes a step closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “You ain’t supposed to be out here alone, are you?”

Your pulse starts to thud in your ears, acidic panic rising up your throat. 

“I– the Colonel knows I’m here.” You lie.

“Oh, yeah?” He grins, slow and ugly. “‘S the Colonel able to look beyond that little blue piece of ass he’s been hangin’ out of?”

“He’s–” You start to say, but cut yourself off when they start to move.

They don’t move quickly or anything, but there’s nowhere for you to go as they start spreading out. They box you in, so there’s no way to slip past them.

“I don’t want any trouble,” you say, hating the way it comes out smaller than you intended.

“That’s good,” the first man says, grinning as he steps forward. “Neither do we.”

“Just thought maybe you’d keep us company for a minute,” the second man adds. “Gets lonely out here.”

You swallow thickly, and your dry throat clicks in the silence. “No, I– I should be getting back to Quaritch– actually.”

A few of their expressions change at that, smiles dropping into something unfriendlier. The two at the front keep their sloppy drunk grins plastered on, though irritation flickers over their faces. You know you’re dealing with the fragile egos of men who aren't used to being told no, and they feel unpredictable.

“You need to relax,” One of them says with the air of imparting sound advice. “You’re wound tight as hell. You been neglected, huh?”

Your skin prickles as he steps forward, and you tense.

You stiffen as he closes the distance, every instinct in your body screaming at you to move, to run, but there’s nowhere left to go. The Samson ramp is behind them now, blocked by broad shoulders. Their size is nothing compared to the towering Na’vi you’ve been spending so much time around recently, but they’re still big bulky military men. You know you don’t stand a chance against them.

The third one laughs, low and ugly. “Bet she’s bored stiff. All alone in that ash pit with the freaks.” He steps forward, reaching for your arm. “Want a good time, sweetheart?”

Your jaw tightens. You can feel your heart hammering, loud enough you’re half-convinced they can hear it too.

“I said no,” You say, your voice thin but sharp. “Back the fuck off.”

That finally wipes the grin off his face. Not completely, but enough. His eyes harden, the drunken amusement souring into something resentful.

“Watch your mouth,” he snaps. “You ain’t in Bridgehead anymore.”

You’re so busy running through scenarios in your head – which way you’ll dodge, how you’ll escape, how you’ll lose them if they follow, how you’ll scream – that when they actually make a grab for you it catches you totally by surprise.

You squeal, attempting to twist out of his grip, but several things happen in quick succession.

In your panic, your mind registers the low hissing sound as being akin to air being let out of a pressurised container. It’s low, steady, accompanied by an odd snarling rumble.

Nearly in the same moment, the man who had grabbed her is town roughly away. You yelp as his blunt fingernails leave scratches on your arm, though it’s more from shock than pain.

Everything happens so fast that your mind barely keeps up. The men are yelling, and then one of them staggers back and knocks into you, hand cracking across your mask hard enough to rattle your skull. You go down hard, sprawling in the dirt and knocking your head on the way down.

By the time you pick your head up, your eyes are watering and two of the three guys are unconscious on the ground. The last, the one who had grabbed you, is the only one left standing, though it doesn’t look like he will be for long.

Towering over you all, face contorted in a look of poisonous rage, is Varang. But you’ve never seen her like this.

She seems impossibly tall, her spine curved as she bares her teeth at the man cowering below her. Her red headpiece flares over her head, giving the impression of a threat display as if her wickedly sharp canines aren’t enough. In the dark, she looks like some sort of vengeful demon.

The man is babbling something, panicked and frantic, but it falls on deaf ears. Varang doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, nor does she seem interested.

She brings her hand down on him in one hard, brutal slap, and he hits the ground with an ominous crack. He doesn’t get back up again. In fact, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh god,” You babble, scrambling to try and get to your feet again. “Jesus, fuck–”

Varang turns on you then, and for a wild moment you’re certain that you’re next. You flinch when she steps forward, whimpering.

But no blow comes. She crouches in front of you, that familiar stare darting over you, assessing. She’s angry – you can feel it rolling off of her in waves.

Ridiculously, your eyes begin to sting, welling up with tears. Maybe it’s delayed shock from that horrible encounter, or maybe it’s the fact that Varang is angry with you, but it all suddenly feels like too much.

The first sob that escapes you is so loud that it hurts your chest, jarring your whole body. 

Varang stiffens.

A large hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to your feet. Bizarrely, you think she’s actually trying to be gentle, but she’s twice your size and doesn’t seem to really understand how much stronger she is. 

You yelp once when she yanks you after her, and she seems to make some attempt to slow, but the pace she keeps is clipped and rushed. You stumble after her, sobs melting into anxious gasps as you try to keep up with her. She’s holding your wrist, and you end up toddling clumsily alongside her like a child.

She leads you back to the village quickly, hissing at a few Na’vi who are in her path. They scramble aside, their large eyes watching curiously as you stumble alongside their tsahìk. Some of them call after her, asking questions, but you’re too distracted to parse the words and Varang isn’t stopping to answer.

For the first time since you’ve gotten to this place, you’re relieved when you make it to the tent. Sometime during the walk you’d started clinging to Varang’s hand, and she’s not shy about towing you behind her.

Inside the tent, Quaritch lounges shirtless in the furs. To your surprised bewilderment, all he’s wearing is a loincloth, same as the other Na’vi you’ve seen. He’s scrolling through a datapad of his own, his tail curling languidly at his side.

He glances up when Varang appears, shoving aside hanging hides and bone decorations, but you don’t think he really registers the expression of fury on her face or the tears on yours. His eyes have instead fallen on your joined hands, and a pleased smirk spreads across his face.

“You finished throwin’ your hissy fit then, sweetheart?” He drawls, setting the datapad aside so he can lean back lazily. “Good to see you’ve finally come around to–”

But then he catches sight of your faces, and he sits up again. His sanguine grin disappears, replaced by a furrowed brow as his Colonel personal falls down like a curtain.

“What the hell happened?” He barks, and his eyes linger on your tear-streaked cheeks under mask.  

Varang finally releases your hand; to your surprise, it’s you that clings to her. When she lets out a little rumbling noise you snatch your hand back, but there’s no time for shame to set in before she plants one of her large hands between your shoulderblades and starts pushing you towards the furs.

All the fight in you has gone, because you simply allow yourself to be pushed. 

She says something to Quaritch, but it’s fast and angry and you only catch a handful of words; ‘man’, ‘take’, ‘mine’, ‘slap’.

Quaritch’s back is stiff as he listens to her, frowning. His eyes fall on you then, and he reaches an arm and quirks two fingers at you, the command clear: ‘come here’.

You don’t even hesitate. You practically fall into the furs, clambering on your hands and knees like a whimpering little kid as you crawl toward him. You’re vaguely cognisant of Varang crawling after you, twice your size and still emanating waves of irritation.

Quaritch’s big hand cups your jaw just beneath the mask, tilting her head back so he can take a look at your face. You’re still sniffling, eyes red and puffy, and your nostrils are beginning to itch where the blood is drying and crumbling.

“Got a crack across the face, didja?” He murmurs lowly, thumb stroking over the corner of your jaw and earlobe.

Despite yourself, you bristle. Your shock is beginning to wear off a little, and now you’re getting defensive and angry. How the hell have you ended back up in the one place you were trying to avoid.

“Is that all you have to say?” You ask for the second time that evening. 

God, you’re starting to get seriously sick of military assholes.

He raises a brow, then gestures at Varang. “Well, I’m guessin’ that she took care of ‘em.”

You think of the way she had brutally smacked them into the ground, the sickening crunch of their bodies hitting the ground. You’re pretty certain they hadn’t been moving. Jesus, had she killed him?

Varang sits behind you, her tail swishing lazily like a cat. She has no idea what you two are saying, but her ears had pricked up when Quaritch had gestured at her. Now, she’s looking at you as though she’s expecting something from you.

You glance away. Her stare is even more intimidating up close.

“I was just trying to–” You begin, but to your frustration your voice cracks in upset.

Two twin rumbles erupt, making you flinch a little. Then two big hands land on your hips and suddenly your world flips. You squeak, startled, suddenly finding yourself on your back staring up at the animal hide tent ceiling. But then your vision is filled with Varang’s face as she leans over you, and suddenly she’s all you see.

She begins tugging roughly at your shirt, and you squeal in surprise as the fragile fabric tears with a loud rip.

“Jesus, woman,” Quaritch swears in English, before switching to Na’vi. “Easy! I told you, slow–”

“Have been doing slow!” She hisses back, teeth bared. “Not working!”

You’re startled to see that her canines are a little longer than Quaritch’s. Maybe it’s just a difference between native Na’vi and Recom bodies, but it adds to the wildness of her.

Quaritch huffs, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. He seems… amused?

He turns back to you, grin turned a bit wry. “Sorry, sweetheart. Gonna have to take your clothes off.”

You goggle at him.

“Take my– what?”

Varang is tugging at your trousers now, but they’re proving more of a challenge for her. She seems to be familiar with the mechanism of the button and zip – and there’s a pang that comes with the knowledge that it’s probably from unbuttoning Quaritch’s fatigues – but the belt seems to be an obstacle. She hisses at the buckle, aggravated.

“She don’t like all these clothes,” He says, though he needn’t have bothered. You could see that. “Just take ‘em off while you’re in the furs, yeah? Make life easier for yourself.”

You’re a little annoyed that he capitulates to anything she wants, but with the way she’s so damn insistently tugging at your clothes even you have to admit that it’s the easier option.

“Okay!” You snap at her, unbuckling your own belt and shuffling out of your trousers.

She sits back, pleased, and watches. You try not to tremble under her big yellow unblinking stare as you strip down to your simple, functional cotton underwear. You wish you were wearing nicer panties, then you curse yourself for thinking something so stupid. The underwear issued by the RDA are simple, functional, and unflattering, but it’s not as though either of them were expecting lingerie.

Varang’s eyes dart over you. For a moment you think she’s checking you for injuries and you spare a second of surprise – you hadn’t thought she cared. But then you see her eyes linger on your tits in your ill-fitting bra and the greying cotton clinging to your hips.

“She’s staring.” You whisper to Quaritch, mortified. You raise a hand to press over your chest.

But when you look to Quaritch, he’s staring too.

“She’s been so excited to get to know you,” He drawls without taking his eyes off you. “But I told her to take it slow. That you’re a skittish little thing.”

You stare at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step. 

“...What?”

Varang has nestled herself into the fur now, coiled like a jungle predator. A tiger, maybe, or a lioness. Even at rest, her long grey-blue limbs folded in elegant lines, she gives the impression of latent energy, of danger.

When she reaches out with one long dusky finger and begins to trail a light touch over your bare shoulders, you have no idea how to react.

Up close, her scent floods your senses even through the mask-filtered air—hot earth, cinders, salt, something musky and deep. When you don’t flinch away from her she rolls closer, as though taking your stillness as tacit permission to keep touching.

“What’s happening?” You whisper, and your voice comes out pitched higher in uncertainty.

Quaritch just chuckles. He’s leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, looking for all the world like this is a totally normal occurrence. His interest is betrayed though by the flicking of his tail and the intensity of his eyes as he watches Varang’s fingertips coast over your collarbone.

“We’ve been waitin’ for you to get your damn panties out of the twist you’d knotted in ‘em,” he says. “But Varang ain’t a patient lady.”

“My panties are not in a twist.” You snap reflexively, before actually thinking about what he’d said. “Patient?”

Quaritch huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus, kid,” He says in exasperation. “I know you ain’t always the quickest, but c’mon now.”

You fumble for an answer but before you manage to say anything, there’s a weight in your lap. Varang’s every movement is so quick and sinuous that you barely even see her begin to move – one minute she’s reclining at your side, and the next she’s swung herself to straddle your legs.

“Eep.” You let out the least dignified sound you’ve ever made, staring up at her with wide eyes.

Beside you both, Quaritch lets out a breathy snort. “Like I said, impatient. You've been playin’ hard to get for too long.”

Hard to get?

Varang looms over you, the size difference stark and shocking. She’s so tall but so lithe, her proportions alien and alluring. Her tail flicks behind her as she stares down at you with quiet intensity. Up close like this as she leans over you, you can see the small round bumps from scarification over her hairless brows and the bridge of her nose, down her long abdomen. You had originally thought that she didn’t have as many little glowing freckles as Quaritch did, but now you can see that they’re just covered by the scars or the ashy streaky paint she’s covered in.

She leans down, nostrils flaring slightly as she inhales your warm human scent from your neck. You hold very still, eyes wide. The prey instinct in the back of your mind is screaming – she could so easily bite through tendons and sinew with those sharp teeth, and she’s very close to your throat.

But then she leans back, huffing in a way that sounds pleased.

Her fingers are calloused from archery, and they tickle a little as they slide over your collarbone, pausing at the worn strap of your bra. That strange little half-smile of hers lingers around her lips as she tugs at it just to watch it snap back into space.

Her large thumb brushes over the swell of your breast, lingering on the nub of your hardened nipple through the thin cotton.You squeak, startled, but there’s nowhere to escape to; it feels like Varang’s bulk is encompassing you, like she’s the only thing left in the world.

She tugs at your bra. The fabric strains, stitches popping, but holds firm.

“I do not like this.” She says to Quaritch, her expression turning a little scowly. “How do I remove, Quaritch?”

The way she says his name, accented and all drawn out, is actually a little bit cute. You don’t get much time to think on it though, before Quaritch’s big hands are worming their way under your back.

“Hey–” You start to gasp, but then Varang takes you by the shoulders and pulls you up so that you’re sitting, giving Quaritch more access to your back.

With a practiced hand, he undoes the clasp of your bra in one easy snap.

You gasp as Varang tugs the shitty fabric aside, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder.

You think you should probably be giving at least a token protest, even just to maintain your own dignity, but you’re embarrassed to find that you can’t. It’s been a very long time since you’ve been bare in front of anyone. And even longer since someone has looked at you so hungrily.

Sure, you’ve had your lazy make out sessions with Quaritch in his office, or in the Recom bunks when no one else was around, but you’ve never been unclothed. Even those few times he’s fingered you with those gloriously big long fingers of his, you haven’t been fully naked.

“What’s happening?” You whisper, eyes darting between them uncertainly. 

Quaritch says something to Varang, and she shifts. As she swings her leg over you, moving off of you, you’re distracted by the coiled strength in her thighs. She’s pure muscle, the carbon fibre-infused bones adding even more weight to her, but she moves with an ease that you’re grateful for. One wrong move would probably crush you, but she’s too nimble for any stray hits.

You’re able to sit up now, and you do so slowly. Now that her tall body isn’t curtaining you, you’re more self-conscious than ever. You feel exposed, and you cross your arms over your chest in embarrassment.

“Jesus,” Quaritch says. “Don’t overthink it, kid.”

“Overthink it?” You repeat in disbelief. “She took my clothes off!”

Varang is still smiling; just a coy little curve to her lips. She might not understand your words, but she still looks amused by you. Maybe your human modesty is a novelty to her.

“‘Cause she wants to fuck you.” Quaritch says bluntly. “Thought that was obvious.”

It feels like your world has been turned on its head, again. For a very long moment, all you can do is stare. The words ‘fuck you’ and ‘obvious’ keep replaying in your mind, and you can’t quite decide which element to address first. 

“Fuck me?” You repeat at last, eyes darting anxiously towards Varang and her coiling tail. “You mean… like, fucking me up?”

Varang smiles, a finger reaching out to brush over your nipple. To your mortification, it stiffens further under the attention. You don’t quite have the presence of mind to pull away.

But Quaritch is staring at you, looking stumped and a little irritated.

“What?” He says. “Why would she–”

“She hates me!” You hiss. “I thought–”

“Hates you?” Quaritch has the nerve to look flummoxed. “Kid, she’s groping your tits.”

“I can see that!” You shriek, voice cracking.

That makes Varang pause, her broad brow furrowing in confusion. She looks to Quaritch, clearly seeking an explanation for your distress.

Quaritch just snorts, leaning back. The fact that he’s not taking you seriously only makes you more irritated. You’re sure that you’re stiff like an angry cat, your expression like thunder.

“You’ve been ignoring me all week!” You accuse. You want to sound angry, but you fall just short. Embarrassingly, you sound hurt instead.

You attempt to rally yourself, scowling weakly. “You don’t get to ignore me and then try to drag me into a threesome–”

Quaritch has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Come on, honey. It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then?” You shoot back.

Honestly, you’re a little impressed by your own spine. You usually find the Colonel scary enough to have your knees weakening, and you’ve never managed to work up the courage to express your feelings to him. But this time it’s different; you’ve had a shit day after a shit week which has followed a shit few months. You feel like you’re about to burst. 

“I’ve given you space, sweetheart, but my patience is at its limit.” Quaritch sighs. “Can a man not want his girls to get on?”

His girls? You blink, thrown off. Quaritch doesn’t seem to notice your pause, and Varang is still curled behind you – despite not understanding your conversation, her elegant long fingers are tracing curious patterns over your ears, the sides of your neck, the length of your spine and each knob of your vertebrae.

“Can’t help that we’re mated now,” Quaritch says, his eyes darting over you to Varang. “Not like it was planned, but there’s no gettin’ out of it. These people do it for life, you know.”

 He reaches over your head to brush one of her thin braids behind a pointed ear, and she playfully nips at his finger. You feel a deep throb of envy. 

Mated. You had suspected that they weren’t just fucking, but it hadn’t been confirmed until just now. It feels like a punch to the gut, but Quaritch continues before you can wallow.

“I gave you space to think about things, but you shuttin’ down ain’t helping anything. Varang’s been chewing my ear off all week to get you into the damn furs with us.”

The whole conversation has been one bizarre revelation after another, but this one might actually take the cake. Varang wanted you naked and in their furs? You had thought she wanted you dead.

“She hates me,” You blurt. “She doesn’t want me near you.”

That earns a harsh bark of laughter from Quaritch. You’re aware, of course, that it’s a ridiculous thing to say when you’re all hunched almost naked in her weird witchy tent. They’re both looming over you, practically sandwiching you, and Varang hasn’t taken her hands off of you once since your bra came off.

“Well,” Quaritch drawls, grinning. “As much as I like the idea of havin’ two pretty girls fightin’ over me, I'm not all too sure that’s what was happenin’, baby.”

There’s a beat of silence as that settles over you. The events of the last week begin reshuffling and recontextualising in your head. You had thought that Varang had been mocking you after mating with Quaritch and pulling him away from you, but now you feel stupid and self-obsessed. But why would she want you like that? Just to satisfy a curiosity?

“It’s normal for ‘em,” He continues as though you have any idea what he’s talking about. “They got no hang ups about it.”

You stare at him. Slowly, you’re beginning to put the pieces together. You’re not stupid, but it all seems so silly and unlikely that you’re having a hard time believing it.

“Threesomes?” Even saying it out loud has your body flushing with embarrassed heat. 

God, you’ve never done anything like that before. It feels like a fever dream that this is even being suggested.

Quaritch shrugs, the motion lazy and almost insouciant. “Well, it’s the natural solution, ain’t it?”

Wet heat runs up the side of your neck, and you lose track of the conversation instantly. You jolt, squealing, but Varang’s tail has wrapped around your waist and she’s baring her teeth.

“Too much talk, Quaritch,” She says, her voice low and smokey. “Stop distracting her.”

Quaritch just grins and lies back, outstretched in the furs in just that tiny loincloth. The yurt is dimly lit with small flames in the braziers littered around the place, and the flickering light casts the musculature of his lean Na’vi body into sharp relief. God, he’s so hot. His arrogance should probably be a turn off, but you’re embarrassed to admit that it only adds to the wetness between your legs.

“She screws like she fights,” He whispers like he’s sharing a secret. “Brutal and fiery. But I’ve told her to take it slow and easy.”

And with that he folds his arms lazily behind his head, cushioning his skull with his biceps as he watches the two of you with a grin.

For a moment you just sit there, feeling like a spare part. You’ve never had a threesome before, so you’re not sure what you’re meant to do right now. Are you both meant to suck his dick at once? Do you, like, fight for who goes first? Is there meant to be a weird sort of competition over his dick? You’re not sure you could beat her–

But Varang isn’t moving on Quaritch. She’s moving on you.

All you can do is gasp as she pushes you down. It’s not that she’s rough, but she moves with purpose and she’s so much bigger and stronger that even a light nudge completely flattens you. Now that you’re looking at her in this new light, her smile doesn’t look so mocking. Now it looks pleased, excited even.

Your legs are splayed open and Varang crawls between your thighs. Every move is deliberate, and she’s slowed right down. You think she’s going slow on purpose – obviously, Quaritch’s words have stuck with her. Where she had been forceful earlier, she’s cautious now.

You swallow thickly, and hear your throat click in the quiet.

“Off.” Varang coos, her long fingers hooking into your cheap panties. She’s smiling at you like she thinks you’re a bit stupid.

You glance at Quaritch reflexively. He’s watching the two of you closely. You think, a little uneasily, that he looks like he’s trying to guess her next move.

Still, when she tugs at your panties again, you allow her to pull them off you. She tosses them aside carelessly to join your bra, and then her big eyes fix between your legs.

When she sees you fully naked for the first time, her reaction surprises you. She laughs, high and girlish.

Your legs snap shut so quickly. It doesn’t even matter that she’s still between your thighs, blocking them from shutting fully, because you scramble to get up. The immediate impulse is to flee – you don’t even know where, because it’s not like you have options, but you’re so embarrassed that you almost feel like braving the air carrier despite the soldiers.

“Calm down,” Quaritch hastily, reaching out to place a big hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t exert much pressure, but he’s strong enough to hold you in place. “It’s the hair.”

“What?” You snap, feeling like a cornered animal.

“The hair,” He repeats, gesturing at the thatch of hair between your thighs. “Unclench, sweetheart. It’s new to her, s’all. She did the same to me.”

You really hadn’t thought too much about Na’vi pubic hair, but you suppose it makes sense that they don’t have any given their lack of body hair overall. Equally, hadn’t thought about Quaritch having pubes – maybe a holdover from his human DNA, like his eyebrows.

Varang is looking between you, head tilted. She’s assessing you, trying to figure out what the problem is. She glances down between your legs again, and this time she shifts so that she’s laying on her belly between your legs.

You’re trying to keep your legs closed, but Quaritch shifts so he’s lying behind you now. He pulls you flush against his chest, your back to his front. His arms wrap around your waist, one large hand splayed possessively over your stomach, with the other dropping to ease your legs apart so Varang can have a proper look.

Utterly exposed, all you can do is lay there and try not to melt in embarrassment.

Between your legs, Varang lets out a low, churring rumble. When her nostrils flare and you realise that she’s scenting you, your embarrassment reaches its peak and you simply can’t take anymore.

“Why am I the only one naked?” You practically shriek, wriggling. Then you screw up your bravery and make a stab at using the meagre Na’vi you have. “Clothes off!”

Varang stills, and for a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. This is a woman comfortable in her own authority, who is used to getting things her way. What if she takes badly to you attempting to order her around in her own home?

But then her smile blooms into a sharp, delighted smile. It’s broad enough to crinkle her eyes but with an edge to it, as though you’d offered her a cache of weapons all over again.

“Little Sky Girl speaks Na’vi?” She purrs, leaning down.

She licks a line from your sternum up your throat, and you jolt a little in surprise.

“A little,” You say shakily. “I’ve been learning.”

Without your panties, the wetness between your legs feels completely obscene. Your thighs feel sticky in a way that you really don’t want to examine considering you’ve barely been touched.

“Full of surprises,” Quaritch chuckles. He’s looming behind you, watching you with Varang as if you’re his favourite TV show.

You don’t reply, because your attention is captured by Varang now. She’s reached behind herself, beginning to untie the thin length of animal hide binding her breasts. Every move is a provocation, fluid and intentional – she tosses the binding aside, revealing her small, proud breasts. She starts on her loincloth next. Though you can practically feel the impatience radiating from her, she doesn’t rush.

She maintains eye contact with you as she tosses the loincloth aside next, and your cheeks burn.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, and your eyes stick. 

Jesus.

You’ve never seen a Na’vi pussy before, and you’re a little struck by the sight. It’s both alien and familiar in a way that jars you. The anatomy is similar to yours, except for the fact that it’s… well, blue.

She has a perfect seam of blue, neat and glistening with arousal. Her folds are a few shades darker than the rest of her skin, and to your fascination, the inside of her winks purple, not pink. Her clit peeks out from beneath its hood, glinting almost pearlescent in the dim firelight of the tent.

You feel a little dizzy. You’re naked in Varang’s tent. Varang is sat in front of you, also naked, spreading her legs for you proudly like she wants you to look. 

You should do something. Say something.

You point uncertainly at the indents in her skin from the tightness of the binding that had bound her breasts. “Pain?”

Varang just looks at you. You get the impression that she’s assessing you, like she doesn’t quite know what to make of you. She had undoubtedly been expecting a different reaction from you after showing off her cunt.

Then, she laughs, low and pleased.

“No pain.” She says it as though she thinks you're adorable.

It’s a little condescending, but you feel your nipples tighten anyway, puckering into hardened nubs. Quaritch noticed too; you can hear him chuckle, and then he shifts so that he’s beside you.

“You’re gonna make her real happy, baby.” Quaritch says. His words come out in a low, pleased rumble that you can feel vibrating into your back. “She’s been wantin’ to play with you for a while now.”

“Wanting to–?” 

You’ve barely even gotten your sentence started before Varang decides to lay down on her back, legs spread and cunt exposed. You stare, struck dumb yet again. Fuck, that’s a sight. Her body is long and lithe, small breasts and shifting musculature under her velvety skin. The length of her legs! Have they always been that long?

She’s unself-conscious in a way that makes you sweat. Her eyes are fixed on you again, but now her impatience seems to be simmering at a low boil. 

She barks something at Quaritch, but this time she speaks too fast for you to catch it. Her tone is unmistakable; whatever she said, it was a demand.

You had never pegged Quaritch as a man who would take orders from someone who was once an enemy, but his hands scoop under your armpits and lift you before you can protest. You’re not all too sure where he’s taking you; until he lifts you right over Varang.

You squeak as you’re settled into her lap, your legs slotting right between her much larger ones until you’re settled with your pussies pressed together, slick against slick.

“Oh, now ain’t that a sight.” Quaritch purrs out.

Your breath catches, staring down at where you’re scissoring with an alien. Her powerful thighs bracket your hips and waist, her powerful muscles flexing as she grinds up in slow, rolling motions. With a commanding sort of pressure she pulls you down against her further.

She doesn’t start slow, and she’s certainly not gentle. When her clit glides over yours, aided by the slick slide of your joined arousal, you both moan.

“Jesus,” Quaritch’s voice has dropped huskier as he shifts closer to get a better view. “Look at the two of you, all juiced up. You hear that?”

And you do – as Varang uses her grip on your hips to pull you down as she humps her cunt up against yours, the room fills with the wet, squishy sounds of your aroused cores rubbing.

Every roll of her hips is hypnotic; even on her back below you, there’s not an ounce of submission in her body. She’s grinning, wild and unrestrained with her teeth glinting, as she uses her grip on your hips to set a steady, hungry pace.

There’s no teasing – it’s a straight to the point sort of pleasure that soon has you panting. With an audience that responds to you so vocally, purring and moaning every time you roll your hips of your own accord, you soon find yourself responding eagerly with no real care for how you appear.

The bead of her clit is much larger than yours, serving as a perfect little bump to rub yourself against. It serves the dual purpose of stimulating you until you’re sweating and whimpering, and also satisfying her. Her head is thrown back as she pants, eyes half-lidded as she watches you rub yourself against her. Her long-fingered hands remain on your ass; you may have the illusion of control, but there’s no mistaking who’s really calling the shots.

“Like two cats in heat,” Quaritch says. He’s watching with an amused expression that does a poor job at hiding his avid interest. 

“Ah!” Varang’s back arches as your cunts slot together just right, clits rasping over each other with a friction that has stars flashing before your eyes.

The moan that’s torn out of your mouth is long and low, a little breathless. You don’t think you’ve ever made such a slutty sound before, but you don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed about it because Varang is still moving, her grip on your ass encouraging you to keep humping your pussy into hers.

You’re both so wet that the slide is easy, syrupy and sticky. Pleasure is sparking through your veins, your breath catching every time the eager beads of your clits grind together. It doesn’t take long before your hips are rolling against her with a desperate sort of speed.

It feels so good, enough so that you actually don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. Varang doesn’t seem to care that you’re grinding against her faster now; you’re both panting, sweating.

“Oh god.” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a trembling down deep in your pussy. “I’m–”

You don’t even get the words out before you cum in a convulsive wave. Your cunt clenches in a series of hard spasms, twitching against Varang’s as your clit grinds against hers.

“Fuck!” You shriek, clinging to her blindly.

She bares her teeth in a victorious grin, and doesn’t pause. You ride out your orgasm against her, whimpering as the glide gets wetter and slicker as your pussy grows juicier with release. Varang milks every last shock of sensation out of you, until the catch of your clits together grows too much. 

You shiver, wanting more and less all at once, when suddenly a big four-fingered hand is clasping over your mask.

“I want your mouth.” Varang is saying, her large fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism of the mask.

You’re very horny. That’s the only excuse you have for the way your hips keep rolling lazily, your jaw soft and dropped as you pant. Even in the face of your only source of breathable air being pulled from you, you keep humping against her pussy.

Thankfully, Quaritch still has some firing neurons left. He swoops in quickly, grabbing Varang’s hand away and placing it on your loose breast instead.

“No mouth today,” he says. “Next time, when she has air.”

Varang hisses at him, but it seems more reflexive than anything because she doesn’t appear upset. Her attention has already been captured by your breasts; softer than a Na’vi’s, with more fleshy give to them when compared to the much firmer breasts of Na’vi women. 

“Soft.” She mutters thoughtfully, her thumbs rolling over your beaded nipples with relish.

Quaritch chuckles. 

Then, suddenly, she twists up and pulls you from your perch slotted against her. You yelp, but there’s not much you can do other than go with the flow and allow her to manhandle you. She moves quickly, flipping you onto your back and settling between your thighs on her hands and knees.

“Quaritch.” She says, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone has hardly changed at all, yet it’s clear that this is a demand.

Quaritch, still laying on his side as he watches the two of you, raises a brow. He seems quite content to watch, amused and pleased by the sight of Varang on her hands and knees between your legs. Varang is seemingly always aware of the eyes that follow her, and this time is no different – her back is arched, her narrow hips swaying as her tail undulates playfully in the air.

“Tsahìk.” Quaritch purrs her title lazily, though he doesn’t come closer.

Her title pleases her, you can tell by the way her tail flicks. Still though, she frowns impatiently at him. 

“Come.” She says, a little clipped with impatience. “You will pleasure me, as I pleasure her.”

The steady, practiced amusement on Quaritch’s face breaks, only to be replaced by a genuine grin.

“Oh, will I?” He asks sardonically, though he doesn’t bother maintaining the pretence for a full minute – within fifteen seconds, he’s moving closer to slot himself up behind her.

Varang only arches more, the pert globes of her ass offered up to him like fresh fruit on a platter. She even waves it a little, tauntingly. Quaritch must be used to this sort of taunting, because he just snorts a little and delivers a quick open-handed smack to the side of her ass. It’s not particularly gentle, and the sound rings out in the yurt.

Varang gasps, jolting at the blow, before letting out a sharp laugh and grinding back against him.

You watch with widened eyes and shortened breath as Quaritch reaches down to untie his loincloth. Though he seems collected, the roughness of his movements as he shoves his pants down reveals his restlessness. You take a breath as you crane your neck, eager to see what he’s packing.

But to your bewilderment, there’s nothing but smooth space between Quaritch’s legs. Well, there’s hair, coarse and straight, like he had said. But it doesn’t border anything at all. Where you had expected a cock, there’s nothing at all.

You gape. What the fuck? He’s like a big blue Ken doll with pubes.

“Where’s your dick?” You blurt, unable to control your reaction. 

Quaritch huffs a short laugh, but his ears lower a little. Shit, is he embarrassed? Maybe it was rude to point it out, but… Varang was acting like she wanted to be fucked. Was the Colonel dickless? Jesus, was that why he’s been so angry recently?

But no, that can’t be right. You’d seen the bulge in his pants after long makeout sessions, and you’d felt him the few occasions you’d dry-humped like horny teens.

“It’s still there, smartass.” He grumbles. “Gotta work for it now, though.”

That doesn’t answer your question at all. You frown, embarrassed and confused and too horny for this. Thighs squeezing together lightly, you glance at Varang. She’s already looking at you; her ears had pricked up the moment you spoke, clearly interested by what you have to say.

“Where?” You ask clumsily, pointing at Quaritch’s smooth blue crotch.

Varang tilts her head and for a moment you think she doesn’t understand what you’re asking her. But then her eyes dart to Quaritch’s crotch and she grins, sharp and eager. 

She moves, pushing herself back up so that she can spin round and push him onto his back in the furs.

Quaritch allows himself to be pushed down. He’s rolling his eyes and huffing, but you know it’s for show because his lips are curving into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He looks as though he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Come,” Varang demands, gesturing you closer.

This time, you don’t hesitate at all. You crawl closer until you’re at her side, both of you kneeling between Quaritch’s large, densely muscled thighs. Varang leans into your personal space, confident in the knowledge that you’re not going to be running away any time soon. Her smooth blue skin is hot to the touch against yours, and she maneuvers you closer with ease until you’re right where she wants you; tucked half under her as the two of you lean over Quaritch’s groin.

Now that you’re so close that your breath is brushing his skin, you can see that your initial impression of there being just blank space isn’t entirely correct. Under the light dusting of hair, you can see… Well, you’re not entirely sure what you’re looking at.

It’s not until Varang reaches out to touch him, parting the hair and prodding at the soft mound there, that you realise there’s a small vertical slit.

“What’s that?” You ask curiously. 

Varang says a word that you’ve never heard before, her fingers pressing on either side of the slit and tracing it playfully. She doesn’t quite touch the slit itself; rather, she plays with the slightly swollen flesh on either side.

“Is that a pussy?” You blurt, eyes wide. 

The concept of the Colonel, the scariest man you’ve ever met, with a pussy has you reeling. But just as soon as you’ve voiced the thought, Quaritch is huffing in irritation.

“Don’t be a jackass, kid.” He grunts, his voice a little gravelly. Clearly, whatever Varang is rubbing feels good.

Under her fingers, the slit seems to dilate slightly. The tip of something seems to be poking out from just inside, and when Varang leans in to lick at it, Quaritch throws his head back with a groan.

Under her attentive tongue, what appears to be Quaritch’s cock begins to extend. It doesn’t happen all at once; rather, it distends in increments. Feeling bold, you reach out to stroke your fingers along the squishy blue base of his length. He doesn't seem to have a scrotum; you wonder if it’s internal, same as his cock was.

And his cock is big. Fully proportional, long and thin (but still bigger than any human cock you’ve taken before). Those little glowing freckles are dotted along the underside, forming a pretty little trail all the way up to his purple mushroomed head.

“Shit.” Quaritch picks up his head so that he can watch you and Varang play with his cock at the same time. 

He must like whatever he’s seeing, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s nothing left of his iris but a thin ring of gold. Varang clearly notices too, because she bares her teeth in a grin before licking up the length of his cock. If Quaritch is nervous about her sharp fangs near his delicate bits, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he humps his hips up to get more of himself inside her mouth.

Rather than indulge him though, Varang just gives one teasing suckle to the swollen, purplish tip before pulling away. Quaritch huffs as though he’d been expecting that, though he doesn’t complain. He’s watching her closely, waiting for her next move.

You’re watching her closely too, taking your cues from her. When she takes a hold of your arm and pulls you like a ragdoll onto your back in the furs in front of her, you go easily. Then she settles on her elbows and knees, settling low with her ass in the air. Her tail is held high, swaying coyly in the air in a way that is unmistakably teasing.

Your attention is fixed on her pert little ass, distracted by the way she’s waving it to taunt Quaritch, so when a dextrous, hot wet tongue slides through your sticky folds, you nearly shriek.

“O-ohhh, fuck.” You sigh, spreading your legs eagerly. 

You feel like a bit of a slut with the way your every inhibition has flown out the window, but you refuse to let your mind linger on any shame. It feels too good – you can’t remember the last time someone ate you out, but it feels like a lifetime ago, and it certainly had never felt like this. Your makeout sessions with Quaritch had often ended with his big fingers stuffed down your panties to rub you until you creamed, but while it scratched the itch for a while, the wet heat of Varang’s mouth is making your eyes roll back in your damn head.

It feels like you’re boiling up inside. Your temples are sweat-slick, hair sticking to your forehead in a way that you’re certain can’t be attractive. Your cunt is so wet and sticky that every lap of Varang’s tongue against you makes a squelching sound that is truly mortifying. You don’t even know how much of the wetness is your own arousal or Varang’s saliva.

She’s sloppy about it, which you hadn’t expected. She just always seemed so put together, but she’s tonguing into your cunt like she wants to lick the flesh off your bones. You mewl and arch and wriggle, but her powerful hands keep you pinned so she can mouth at you as she likes. 

You’d almost forgotten about Quaritch until he settles himself behind Varang. He looms over her, even taller than she is, and leans over so he can get a better look at her licking your cunt.

“Slow down,” He drawls, though he sounds amused. “You’re gonna lick her raw.”

He wraps a big hand around the base of Varang’s tail and tugs lightly, playfully. She pulls back from you just so she can hiss over her shoulder at him.

“She wants it now! You deny her–”

“I am not denying her.” Quaritch rolls his eyes, exasperated. His accent is thick, causing the words to form a little clumsily in his mouth, but you find yourself grateful for it. It’s much easier for you to understand the language when it’s pronounced slow and intentional.

His yellow eyes turn to you then, and he lifts a brow. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt so excited in your life. You’ve been content with Quaritch’s lazy makeout sessions and the clandestine fingering, but that was because you hadn’t dreamed of expecting more. Laying here sandwiched between two enormous bodies that could crush you with ease has you gooey between the legs in a way you couldn’t have expected. 

You nod, breathless.

He gives you a sharp grin, and then drives into Varang in one short roll of his hips. Varang keens, high and drawn out, before it tapers into a moan. You watch her face, enraptured by the way her expression slackens in pleasure. The self-satisfaction that she’s been carrying herself melts away, replaced by raw want.

The thing that so fascinates you about her is that even like this, bent over between you and Quaritch, there’s not an ounce of submission in her. She’s so self-assured in her own desire that it makes you feel small, like you’re blessed and lucky to be allowed so close to her while she allows Quaritch to sink inside her.

But then her eyes fix back on your face, piercing even through the transparent plastic of your mask, and she lowers her mouth to your cunt again, laving over the sticky arousal that has collected in your folds.

Your eyelids flutter as you sigh, finally allowing the last of your tension to melt out of your spine. 

God, that feels good. Maybe it’s okay to just let yourself enjoy this. You’ve never had an illicit encounter like this, and the thrill adds to the airy, electric build up in your cunt. If a nine foot tall sexy alien woman wants to involve you in her sex life with your boss, who the hell are you to deny yourself? Especially when you don’t think you’ll ever experience anything this crazy again in your life.

When Quaritch starts fucking into her, the rhythm of her tongue is disrupted against you. You try not to be too disappointed but you can’t help the whine that slips out of you unbidden. You think that maybe they miss it, considering the air is filled now with the wet slap of skin against skin and Quaritch’s low grunts matched by Varang’s little gasps. 

But then both of their eyes swing around to you, and Quaritch grins. 

“Feeling neglected again, baby?” He asks, a little mocking.

You nod, mortified. Then you wonder why the hell you had nodded at all. Was he making fun of you? It all abruptly feels too overwhelming – you don’t think you’ve ever felt so vulnerable in your whole life. 

He says something, too low and quick for you to catch, and then Varang is grinning. Her head lowers between your legs once more, purring lowly, and begins licking again. Her tongue rasps over your clit and your thoughts evaporate, all higher level thinking disappearing in favour of sheer instinctive desire. 

When you spread your legs wider, breath hitching, Varang’s purring kicks up a notch. The rumbles from her mouth make your eyes roll back in your head – it’s like having a hot, wet vibrator that licks at you. You feel too hot, too overwhelmed, like your skin is several sizes too tight. 

Your eyes slide closed in an effort to block out some of the world before you get sent into sheer sensory overload, but when Varang squeals you snap them back open as if your eyelids were spring-loaded, unwilling to miss a thing. 

Quaritch has taken a grip of Varang’s tail in his hand, pulling her back to meet her every thrust as he sets a brutal pace. 

She’s letting out high, vulgar moans of pure delight. The sounds she makes are absolutely outrageous; completely lewd, wanton, and totally shameless. You don’t think you’ve ever heard sounds like that outside of a porno, but there’s not an ounce of disingenuity in her noises.

There’s no performance at all; just sheer enjoyment. The fact that she’s making those noises into your already sensitised cunt makes you feel like you’re going insane. Each little yip, purr, and moan thrums against your clit whenever she’s not suckling sloppily at it.

Your nerves spark, and your legs convulse without conscious thought. You can feel another release bubbling in your lower belly and the tips of your toes, your mind narrowing down to those points of pleasure as Varang’s rough tongue undulates against your swollen clit. 

“Oh god,” You pant, your hips twitching up into her mouth again. “I’m gonna– I think–”

Quaritch is humping into Varang like a dog in rut, low intense grunts spilling from his lips as his hips move in brutal, near frantic spasms. You think – as much as you can think right now, with your higher-order awareness beginning to slip away from you – that you would love to watch him fucking her properly, from a different angle. 

The thought takes you by surprise even as it floats through your mind. Even earlier that day, such a thought would have had you stewing in a bitter sort of envy. But everything seems softer right now, fuzzier around the edges – encapsulated in their furs, warm and buzzing like a live-wire, you can’t imagine allowing a single negative emotion to touch the sides of you.

You can feel your climax build deep in your belly like a cresting wave, and your toes curl in anticipation of it. 

You orgasm violently. When that pleasure snaps it feels like it ricochets through every nerve and synapse in your body – your legs clamp shut around Varang’s skull hard enough that if she was human, you’re sure it would have hurt. As it is, you think she actually enjoys it, because she starts to lick you harder, faster.

It’s too much almost immediately, but you can’t form the words to tell her to stop. Your hands form fists in her glossy micro braids, though you don’t remember reaching to grasp them. All you can do is cling to her, keening wordlessly as her rough textured tongue works you into a cascade of bliss that feels endless.

You’re a pathetic little puddle of sweat and spit and spasming limbs, hardly able to tell up from down. You’re vaguely aware of Varang squealing in a way that suggests her own orgasm has knocked her out of the running at the same time as that heavenly, too-much tongue pauses in its tireless licking.

“Oh, fuck,” You breathe, your eyes blinking hazily up at the hide ceiling of the yurt.

The wet slap-slap-slap of flesh against flesh is still echoing as Quaritch fucks Varang almost brutally hard. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your head and regain some feeling in your numb buzzy fingers after your orgasm as you watch the two of them.

Varang is loose-limbed and soft, the expression on her face satisfied as she rests her face against your naked belly, panting. She’s clearly already came, small tremors running through her slick thighs, but that doesn’t stop Quaritch from chasing his own end.

“Fuck,” He snarls. “Fuck, fuck–”

His movements turn sloppy, then jerky, then he stiffens with a hissed moan. Your own spent cunt clenches around nothing as you watch his face, drinking in the details as he cums; his pinched brow, slack mouth, glassy eyes. God, he looks good.

Your thoughts are slow and soupy; you wish you had had the presence of mind to watch Varang’s face while she came. You want to be filled. You want to curl up right here and never move again.

Quaritch lets out a low groan of pure male satisfaction, his broad shoulders going lax as he hunches over Varang’s back. She’s still laid out on top of you, her back arches and hips tilted towards him, but once Quaritch pulls out of her she practically collapses onto you, spent.

The weight of her body slumping onto yours forces all the air from your lungs in an exhausted ‘ooof!’, and Quaritch hastily pulls her off. She goes easily, allowing him to settle her gently on the furs next to you.

She curls around you almost immediately, her chainsaw-like purring reminding you of an overlarge sundrunk housecat. It’s almost endearing enough to forget that you thought that she was a total psychopath.

Quaritch reclines next to you. He’s still grinning, no doubt immensely satisfied. It seems like his orgasm has softened some of the tension that’s been running through him like a steel rod in his spine. When he slides down on your other side, there’s a boneless quality to him that certainly wasn’t there before.

You stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and a little stunned. As the feeling comes back into your fingers and toes, reality is sinking in.

Jesus Christ, you just engaged in a threesome with your rogue boss and his new alien mate. 

Varang is sleepily playing with the shell of your ear, one of her long lithe legs is draped over your hips – it’s long enough to reach over to Quaritch, her toes playfully prodding at his thigh. He grunts, grabbing at her ankle and coasting his hand the whole way up her leg before groping at her pert ass.

You’re squashed right in the middle, still a little bewildered about how you managed to get into this situation.

“Should I– go fur?” You ask in badly accented, halting Na’vi. In case it wasn’t clear what you meant, you point over to the small pile of furs that you had dragged over to the other side of the tent.

You’d been sleeping in that sad little pile for the last week, and you just assume that they’ll want you to return now that they’re satiated. You’ve tried to avoid them at night, slinking in after they’ve fallen asleep or curling up with the furs over your head, so you’re not all too sure what their night routine is.

Do they always cuddle like this after fucking? How often do they drag a third person into their furs? Or is this the first time? 

It certainly seems… adventurous to drag you into this considering they’ve only been together a week, you think a little sourly. 

But when you look up at the two of them, they’re both looking at you as though you’re speaking in tongues. 

Had you misspoken? Maybe what you said meant something completely different. You scramble for a moment, working back over your words in your head.

But then–

“Mates sleep together.” Varang says, frowning.

She seems irritated, and the sight of her painted brow pinched in a frown has you nodding swiftly. You pull back, unwilling to linger in the furs when they don’t want you there.

But before you can go anywhere, Varang’s leg tightens over your hip and an arm winds under your waist as she hisses softly. You go very, very still.

“She told you to stay.” Quaritch grunts, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

“No she didn’t,” You whisper back, keeping your voice low as if that might keep Varang soothed. “She said that mates sleep together.”

Quaritch peels one eyelid open just so he can give you a look like you’re a little slow.

“What’s the difference?” He grumbles. 

He’s relaxed enough after his orgasm that he doesn’t seem to be able to work up enough energy to devote to the conversation. As a result, he doesn’t see the way you’re gaping at him blankly.

Admittedly, you’re not always the quickest, and the Na’vi language and their customs are so foreign to you that you don’t understand a lot of it. But it sounds as though Quaritch is including you in the mates statement.

Which is ridiculous, because you’re barely even a situationship to him. At least, you hadn’t thought so. Now, you’re bewildered. You lay still, compressed between their much larger bodies as they curl around you and each other in the most surreal three-way cuddle pile you’ve ever experienced. 

It takes a bit of wriggling to sit up, since neither of them seem all that interested in lifting their heavy limbs to make it easier for you. 

“Did you…” You manage to say, your voice cracking. “Did you sign me up for some kind of weird alien polyamory without asking me?”

“Hah?” Quaritch squints at you through one lazily opened eye, but you don’t wait for him to say anything further.

You smack at his arm. You’re so much smaller than him that it bounces off ineffectually, but it makes you feel a little bit better.

At least, it does before Varang lifts her head, looking between the two of you. You stiffen a little, wondering if she’s going to smack you down for daring to strike her mate the way that she had smacked that soldier outside the air carrier.

But she surprised you by smacking Quaritch instead, a little harder than you had but right over the same place.

This time Quaritch moves, his thickly muscled arms moving to wrap around your waist and Varang’s at once. He hauls you both atop of him, grumbling something about “Two damn women at once… pain in my ass”.

You wriggle, still unsettled, but Varang grins wide, settling down against the length of his body like she belongs there. She purrs, and her tail coils playfully around your upper thigh.

“Not like there were many conversations.” Quaritch mutters. “You mad about it?”

You can feel his words rumble lightly in his chest as you lay against him, and despite yourself you find yourself relaxing against him. The steady thrumming of Quaritch’s voice and Varang’s purring, their velvety skin, their encompassing warmth, has you melting reluctantly against them.

You allow yourself to think. It’s difficult to answer the question. You’re not all too sure what’s happened tonight. One moment you’d been angry with Quaritch for tossing you aside for Varang, the next you’re squashed between them in their furs and they’re talking about mates like it was a given that you were part of that arrangement.

“I… don’t know.” You say slowly. “I’m not sure I really understand.”

Quaritch just snorts. 

“Yeah, me neither.” He grunts, reaching down to scratch at the light thatch of hair above his cock. To your fascination, you see that his length has retracted back into that little internal pouch.

“She said that she was going to take my mate.” You protest, mortified even to be saying it out loud. "As in, you."

Quaritch huffs a lazy, tired laugh. He says something to Varang in her ear, too quick and quiet for you to hear. She grunts, eyelids fluttering, and mumbles something back.

Whatever she said has Quaritch rolling his eyes back to look at you with a single sardonic brow raised.

“You gotta improve the language, honey.” He mutters. “She said she’s gonna take you as a mate.”

You gape at him. Even with it being stated in plain English, your brain cycles around the words without engaging with them fully. 

“What the fuck?” You blurt.

Had they known the whole time that you were involved in this weird little ‘mating’ situation? Was that why they had been so amused with your sulking, your insistence at sleeping apart? 

What you had thought was mockery from Varang might just have been an expression of interest.

“Too much talking.” Varang mumbles in Na’vi.

She’s clearly trying to sleep, her ears twitching in irritation every time someone speaks.

You quiet down, biting your lip. It seems like you’re the only one confused by any of this. They’re certainly not wasting much time having moral quandaries or wondering what this means for your standing among them. 

A little hesitantly, you allow yourself to relax fully against them.

Never in your wildest dreams would you have first imagined this when you came to your pencil-pushing job in Pandora – squashed between two enormous alien bodies, one of them your resurrected boss, in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere filled with Na’vi that are hostile to basically everything.

But the furs are warm and comfortable, and paradoxically you feel small and safe pressed against the bulk of Quaritch and Varang. Everything outside of the tent feels distant and hazy, like the only real thing in the world is right here narrowed down to the palpable heat of your bodies in a post-coital pile.

Just maybe, you could postpone your little meltdown until tomorrow.

Quaritch must feel you surrender to the situation, your body relaxing against his, because you feel his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against the top of your head.

When he leans down to speak in your ear, you shiver lightly.

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!

you should. you know that. you should grab his wrist, push him off, wake toji, scream. but you just gasp, barely, when his fingers brush your cunt and find it already soaking. his breath catches against the back of your neck.

you don’t even mean to move—your body just does it, grinding back into his hand in this tiny, helpless little roll that makes his breath stutter against your neck. he wasn’t expecting you to be that needy. that open. that willing.

but now he’s losing composure faster than you are.

“shit… look at you.” his voice is barely there, all breath and hunger. “you’re fuckin’ dripping.”

his fingers slide deeper, testing how far he can push without waking the man passed out inches from you. toji shifts in his sleep, arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest—and closer into sukuna’s fingers.

you gasp into the pillow. sukuna’s hand clamps over your mouth instantly, big and warm and shaking just a little.

“quiet.” he’s whispering like a threat, but it’s soft, indulgent. “unless you want him to see you like this.”

his fingers curl inside you and your back arches—your thighs trembling around his wrist. he drags his thumb over your clit, slower this time, cruel, like he’s savoring the way your hips twitch.

you’re already close. embarrassingly close. he feels it in the way your cunt clenches around him, desperate and wet.

“fuck, baby—” his breath hits your ear. “toji didn’t fuck you right at all, did he?”

you shake your head. you don’t trust your voice.

“no?” he smirks against your skin. “yeah. i can feel it. you’re so tight my fingers can barely move.”

he pushes them deeper anyway. your eyes roll back. you bite the sheet. “bet you were lying there wishing it was me,” he whispers. “weren’t you?”

you don’t answer, but your hips tell the truth.

he laughs under his breath, grinding his hard cock into the soft curve of your ass, letting you feel just how badly he wants you.

“knew it.”

his palm slides up your stomach, grabbing your breast through the fabric of toji’s shirt—twisting your nipple until you jerk and nearly whimper out loud.

toji shifts again, sighing in his sleep, and your whole body goes rigid.

sukuna’s lips brush the back of your shoulder. “relax,” he whispers. “he’s dead to the world. trust me.”

his fingers speed up, turning wet, sharp, merciless—circling your clit in tight, perfect spirals that make your thighs clamp around his wrist and your breath come out in broken, strangled sobs.

you’re trying so hard to be quiet. you’re shaking with the effort.

and sukuna’s losing it. his breathing is uneven. hungry. his hips grind against you like he’s seconds from ripping his sweats off and sinking inside you.

“cum for me,” he whispers. “fucking do it. right here. on my fingers. while he’s holding you.”

your body breaks before your mind does—your orgasm hits you like a punch, messy and hot, clenching around his fingers so hard he chokes on a groan.

you bury your face in the pillow to keep from screaming, every shudder traveling up into toji’s arm where it’s still curled around your waist.

sukuna doesn’t stop. not when you break. not when you twitch. not when your legs shake violently against his.

he fucks you through it. slow at first. then deeper.

“still needy,” he murmurs, rubbing your overstimulated clit with the same fingers that just made you cum. “you want more, don’t you?”

you nod, breathless. helpless.

and sukuna presses his cock against your ass again, harder this time. he’s throbbing. leaking through his pajamas.

“good,” he whispers. “because i’m not leaving this bed until you’re full.”

he shifts behind you, nudging your legs further apart with his knee, and his cock drags right against your ass now—heavy and obvious through the fabric. he’s so hard. and he’s not pretending otherwise anymore.

“you want it, don’t you?” he mutters, biting softly at the curve of your shoulder. “want me to fuck you while he sleeps right next to us. nasty girl.”

you don’t answer. you just nodand roll your hips up into his hand like you’re begging for it.

“say it,” he hisses. “say you want me. say you need more.”

“please,” you whisper. “please fuck me.”

he growls low in his throat like it’s a command his body’s been waiting for. he pulls his hand away, your cunt clenching around nothing now, slick and throbbing. and then you feel him tug his sweats down, the rustle of fabric loud in the silence. his cock presses against your entrance—already soaked from how messy you are—and you feel the stretch before he even pushes in.

you gasp. he clamps his hand over your mouth. “shhh, can’t wake him up now,” he says, and the amusement in his voice makes your cheeks burn. “be quiet while i stuff you, baby. be fuckin’ quiet.”

and then he’s inside you. slow. inch by inch, splitting you open, dragging through your soaked walls like he’s savoring it. you can feel everything. every thick pulse, every twitch, every breath he takes as he sinks in deeper and deeper until he’s flush against you, cock buried to the hilt in someone else’s girlfriend.

“fuck,” he groans, voice caught in his throat. “so fuckin’ tight. bet you’ve been dreaming about this.”

you have.

you didn’t want to. but you have.

he starts moving. slow at first, careful not to shake the bed, but it’s torture. your cunt clenches around him like you’re trying to hold him inside, trying to pull him deeper. and he laughs into your skin when he feels it.

“you’re fuckin’ dripping. you like this, don’t you? letting me fuck you while he’s holding you.”

and he is—toji’s still right there, arm heavy over your waist, his chest rising and falling against your side like nothing’s wrong, like you’re not being ruined an inch away by the man he calls his brother.

sukuna fucks you slow and mean. no mercy in the way his hips roll into you, no softness in the way he grinds up deep every time your thighs shake.

“gonna make you cum on my cock,” he growls, hand wrapping around your throat now. “gonna fill this little cunt up and let him wake up to the mess.”

your orgasm hits like fire—so sharp and hard it steals the sound from your lungs. your whole body seizes and shakes and he fucks you through it, grunting against your back, thrusts getting messy, more frantic.

“yeah, that’s it, fuckin’ take it. take every inch—fuck—take this cum, baby—”

he sinks in one last time, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you, thick and so much it leaks out around him before he even pulls out. and when he does, you can feel the slick mess trailing down your thighs, your body still twitching from aftershocks.

he presses a kiss to your shoulder like a thank you.

It’s the Battle of the Bands after party—first place going to Sukuna’s band just like the past two years. After grueling practices that lasted until the sun kissed the horizon for the past couple of months, he wanted tonight to be low-key. Smoke a few blunts and stare at the ceiling, finally able to zone out after being on overdrive for so long.

But, no. Instead, he’s got a vein in his forehead pulsing with how hard he’s gritting his teeth, watching you giggle over something fucking stupid the drummer said, gleaming blue eyes staring right down your cleavage unapologetically. You, on the other hand, aren’t even trying to be inconspicuous about it, elbows prodding together your tits on full display for the freak.

And he’s pretty sure you’ve chosen that lanky kid on purpose. Everyone knows Gojo Satoru. But he appeared out of fucking nowhere in the music scene, probably using daddy’s card to pay for his equipment, securing the runner up spot in the show even though he hasn’t participated in any competitions before.

He’d call it beginner’s luck, but the kid could fucking shred. And he really fucking hated it.

Sukuna can handle a bit of fit after what he said to you a couple of weeks ago. But then you lean in to Gojo’s lips from where you’re straddling him, hands balanced on his shoulders for support, and he can practically envision your expression from this angle because he has seen it on you a hundred times.

You kiss him. You kiss him.

Gojo’s hands stiffen above your ass, fists clenching, and then he melts. Melts into you.

Indignation strikes Sukuna, and he’s confident that he can feel his veins splitting. Fire crackles in his sight, nearly blinding him, ready to haze everything in his path.

“Who pissed in your drink?” A familiar voice to his right grates, and it’s only then that Sukuna notices he’s crushing the red solo cup in his hand, cheap beer overflowing from the rim and splashing across his wrist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, setting the cup down and reaching for a couple of napkins, wiping himself. You’ve done it—you’re ruining his night.

Toji, his band mate, snickers. He plops down on the couch beside him, glancing over at you straddling Gojo’s lap and curling your fingers through his milky hair, cringing at the sight. “Christ. How did she even get in?”

Sukuna’s lip pull into a tight, feigned grin. “She’ll do anything to get under my skin.”

Toji cocks his head thoughtfully, overgrown strands of raven hair falling over his forehead. “Or she’s into him.”

The pink-haired ruffian nearly howls, violence churning deep in his gut. “I know her. And I know she’s not over me. That’s why she chose fucking tonight of all nights to rub something like this in my face.”

Clicking his tongue, the bassist takes a sip of his beer, eyeing his seething band mate closely. “So… say she is orchestrating this whole thing to make you jealous. What now?”

Sukuna leans back, throwing his arms over the back of the couch and glowering at your backside.

“I’ll teach them a lesson.”

—

“Is he looking?” you whisper against Gojo’s ear, squeezing his bicep and attempting to make this whole ordeal look as plausible as possible.

The man below you grunts, barely able to contain himself as you practically dry hump him in the corner of this party, cheeks bleeding pink. “Y-yeah. Beady little red eyes fixed on your ass.”

You beam, tongue darting out to wet your tongue, something thrilling churning in your gut.

“What’s the whole deal with you two a-anyway? He fuck some groupie?” Gojo whispers, tamping off his orgasm just from you pawing at him, needy cunt rested on his clothed erection tenting in his jeans. It’s fucking pathetic, but you’re really pretty and really convincing.

He might actually believe you might wanna fuck him if things go sideways with your plan.

You were certain your plan had been some genius level mastermind-ing. First, you attended the Battle of the Bands in your disguise Subtle trenchcoat and sunglasses slinking off to the corner. Fume when Sukuna won, but caught the gaze he tossed the runner ups.

Getting Gojo’s attention wasn’t hard. All you had to do was slink your arm through his as his band sulked over to their van and ask if he wanted to hang. A couple of stutters and glances at his band mates and it was a yes.

Then, inform poor little Gojo. It wasn’t in your plan, but he looked starstruck when you laid your hand over his thigh as he drove you in his car to the party. Yeah, he’d been a little pissy that you had ulterior motives, but once you explained to him that he could have some sort of win over Sukuna, he was all in.

And here you are, putting a show on for your ex with your new play thing.

You scoff, pulling away and leveling him with a pout. “Nope. He said he wanted a break because I was clinging too much when he had rehearsals and he couldn’t focus. So I’ll just show him how clingy I can be,” you purr out, leaning forward to press soft kisses against the bevel of Gojo’s jaw, a smirk playing on your lips.

Naturally, he tosses his head back, hands reaching towards your ass to grasp it when he feels a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and pauses. Fluttering his eyes open, he meets a set of crimson pools bleeding into him from across the room, practically daring him to continue.

Christ.

“Is he going to beat my ass because of this?” Gojo huffs, a groove hooking between his brows as you start to grind your hips. The air strips from his lungs, all blood immediately rushing south and making him painfully hard.

If it were just the two of you, he’d tear that skimpy little skirt off of you and fuck you until you were singing his name. Then, he’d buy you a new skirt.

“Probably,” you weigh in, biting the skin above his jugular and kissing it when he hisses.

"Up.”

You both suddenly freeze. Unaware of the madness that had been licking at your heels, too lost in your game.

Gojo stills out of fear. You, out of excitement.

“The both of you. Up, right now.”

You clamber off of Gojo, adjusting the hemline of your skirt and peering up at him. Pouring innocence into your eyes, you clasp your hands in front of you, tilting your head to the side.

Sukuna seethes at the sight and you feel like you’ve just tallied up another point against him in this mental war the two of you have going on.

He’s jealous. And it’s eating away at him.

“Hey—.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna growls, fixing a scowl on Gojo, looking like he’s ready to tear him limb from limb. He imbues his voice with every ounce of rage rattling through him. “Upstairs, second room to your left. Both of you. If you lay a finger on her, I’ll make sure those fingers never curl around a drumstick again.”

You and Gojo swallow nervously, exchanging a look, before obeying. Gojo doesn’t want his face caved in by Sukuna’s twitching fist, and you finally got what you wanted.

Moment’s later, you’re both perched on a mattress. A little mussy and unkempt, probably belonging to one of Sukuna’s band mates. You’d never gotten the chance to slip into one of their bed’s, but that was your plan if things didn’t work out with this one.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

You roll your eyes, glancing at Gojo’s taut posture—back ramrod straight and hands cupping his knees. “No, Gojo. You’re not going to die.”

“I’m not going out for some pussy. Like even though I can practically smell your sweet scent from here, there’s no way in hell—.”

Before he gets the chance to continue or get smacked upside the head by you, the door pushes open.

And in walks Sukuna.

Did he get taller the last time you saw him? And buffer? And hotter?

The door clicks shut behind him, and the welcoming silence is nothing but suffocating. You can practically hear Gojo’s heart slamming into his ribs.

“Two obedient little mutts,” Sukuna snarls out, hands clasped behind his back and a daunting grin splitting through his face. “Or should I say brats.”

Gojo stiffens, glancing at you sidelong and feeling his heart drop to his ass.

Of course you’re giving that man heart eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryomen,” you pout, lower lip jutting out.

Government name. Huh. Gojo thinks.

Slowly, Sukuna closes the distance between you and him, and then his hand finds your jaw, gripping it firmly.

“Acting out ‘cause I broke your heart, huh?”

You grin. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sukuna flashes you his teeth, not believing you for a second. His gaze draws over to the man sitting beside you, mischief swirling in his eyes. “You don’t know what you're getting yourself into with a girl like her,” Sukuna claims, straightening to his full, towering height.

He places a hand on top of your head while you bask in Sukuna’s attention.

“The second you lay a hand on her, she stakes her claim and you’ll be damned to think if she ever lets go.” He averts his attention over to you, whose practically hanging onto every word from his lips. “On your knees.”

You scuttle to the floor, eyes gleaming with need, pupils blown wide.

“The two of you are fucking delusional if you think you’ve got a hand over me,” he quips, cocking his head to the side as you work his belt buckle, russet eyes honed in on the cerulean one's fixed on him.

And for once, Gojo doesn’t find himself babbling and making sly jokes.

He's fucking speechless.

Sukuna’s boxers and jeans pool at his ankles, his thick cock springing free and hitting his abdomen. Thick, with veins crawling towards the angry head.

Gojo’s seen dicks before, but certainly not one as big as this one.

It looks like it might punch him if Sukuna doesn’t.

He feels his adam’s apple bob at the sight, before he drags his gaze back up to Sukuna, whose staring right back at him.

You’re too busy salivating at the sight of Sukuna’s cock, curling a hand around the base. Bringing your face forward, you begin laving up the slit with kitten licks, a soft hum resonating from you. Content and satisfied on your knees and pleasing your ex-boyfriend.

Sukuna growls, raking his fingers through your hair and digging his nails into your scalp, grunting when you finally take him into your mouth. “Fuckkkk. Needy little bitch could barely survive with this dick,” he thrums, hips jutting forward just to shove an inch deeper.

You squirm and pant and gag, two hands curled around his meaty shaft, the other half of his cock bulging down your throat. Your tongue flat as his heavy appendage rests on top, stroking and pumping into your orifice like a toy.

“Jus’ like that, brat. I need to train this fuckin’ throat, remind her who it belongs to.”

You splutter, saliva and precum dripping down your chin and onto your thighs, the squelching of your mouth and his cock echoing off the walls.

And Gojo’s not sure if he’s ever seen something hotter.

His hand trails down to his jeans, his erection practically unbearable, pressing down on the fabric.

Sukuna’s blown pupils catch his, wild and volatile, a shit-eating grin rending his face. “Well, well. Would you look at that? He’s getting off on this,” he spews, drawing another hand down to your head and finally bottoming out, shoving his entire length down your throat.

His cock is fucking bulging out of your throat, Sukuna cupping the skin and sighing contently. He massages the skin, your eyes practically popping out of your head from the exertion.

He holds you there as you gag, throat filled to the brim, while holding his gaze on Gojo’s. Slowly, Gojo undoes his belt and shuffles the fabric down along with his boxers, his pale shaft springing free. The base, decorated with milky pubes, twitches with need. Pink head flushed and already weeping all over itself.

“You guys d-do this often?” Gojo querys, running a thumb over his swollen tip and gasping, hips nearly jolting off the mattress. “Invite some unlucky guy over to watch you guys fuck.”

You pull off of Sukuna’s cock, barely able to contain your giggles, leaving Sukuna to answer for you.

“We’ve had our run-ins. This woman can’t seem to quit pissing me off, huh?” Sukuna quirks, angling your head up to face him.

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes glossed over with tears and lust as you wipe your chin with the back of your hand. “You like putting me in my place. It’s fucking hot.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue in feigned disdain, though he knows just how much his anger turns you on. “Eyes up here. Look away and you'‘ll regret it.”

You nod like a bitch in heat, hands on your lap, lashes pursed in excitement.

Sukuna straightens, chest still caving with how fucking hard he is. His palm, rough and calloused, strokes his dick right in front of your face. Up and down—wrenching the muscle mere inches from your expectant tongue hanging limply now. Then, he feeds it to you again.

“Whattt the fuck. S-she just sits there,” Gojo rasps in utter and blasphemous disbelief, swallowing a wad of saliva, his cock spasming in his hand, drooling over the sight of you. “Takes everything you, fuck, give her like a good girl.” Perky nipples prod through your thin top, ass hanging out from beneath your short skirt, cunt practically dripping arousal on the floor. He’s never seen something fucking hotter, the way you take him so well, pleasure darting down his spine. Your lips, slick with spit, mold around his cock, fingers squeezing his heavy and thick balls, like you’ve done this a million times over and you’ll never be sick of it.

Sukuna hums, impossibly low and raspy that it sends a wave of goosebumps over you. “She’s an obedient whore once she gets her mouth on me,” he assents, panting and smiling over at Gojo. You can barely hear the two men over your haze of lust, too orally fixed on the feel of Sukuna’s cock swelling between your slick walls. “Feels fuckin’ amazing.”

Gojo locks eyes with Sukuna, and it’s then that he realizes his part tonight.

Sukuna won’t let him lay another finger on you.

And the man in question smirks in unabashed shamelessness.

Sukuna tugs his cock from your mouth, jerking it right before your face, his expression pinching up. The man looks fucking pained with how good it feels, his animalistic grunts and groans sounding through the bedroom, making Gojo wrench his own member quicker.

“Always comin’ back to me,” Sukuna groans, sweat beading on his brow line, only speeding up his motions. “Try and f-fuck whoever you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But you’ll always, always come back to me,” he bites his emphasis, crimson eyes locked onto yours.

His words don’t deter you, no. If anything, they spur you on. You’re practically bouncing on the floor, nodding your head, whining desperately.

“Say it,” Sukuna groans through his teeth, using his freehand to keep your head in place. “Say you’re mine. Say you fucking belong to me.”

“I’m yours, ‘Kuna,” you hiccup, eyes watery, lips jutting out. Your eyes are fixed on his, pupils blown wide, lashes dusting the rounds of your cheeks. How badly you want to run your tongue across the veins underscoring his shaft, but you keep still. Sukuna may think he’s got you wrapped around his finger, but you own him just as much.

You’re both each other’s birth, and each other’s ruin.

“All yours. Yours to fuck, yours to wreck,” you babble on, a hand drawing down to your panties, sliding the gusset to the side. Your middle digit drags up through your silky folds and in a pitchy breath, you moan—.

“You own me.”

The heat that’s fisted low in Sukuna’s loins comes undone all across your face—warm spurts ribboning through your hair, your eyelashes, gliding between your lips. He bows over your form, wrist flicking back and forth as he coaxes his orgasm from his erect cock. Stars nearly blot out his vision entirely, a low guttural sound, bordering on primitive, bounces around in the cavity of his chest, like music to your ears.

And you sit there and take it, tongue welcoming the salty and thick semen coating your tongue, lapping around your cheeks to take in more.

“My god,” Sukuna huffs, pumps coming to a slow, squeezing his base and sighing. He comes down from his release, peering over at Gojo.

The guy’s made a mess all over himself, panting and flushed, cum drying into his shirt.

“Fuck, Gojo. Didn’t know you had it in you,” Sukuna praises, noticing the red bleeding into the former’s ears.

“Shut it, Sukuna.”

“No thanks. She can do that for me,” he quips, jutting his chin towards you.

You frown, also coming to your senses. “What?”

A wicked grin paints your ex-boyfriend. “Kiss him like you did before.”

You nearly whimper at the sound, warmth blossoming behind your ribs. You thought you knew the extent of your ex boyfriends vapid jealousy, but you were fucking wrong.

Sparing a glance at Gojo, he almost looks worse than you do. Sweaty, blushing profusely. He might be enjoying this more than he’s let on.

His tongue runs across the inside of his cheek, before he’s waiting for you on the mattress. Getting to your feet, you step over to him, your heart toppling around in your chest. There’s cum all over your face, your lips, your tongue—his cum—and he still wants you to kiss Gojo.

You knew Sukuna was depraved, but he still manages to find ways to surprise you.

You sit beside Gojo, your knee knocking against his, pulse roaring in your ears. Cum everywhere, Gojo is still leaning in.

In. In. In.

Soft.

His lips are velvety, plump. They slot over yours perfectly, gliding over your lips like he’s tasting you for the first time—which he kinda is as your first kiss was amateur.

And Sukuna. He’s tasting Sukuna.

A throaty hum resonates from him, rumbling and low, your core throbbing dully. Gojo’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his nose knocking against yours.

Teeth bumping, swapping saliva.

Then, Gojo moves up. Making love to your cheeks, tongue lapping at the seed coating your face, leaving slick trails of saliva.

You tremble and whine, hands fisting in his shirt, feeling his hardened abs beneath.

He’s going to be the death of you.

Sukuna watches the whole thing in bliss, cruel crimson eyes softening at the sight. Two desperate whores, tonguing each other for a taste of him. Lavving up his warm seed like mutts.

“Enough,” Sukuna drawls after a few moments, his timbre resounding loud enough to halt the both of you. “Sit over there,” Sukuna grumbles at Gojo, pointing towards the couch against the side.

A muscle pulses in Gojo’s jaw, and for the first time tonight, it seems like he’s putting his foot down. “No. It looks like your girl might want me more than she lets on,” he smirks, smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Gojo stands up, kicking his pants off and taking a few steps over to Sukuna, as if he’s sizing him up despite their height and size difference. Gojo might be tall and buff, but Sukuna is a beast.

“Daddy’s money has got some nerve,” Sukuna sneers, a chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Or was it mommy’s money that got you second place.” He takes a step forward, glowering at Gojo from the slope of his nose.

“We got that trophy fair and square. What, you a little threatened by some competition?”

“Not from a prick like you—.”

“Enough!” you cut in, eyebrows drawing inwards, frowning at the both of them. “Squash your beef another time. If one, or even both, of you don’t come over here and fuck me, I’ll go back downstairs and find someone who will.”

They both peer down at you, chests swelling and manic expressions.

And in a turn of events, you don’t know exactly what happened and how everyone got where, but you’re on all fours on the mattress, Gojo’s cock dragging across your face and Sukuna’s tongue dragging through your slit.

“H-holy sshitttt,” you whimper, thighs trembling, Gojo’s balls bumping against your chin. There’s a searing grip on your hair, which you realize is your ex’s, forcing your back into a meannnn arch backwards, your ass dragging onto his tongue.

The muscle darts out, collecting your sap, before dipping into your entrance. Your cunt sucks his tongue into your pussy, clenching around the wet appendage, hips twitching.

“You’ve been eating pineapple,” Sukuna mutters smugly into your sex, and you can feel his voice vibrating against your clit, helplessly writhing between them.

“W-wanted to taste good—oh my god,” you gasp, toes curling as he hollows his cheeks out around your sensitive bundle of nerves. “For you, ‘Kuna.”

Your eyes brim with tears of overstimulation—Gojo staring down at you with heart eyes, cheeks bled pink and running his thumb across your cheek. Your tongue hangs limply out, tracing the veins of his slender cock weeping precum across your face.

“What about me?” he breathes out, head cocked to the side tauntingly. His sudden boost in confidence, quite frankly, a little terrifying.

You don’t get a chance to say anything before he squishes your cheeks into a pout, feeding his cock between your lips.

Oh. He’s sweeter than Sukuna, slender and he’s got at least an inch or two on him. And when he’s looking at you like that—.

“Oh baby,” he sighs, maw hanging slack—cool, lithe fingers curling around your throat and keeping you in place as he strokes himself into your mouth slowly. “Doin’ so good for me.”

“Sucking another man’s cock while I tongue fuck you,” Sukuna snarls as he comes up for air. “Nothin’ but a fuck toy.” He dives back in, not wasting a second to devour you like a man starved.

Embarrassment flushes from your nape up to the crowns of your ears, the duality of these two men praising then mocking you turning your mind to mush. Sukuna’s hands skim over your thighs, spreading you further as he paints his name with his tongue across your clit, your spine tingling through the sensation.

Tears run errant down your cheeks as your jaw nearly locks open, Gojo holding you in place, watching his dick disappear between your lips. Sap collects along the base of his cock, coating his pubes in fluid. Your torn panties, previously discarded to the side, are suddenly pushed up against Gojo’s nose. He gasps, holding it in place as he fucks your face, a guttural groan of relief leaving him.

“Been smelling this all day and finally…” he trails off, then peers down at you, sky blue eyes swirling with mirth. “God, if you could see the things I’m envisioning.”

You writhe on his cockat the dirty words, cunt clenching as Sukuna mercilessly works you towards your orgasm. Pleasure builds, the tension in your eye contact blooming warmth in your gut.

“After this, I’m going to eat you out until you cry.”

Your orgasm hits you like a tank against a reinforced wall—unexpected and brutal. Your ears ring and muffle out the sounds around you, all while you scream on Gojo’s dick, Sukuna’s tongue working miracles.

And fuck, it lasts a few moments, your back convulsing and fists grabbing at the sheets like they might curb the sensation.

You push off of Gojo’s dick, panting and attempting to catch your breath, when Sukuna pulls away from behind you and you feel something bulbous press against you entrance.

Familiar, calloused hands tug your waist towards his pelvis and you squeal. God, how you’ve missed feeling him stretch you open with his cock.

“You’ve had your fun,” Sukuna bites at Gojo, leaning down to press a kiss against your shoulder. He brushes your hair past your shoulder to expose your nape, a touch so delicate that he’d normally reserve for the privacy of the two of you. He juts his chin towards the door, rubbing soothingly on the bevel of your shoulder. “Get the fuck out and jerk yourself off somewhere else.”

Finally, Sukuna connects his lips with yours, your head tilting backwards and whining into him, stomach fluttering with butterflies. You taste yourself on him, and he tastes Gojo. His cock, heavy and pulsing with need, drags through your puffy folds.

Sukuna pulls away, a hand curling around the back of your neck while the other finds purchase on your waist.

But Gojo doesn’t move.

“One more game.”

Sukuna sighs, tongue darting out in irritation to wet his lip. “A taste and you’re greedy for more. Get out before I break your nose.”

Gojo’s attention diverts to you. “Let’s ask the audience. How’s another round sound, sweets?”

You peer back at Sukuna, eyes wide and doe-like. Needy, desperate.

Your silence speaks numbers.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Sukuna groans, head dipping in disappointment. There goes the make-up sex. “Alright, asshat. What’s your grand idea to get into my girl’s pants.”

Gojo smirks, running his fingers through his ivory-hair. “Whoever comes inside her first loses. Winner gets to choose the losers punishment.”

Sukuna’s canines flash in his competitive nature. “You got it.”

—

You shouldn’t be entertaining these two. Music rivals, mortal enemies, whatever you want to call it.

But it feels too fucking good.

They’ve tossed their clothes off, glaring at each other from opposite ends of you.

Sukuna is flexing his biceps as he slams his pelvis against your ass, working you wide open, muscles taking him. His cock abuses your cervix, coating it with his thick precum. Gojo continues to work your throat, your hair fisted into a ponytail as he buries his dick to the hilt, your nose brushing against his coarse, milky pubes.

“Look at how she’s takin’ me,” Gojo quips, eyes sparkling with mischief, piercing holes into Sukuna.

“She’s nothing but a cock slut, she’ll take anything you put into her mouth.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, attempting to bite back at their remarks but held in place by their needy and grabby hands. Gojo slaps the side of your cheek, attempting to root you back in reality but you’re too far gone.

Squirming and squealing on Gojo’s cock, sucking Sukuna’s dick into your desperate hole.

Oh how you’ve been waiting to be fucked by him, but with Gojo here…

It’s a fucking dream come true.

Sukuna’s hand curls down to your tummy, feel his cock bulge out of your abdomen, grinning at the man training your other hole. “Look at that. I can feel her from the outside.”

Gojo snorts, a hand curling around your throat. “That’s nothin’ special. Can feel my cock working her muscles. She’s putting in overtime, huh?” he grins down towards you, the slightest bit of pressure on your neck.

You nod, then feel their hands shift.

Sukuna’s fingers tweak and pinch your clit. Gojo toys with your nipples, the buds pebbled and erect.

It’s too much. Too many hands, everywhere.

It feels too fucking good.

You jostle between them, limp and held up by them, and then you tense up.

Another orgasm wrecking you. Senseless, you spasm and twitch, Gojo inhaling sharply and Sukuna hissing—.

Both filling you to the brim with their seed. Stuffed like a turkey on Thanksgiving.

They both thrust forward, their cocks swelling and spilling semen down your openings, your juices squirting out from the exertion. You splutter again, eyes bulging wide and the knot in your gut uncoiling, making a mess across your ex boyfriend’s pelvis, cumming all over his cock.

“Oh, you did so well,” Gojo moans low through fluttered lashes, holding you in place on his cock, riding out his orgasm.

“Dick’s her favorite sport,” Sukuna chuckles through a hiss, his cock twitching between your walls.

You collapse on the mattress, curtly falling asleep from how hard the men had worked you, not even sure who’s hands clean you up, carry you and tuck you into Sukuna’s bed.

And the following weeks? Sukuna and Gojo had practically been at each other’s necks, swearing one had bragging rights over the other. Gojo baiting Sukuna to the point he rages in front of his band mates, and Gojo avoiding a fist from colliding with his jaw.

But what made it so fun for you, was that neither men were done.

After a taste of you, they were just getting started.

“missed havin’ you like this, angel,” satoru purrs, his half-lidded blue eyes tracking every inch of your face as his long fingers slowly rub your pussy, “missed having’ her sucking me in—oh, fuck yeah.”

you’re dripping and clearly just as pent up as your husband is. your cunt is spasming around his fingers and you’re overly sensitive—cumming over and over again as he curls and scissors those slender fingers inside you.

satoru doesn’t stop there. he never does, even if you cum for the nth time. now is his chance to worship every inch of you without any interruption and he will gladly enjoy every second.

but not without teasing you until you’re sobbing.

tears roll down your cheeks by your fourth orgasm, your legs shaking as they wrap around your husband’s head. his white hair tickles your inner thighs as his tongue flicks over your throbbing clit.

“‘toru,” you cry out and your teeth are clenched together. you’re trying so hard not to squirt all over his already slick covered face again, “‘s so much. . . feels like am gonna explode.”

“that so? awwh,” satoru grins against your pussy, his large hands tugging your hips up against his mouth, “do it then, baby. let this greedy pussy cum all over my face again.”

he presses small kisses all over your puffy slit before suddenly eating you out like he’s starving. he slurps and sucks hard, tongue flicking in and out of your cunt without pause.

his blue eyes flicker up to you, staring seductively at the way your stomach is trembling, the way your head is thrown back against the pillows. your fingers tug at his hair and he knows you’re close again.

“c’monnn,” satoru coos and his nose bumps against your clit as he buries his tongue deep into you, lapping up all the juices that drip down to your ass, “cum for me—cum for your hubby.”

your eyes widen and you feel the moment you’re pushed over the edge. you keen and your press his head against your sloppy sex out of instinct, “ahnn! cummin’!”

satoru groans and closes his eyes, his hands digging into the doughy flesh of your ass as he slurps up every drop of your cum. his adam apple bobs in throat, working overtime to drink up everything you give.

“that’s it, mmhh,” he murmurs, voice muffled as his mouth still works over your overstimulated pussy. he only pulls back when you’re left shaking and whining.

satoru licks his glistening lips, wiping some of your slick from the sides of his mouth with his fingers, only to make a show of licking them off. his cock is pulsing against his boxers at the sight of you—sobbing pathetically while your hips buck and twitch uncontrollably.

“you look so pretty when you cry f’me,” the white-haired man sighs and pats your drooling cunt in an almost gentle but teasing manner.

your body jolts at the slightest touch. “mmhg,” you hiccup and instinctually clamp your thighs around his hand, keeping him trapped there.

satoru grins as he looms over you, “how cute. you don’t want your dear hubby to pull away, hm?” he pries your legs apart with both hands, giving them a squeeze before he settles his hips between them.

“heh, don’t worry, baby. am not going anywhere. i still need to hear you cry for my dick.”

GETO SUGURU :: the trying-to-show-restraint-but-fails type

suguru helps you put the kids to sleep once it’s their bedtime. on the outside, he’s a doting father who’s simply helping his children get ready for the night. on the inside, he’s a husband who can’t wait until he finally has his wife alone.

the two separate personalities clash and make it difficult for him to focus.

suguru smiles softly at his kids and tells them ‘goodnight’ in that usual soft and sultry tone before you two walk out of their rooms. once the door closes, his eyes darken almost instantly. they follow the delicious lines of your body as you walk ahead, already imagining what he’ll do to it.

you don’t notice until you’re walking to your bedroom. before you can take a step inside, suguru grabs you by your shoulders and pins you against the wall besides the door.

his eyes dart down to your lips and he lowers his head before you can react. the kisses start out soft and loving, though quickly turn passionate. he’s biting and sucking on your bottom lip, his tongue flicking against yours.

“sugu—honey,” you gasp for air between kisses, but your husband shuts you off by grabbing your ass and hoisting you up. your feet dangle off the floor before you quickly wrap them around his waist.

suguru is too lost in the taste of you to notice the way your hands are weakly tugging at his shirt. he only pulls away to breathe, gazing down at the dazed look in your eyes.

“ah, my bad,” he mumbles and reaches a hand up to wipe the mixture of spit from your bottom lip.

“you just look so good,” he whispers as he tilts his head to kiss and suckle on the skin of your neck, “couldn’t hold myself back after seeing you being all maternal with the kids—being such a good mama. it’s so fucking hot.”

you can feel him humping his bulge right up against your clothed cunt, his hips rolling in an maddeningly slow way, ensureing you can feel every ridge of his covered dick—ensuring you can feel how hard he is for you.

suguru bites your shoulder with a low groan, “almost makes me want to have another.”

your breath hitches at the thought, your cheeks heating up simultaneously. suguru notices the embarrasment on your face, but also the excitement and desire slowly swimming up to the surface. it makes his resolve waver.

“ngh,” you bite your lip at the way your husband's touching you all over, “that… doesn’t sound so bad.”

it was meant to be a teasing comment, but little did you know that it fuelled suguru’s desire to the point he snaps.

in record time, he has your back flat against the wall, his hands holding you up against him by the back of your thighs, his hips smacking against yours. your panties are messily shoved to the side to make way for his pistoning dick.

“you feel so good, fuck,” suguru grunts, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm as he punctuates each word with a sharp thrust, “did you get tighter thinking about me filling up your sweet cunt? about me putting another kid in your belly?”

all you can do is sweetly and quietly moan in his ears, trying not to be too loud as your kids are still asleep down the hall. the last thing you want is them interrupting this moment.

though you can’t muffle the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out your dripping cunt, the noises of your pussy eagerly sucking all inches in which echo throughout the dark hallway.

“yes, please. please, please—need it,” you beg. the idea of having suguru’s cum flooding your womb and it flowering into another mini-him, or a mini-you, has you drooling.

“ah, you beg so nicely,” suguru groans lowly, his thrusts turning into deep and slow ones, to drive his dick impossibly deeper into your pussy to the point his tip bumps against your cervix.

that’s right where he wants it to be. his heavy balls clench and he knows he doesn’t have much time until he's filling the space in your womb.

“hold onto me, angel. i’m not letting you go until i'm sure every drop of my cum is buried deep into this pussy.”

FUSHIGURO TOJI :: the just overly freaky type

toji can barely wait until you’ve finished tucking megumi in. he’s eyeing you up and down slowly as he leans against the doorframe, muscular arms crossed over his chest and his lips slightly curled into a promising, wicked grin.

you can feel his heated gaze, but try your best to finish reading megumi his bedtime story. your four year old son is attentive, but also still childishly innocent, as he notices the way toji is looking at you.

“mama—papa looks like a monster. he wanna eat you!”

and your husband did exactly that, though not in the way your child had intended it to. in a more mature and sensual way that has your toes curling and your mind going hazy with pleasure.

toji has you shaking from the multiple orgasms he’s put you through ever since you put megumi to sleep just over half an hour ago. you’re already fucked out, pussy sore from the quick fucking it has received in such a short amount of time.

but your husband isn’t done, not by a long shot.

“keep y’r leg up, doll,” toji grunts as he notices your foot slipping off his shoulder with each hard thrust of his hips. you’re laid out on your side this time, one shaky leg up with toji kneeling between your legs.

his fat dick is stretching you in ways you’re never going to forget. his previous load of cum sloshes around his base each time he drags his hips back, staining your duvet with no shame.

“tryin’, am… trying—“ you whimper, your fingers curling around the sheets to steady yourself both mentally and physically.

your husband scoffs and doesn’t let up. his veiny hand holds your leg in place against his torso, sweat dripping from his temples and his eyes fixed on the place you’re jointed together.

“fuckkk—look at that,” toji spits on his fingers before circling your clit with them, trailing up to press down on your lower abdomen, “y’r little cunt is takin’ every fucking inch so deep. it’s made for my cock, yeah?”

you mewl and your back arches sharply from the stimulation. you clamp down on his twitching cock which gains you a rough groan from the dark-haired man looming over you.

toji drives his cock further up into you, watching the skin of your stomach stretch taut, outlining the head of his dick as it appears and reappears with each thrust.

“y’know,” his eyes flicker up to your bouncing tits before up to your blissed out expression on your face, “maybe i should give this poor pussy a little break before i make ya pass out.”

“mmh?” you snap out of the fog of pleasure when toji slides his dick out of you, it slipping out with a wet pop. the impressive length is covered with a mixture of your cum, translucent white drops trickling down to his sack.

toji snickers at your adorable and confused pout. “don’tcha look so pathetic now,” he clicks his tongue before easing you onto your back, positioning you so that your head is somewhat hanging off the edge of the bed.

his cock dangles enticingly between his thighs, curving towards you as he comes to stand over your head.

your eyes widen and you nearly choke on your spit. his dick creates a shadow over your face due to the lighting of your bedside lamp, the tip pointed just mere inches from your lips.

“toji, can’t—“ you whine, though feel a shiver of excitement run down your spine when one of your husband’s hand wraps around your throat. not yet squeezing, but resting there at the base.

toji glares down at you with a dark glint in his green eyes. the image of him is upside down in your current vision, but you don’t miss the way he’s grinning wickedly.

he taps the engorged head of his cock against your plump lips before pushing past.

“relax y’r throat for me, doll. thaaaat’s it. gonna fuck this pretty face raw.”

NANAMI KENTO :: the keep-it-quiet-but-passionate type

whenever he has the chance, kento gets your kids ready for the night on his own. he tells you—almost forces you—to relax and lie down in bed. you’ve done more than enough during the day and the least he can do is take over for the night.

you do as he says and relax back on your soft mattress, letting the duvets swallow you whole. you’re lying there, eyes drifting close as you fade into slumber.

kento walks in after a couple minutes when your children have settled. the house is quiet and he lets out a sigh, finally able to cuddle with his wife without his daughters popping in every second to show him something.

as much as he loves them unconditionally, he’s still just a man who wants to give his wife a proper loving.

kento lies down on his side of the bed and smiles softly at your peaceful face. he traces the shape of your nose, to your cheekbones and back to your mouth. his gaze lingers on your parted lips for a moment too long.

you’re beautiful. too beautiful for your own good, in the eyes of your husband. he feels the urge to kiss you, to make you feel good, to see you reach that edge of ecstasy again and again. to make you feel loved and sated.

kento always put you first.

which is why you’re not surprised to wake up to him peppering your face with kisses. you smile warmly and wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his blonde strands, pulling him in for a proper kiss.

it starts of innocent and loving. a make-out session you both need after such busy days. though, it slowly turns into something more. you’re both grinding against each other, panting against your lips, shrugging off clothes until you’re naked.

“shh shh, i got you, sweetheart,” kento whispers against your ear as he moves deliberately, his hard dick dragging along your slick walls back and forth, “don’t want our princesses to wake up, do we?”

you swallow a moan and nod, “‘kay, ken.”

you feel his calloused palm gently press against your mouth to muffle any sounds. you cling onto the same arm with both hands, eyes rolling back from the steady rhythm of his hips.

the slow pace is somehow more than enough to drive you insane. especially when kento presses his pelvis against yours, holding it there, making your pussy swallow every inch down to the base before rolling his hips in a circle.

the bulbous tip of his cock presses against that sweet spot inside you and he keeps rubbing it with that grinding motion. your jaw goes slack and you almost let out a long moan, your hips jerking as you nearly cum right then and there.

you barely hold it in, but you catch yourself just in time. you squeeze your eyes shut and manage to delay your orgasm as well.

kento smiles and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose in reassurance. he rests his forehead against yours, his own breathing heavy with the strain of holding back grunts of pleasure.

“such a good wife—listening so well,” he murmurs, biting the inside of his cheek as he feels you tighten up from the praise. the bed creaks just slightly from your coupling—a faint squeak of the bed springs that only intensifies the intimate moment.

you can’t help but lick a stripe up kento’s palm, wanting to see how he’d react. your husband raises an eyebrow and lets out a deep chuckle at that playful gesture, “mhm, keep that up.”

you shiver at that. it was a simple sentence, though you can hear the promise behind it. a promise of something more if you kept testing him.

you can see the veins in his neck bulging a bit, his jaw clenched. you know he’s already holding back, to try and be as quiet as possible. any type of provocation can set him off easily.

“mmph,” you let out a muffled noise as you wrap your legs around his hips, locking him inside you. you bury your nails into his bare back as you feel his dick digging deeper than ever because of the change of position.

it was a surprise move that has kento’s restraint slipping—no—completely dissolving.

“fuck, i warned you—“ he mumbles, brows furrowing. your heart stammers against your chest as you see that stern look in his eyes. the chilling look that tells you you’re about to have a mindblowing orgasm.

kento hooks your legs over his arms, letting your heels rest atop his broad shoulders, your knees pushing up to your chest as he opens your pussy up further. his balls rest snugly against your ass, promising you an extra deep penetration.

your husband hums at the way your back is already arching, your cunt spasming and fluttering around his dick.

“no no, sweetheart. i haven’t properly started yet and you’re already on the verge of cumming. hold it in for me, yeah?”

RYOMEN SUKUNA :: the don’t-care-if-anyone-hears type

sukuna is a menace. he lets the servants take care of the kids while he has you speared on his cock in all kinds of positions. that is if he has no business to take care of. ‘waiting until the kids go to sleep’ is a concept that doesn’t apply in his way of life.

however, when he spends time with you and your children, he manages to hold himself back from pouncing on you when he’s in the mood. you told him it’s good for their development when he spends time together with them, so he does just that. although a bit grumpy sometimes.

after those days, sukuna’s even more pent up because he hasn’t touched you in any way for the longest time. and you feel it, really feel it, when you’re alone in your chambers with him at night.

you can barely breathe as your face is smushed into the pillows. spit and cum is smeared all over your skin, from your face to thighs. you haven’t had a break since he started… an hour ago? two? three?

you can’t remember.

“damn brats,” sukuna scoffs, two rough hands kneading your hips while the other play with your clit and tits, “always in the way.”

his upper cock is plunging in and out of your asshole, the lower one stretching your cunt. you’re gripping onto anything you can find; from the sheets to the headboard of the bed and back at sukuna’s arms.

you can’t focus on anything. the only thing you’re hearing and processing is the way sukuna’s hips surge forward against your ass in lewd, meaty thwacks.

“ryo! ah, i can’t no more,” you babble, moaning in-between slurred words. your body jolts back and forth like a ragdoll, your limbs gone limp as you struggle to get air in your lungs.

“oi—breathe, woman,” sukuna grumbles as two of his hands grab your wrists and pull your arms backwards, pulling your upper body off the mattress.

you gasp as your face is lifted from the pillows. one of sukuna’s hands shoot up to grab our jaw and tilt your head. he scoffs at the dumb and fucked out look on your face, your drool and his leftover cum staining your chin.

“ye look like a dumb, cock-drunk slut,” the king of curses snorts and slaps your cheek slightly to snap you out of your daze, “get y’rself together. i need ya to fully feel my cum flooding these tight fuckholes of yours.”

at the same time he snaps his hips harshly against the plump flesh of your rear, holding it there. your eyes widen and your tongue lolls out instinctively. that delicious feeling of both his dicks reaching the deepest parts inside of you never gets old.

“oh, oh! is so deep!” you mewl, tears rolling down your cheeks as you feel his fat tips battering your sweet spots, “feels so good!”

“that’s what i thought,” sukuna grins smugly, realising you’re good to go for another round. of course you are—your body has learnt to take him. has learnt to be addicted to his big cocks molding your holes to their shape.

his lower hands switch to hold your wrists back so his upper pair can maul your tits. his rough fingers tweak and tug at your nipples, palms squeezing the mounds. the soft skin there is also already tainted with his semen, from the boobjob you gave him before this.

“squeeze me some more, c’mon,” sukuna commands and pinches your nipples to make your body tense. you do and both your gaping holes tighten up around his dicks, “fuck yeaaah, squeeze the cum out of my fuckin’ balls like a good wife.”

your back is arched so sharply, you’re sure you’re going to feel it in the morning. but for now you can’t care less as you find the energy to move your hips back against sukuna’s.

your husband groans at the sight. his lower pair of eyes are fixated on the ripple in your ass with each thrust, your body eagerly taking everything he’s giving you.

“fuckin’ yourself back on my dicks, huh? nasty slut,” sukuna hisses and smacks your plush bottom, “y’re basically begging me to ruin this little cunt. to claim your insides again and again, ‘til you can feel your stomach swell with my cum.”

you nod mindlessly along to his words. you don’t care about anything else anymore. you just want your husband to ruin you for everyone else, to make you forget about the world with his double cocks bringing you to the edge.

“yes, please—cum inside, please!” you beg nicely, high-pitched and whorish moans leaving your throat.

sukuna snarls, fangs appearing as he fights the urge to break you in half. his feral instincts nearly take over at the way his human is pleading for his cum.

he pins your upper body down onto the bed again, hand shoved against the back of your head to muffle your noises. he plants a foot on the bed, urging you to lift your ass up more in the air so he could hit his thrusts right on—

“you asked for it, brat. i’ll fuck you ‘till ya pass out on my dicks and i’m not stopping ‘till you do.”