This is an idea I haven't seen anyone play with: female fairy x male human romantic smut. I occasionally see porn of it but never romantic smut and I think it'd be an interesting twist!
I love your work and good luck with the writing either way. I wish for you endless inspiration and muse!
Thief of Warmth (fem fairy reader x male human)
You are starving, frozen, your fae magic depleting. You risk everything to sneak into a lonely human's cottage. You only mean to steal his body heat for a few hours, but you go again and again, and on the third night, he catches you curled against his chest...
Kate: Hey friend! Finally got to work on your request! Enjoy!!
TW: NSFW, consensual, fairy needs warmth or dies, fingering, P in V, creampie, breeding kink, pregnancy, oral sex (fem receiving), size difference (fairy smaller than human), somno (first two encounters occur while human is asleep/unaware).
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The cold had teeth.
You'd known that since your wings had unfurled, weak and pale. Your mother had always warned you to be careful; winter was a fairy's graveyard. But knowing and feeling were different beasts entirely. This winter had buried your kin. Buried your magic. Buried everything except the screaming need to survive.
Your wings hung from your shoulders like dead leaves. Translucent membranes gone gray with frostbite at the edges. You hadn't fed in eleven days. No summer sun to drink, no flowers to draw sweetness from, no lovers' sighs to siphon.
You were starving.
And the man in the cottage at the forest's edge radiated a warmth unlike anything you'd felt.
First night, you told yourself it was desperation; pure desperation that made you sneak inside. The cottage smelled of pine resin, woodsmoke, and a deep musky scent. A male scent.
Said male lay on his back under wool blankets, one arm flung over his head, light brown hair tousled against the pillow. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of deep sleep. No fire in the hearth—he'd banked it for the night, but the space around his body shimmered delightfully.
You shouldn't.
You really shouldn't.
But your numb fingers couldn’t remember the reason anymore as you climbed onto the bed and curled into his side. You were only five feet tall on a good day... and he was huge. At nearly six feet tall, he took up half the bed, his long legs stretching past the mattress while you curled easily beneath his arm.
Just for an hour, you promised yourself. Just until my fingers stop aching.
You pressed your frozen cheek to his chest.
And the warmth flooded into you like honey.
**
Morning came too fast. You fled before his eyelids even fluttered, leaving behind nothing but a scattering of frost-melted flowers from your hair and a dent in his blankets where your body had curled.
Second night, you told yourself it was only because the wind had picked up. Only because your magic had barely recharged enough to keep your heart beating. Only because—
He'd washed the sheets. You noticed it the moment you slipped inside.
Fresh linen. And something else; a cup of warm milk and honey cookies set by the bedside table. An offering? No. Humans didn't know about fae anymore. They'd forgotten centuries ago. But the milk was there. The honey cookies called to you.
You drank. You ate. And then you climbed into his bed again, shame burning your frostbitten cheeks, and curled yourself along his spine this time. His back was broad, muscled and warm. So warm you nearly sobbed into his shirt.
As you walked away, little purple flowers kept falling behind you. Tiny bell-shaped ones tangled in your hair. You tried to pick them all out, but somehow a few always slipped free.
Third night.
You should have known better. Should have realized he wasn't as oblivious as he seemed. Should have noticed the way his breathing changed when you tip-toed his floor, the way his fingers twitched toward the lump in the blankets where you always nestled.
But you were too cold to think. Too frantic.
You climbed the bed. Crawled over his legs. Sank into the familiar hollow of his chest—
And his arm closed around you.
"There you are."
His voice was sleep-rough, vibrating through his ribs and directly into your frozen bones. You gasped. Tried to scramble away. But his hand was already cupping your entire back, palm spanning from your shoulder blades to your waist.
"Let go of me," you hissed.
"Mmm." He didn't sound afraid. He sounded... interested. His thumb stroked down your spine. "You're the one who's been sneaking into my bed. Leaving flowers in my sheets."
"I—that's not—"
"I thought I was dreaming the first time." His other hand came up, fingers gentle as they tilted your chin toward the moonlight leaking through the window. "You're not a dream, are you?"
"I’m a dream," you spat. "Go back to sleep."
He chuckled. "No, you definitely aren’t. You feel way too real in my arms."
His eyes moved over you. Appreciating.
The light caught on your wings; pale lavender membranes, still lacking their usual shine from hunger but very clearly not human. Then your ears, slightly pointed, your large eyes and your shimmering skin.
You stared at him too.
His eyes were beautiful. Deep violet, like the foxglove flowers tangled in your hair.
You greedily sucked up a little more warmth before he screamed. Flailed and kicked you off the bed. You deserved it.
Instead, he said, "You're freezing."
And pulled you tighter against his chest.
The sob that escaped you was ugly. You pressed your face into the hollow of his throat and felt his pulse jump against your lips. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't have anywhere else—the cold, I can't—fairies need warmth and touch and I haven't fed in days and everyone's dead or gone and I just—"
"Hey. Hey." His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. "Breathe, sweetheart. I'm not throwing you out."
"Y-you should. I'm a parasite. I've been stealing your heat."
"Bullshit." He said it so flatly you almost laughed. "You're beautiful and you left flower petals in my bed. True, you could have let me know but you're definitely not a parasite. You're the best thing that's happened to me."
You blinked up at him. Was he daft?
"Why?" you whispered.
"Because I'm warm," he said, "and I can give it to you. All of it. If you let me."
Your heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I've been alone a long time." His voice dropped lower. His hand slid from your hair down to your waist, fingers spanning your ribs. "And I've done some reading. Old books. Faefolk need more than just lying next to someone, don't they? They need heat. Real heat. The kind that comes from—"
"Don't," you breathed. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."
"The kind that comes from making love." His palm flattened on your belly. "The kind that comes from coming inside you."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Your thighs pressed together, wetness flooding between them. He knew. He'd read, actually read, about your kind. About how human seed carried warmth like no other source. About how a fairy could go from starving to thriving on a single, well-aimed orgasm.
"You'd do that? For a stranger?"
"I'd do it," he murmured, shifting you until you felt the thick line of his cock hardening against his thigh, "because I want to. Because you're beautiful. Because I woke up with flowers stuck to my chest and a sweet smell in my nose and I've been hard for three days thinking about you."
You moaned softly.
"There she is," he said, smiling handsomely. "There's the fairy who's been torturing me."
"I haven't—"
"You have." He rolled all of a sudden, pinning you to the mattress with his larger body, his hips settling between your spread legs. The weight of him pressed you into the featherbed. The heat of him seeped through your dress like sun through glass. "Every night you curled against me. Every time your sweet body shivered into mine. You think I didn't feel you?"
Your dress had ridden up. His cock, thick and hot even through his breeches, nudged against your bare thigh. You could feel the pulse of it. The delightful warmth. You keened.
"Please," you whispered.
He kissed you. His warm mouth crashed into yours, suffusing you with heat. You moaned into his mouth and felt him groan in response, his hips grinding down against yours.
"Tell me what you need," he panted against your lips. "Tell me exactly."
"Your skin." Your hands fumbled at his shirt, pushing the worn linen up his chest. Hair curled there and you scraped your nails through it just to hear him hiss. "I need your skin on mine. Need you inside. Need—ah—"
His mouth found your throat. Sucked. Bit. Left a mark that would bloom purple by morning.
"Neck's sensitive," you gasped.
"Yeah?" He did it again, and your whole body arched into his. "What about these?"
He shoved your dress up, past your breasts and tossed it away. You shivered, your beasts small, nipples tight from more than just cold. He groaned as his mouth closed over one before you could hide shyly, tongue circling the pebbled peak while his fingers worked the other.
"Oh—" Your back bowed. Your wings fluttered against the sheets. "Yes. Yes."
He suckled like he was starving, wet sounds echoing in the quiet cottage. His stubble rasped against the sensitive skin of your breast. His free hand slid down your belly, fingers dipping into your panties, finding the soaked curls between your legs.
"So fucking wet already," he growled against your nipple. "Is that for me, sweetheart? Did my little fairy get herself all ready?"
"I c-can't help it." Your hips rolled into his touch. "You're so warm. I can feel it pulling at me—your heat—I need—"
"You need my fingers first." He lifted his head, eyes dilated. "Gotta make sure you're ready for me. Don't want to hurt you."
Too late for that. Everything hurt; the cold still gnawing at your bones, the desperate ache between your legs, the terrible beautiful fullness in your chest that you couldn't decipher what it meant.
But when his finger pushed inside you, all thoughts vanished.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're tight."
You were. Even one finger stretched you, his hands were broad, calloused, and the knuckle pressing against your entrance made you gasp. But the heat. Gods, the heat. It radiated from his finger into your core, chasing the frost from your blood.
"More," you begged. "Please, more."
Smearing your wetness, he gave you two fingers. Stretched you wider. Curled them. Pumped them slow while kissing you, breathing warm air into your lungs. You rocked against him, gasping when he found a spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Nnngh—there—there—"
"Yeah?" He pumped his fingers, watching your face. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's where my little fairy needs it."
Eyes shutting, you climaxed, your walls contacting around his digits. Your slick coated his palm, his wrist, dripped down onto the sheets. You'd never been this wet in your life. Never felt this needy.
"Please," you sobbed. "Please, more —I need your cock—need it—"
He withdrew his fingers. You whimpered at the loss.
Clothes followed soon after, tossed somewhere on the floor until both of you were bare.
And God.
He was magnificent
Strong shoulders, thick thighs, a body built solid and heavy in all the right ways. Dark hair dusted his lower stomach and trailed downward to a thick and beautiful cock, jutting up from a dark thatch of hair at the base. The head leaked, heavy balls drawn up tight with need.
"Look at you," he said, wrapping his fist around the shaft and stroking once. Twice. "Look what you do to me."
You reached for him. Your fingers barely closed around the girth. The head alone was wider than four of your fingers pressed together.
"You sure?" he asked huskily.
"I'll die if you don't." Not an exaggeration. You could feel the cold creeping back, stealing the warmth his fingers had given you. "Please. I need you. Need you inside."
"Okay, sweetheart. Okay."
He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging your slick entrance. You reached for him, your legs trying to snaked around his hips, your hands pressed flat against his broad chest.
He could crush you without trying.
Instead, he impaled you tenderly.
Low moans tore from both of you as his crown stretched your opening. You felt every ridge, every vein. Felt the impossible heat of him seeping into your walls.
"So tight—" he gritted out, licking your pointy ear. "Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna make me come too fast."
"Don't care. Give me more. Please...."
He laughed softly, kissed your lips and worked himself deeper. Half his length was inside you now. Your body trembled around him, clenching and releasing, trying to accommodate his size. The stretch burned but the warmth... the warmth was divine.
"Oh," you moaned. "Oh, yes."
"You feel that?" He pulled back an inch, pushed forward two. "That's my heat going into you, my sweet. Can feel you drinking it."
He was right. Your walls pulsed around him, your pussy hungry and greedy, sucking at his cock like it could draw his warmth straight through his skin. And maybe it could. Fairy biology wasn't exactly normal.
"More," you gasped. "Harder. I need—ah—"
His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. Your body screamed in pain-bliss. He filled you completely. Stretched you perfectly.
More heat flooded your core. You could feel your starving cells opening up, drinking him in, your frostbitten wings tingling as blood rushed back into the membranes. Your vision cleared. Your heart beat stronger.
"Yes," you mewled. "Yes yes yes—"
"Yeah?" He pulled out then slammed back in. "Yeah?"
The sound of his hips slapping against your thighs echoed off the cottage walls. Clap. Clap. Clap. Your slick made everything slippery. His balls slapped against your ass with each thrust, and his mouth peppered kisses anywhere he could reach.
"Gonna fill you up," he groaned, pace increasing. "Gonna pump my come so deep inside you, sweetheart. Gonna warm you from the inside."
Your nails raked down his back. "Please."
"Please what? Use your words."
"Please come inside me. I need it. Need your seed—"
"Mmm, yeah, you do." He shifted angle, drove deeper, and suddenly his cock was hitting a spot that made your vision go white. "There. There it is."
"That's—nngh—that's my—"
"Your what, sweetheart?" He grinned down at you. "Your little fairy womb? You want me to come in there? Fill you up? Make you warm?"
"Yes yes oh fuck yes—"
His rhythm stuttered. His jaw clenched. "I'm close. I'm so fucking close..."
His hand flew between your bodies, bulky but expert fingers finding your clit. He circled it frantically, matching his thrusts.
"Come on," he growled. "Come for me, little fairy. Come on—"
The wave crashed.
You screamed as your orgasm ripped through you, pussy clenching down on his cock like a fist. Your body arched off the bed. Your wings blazed, lavender light spilling across the room.
And that was all it took for him.
"Fuck—" His hips slammed forward one final time, buried to the hilt, and his cock jerked inside you. Once. Twice. Then—
Hot.
So hot you came again. And again. And again.
His seed flooded your insides, each spurt of cum dripping with warmth that spread through your belly like honey. You could feel it working, your body absorbing the heat, the life of it. Your wings flickered brighter. Your skin flushed with joy.
He collapsed on top of you, still buried deep, still pulsing occasionally as the last of his release pumped into you. His face pressed into your neck. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
You couldn't speak. Your entire body was singing.
*****************
You stayed.
Not just that night, but the next. And the next. And the next.
Years later the cottage had changed. An extra room for the herbs you dried from the garden. A bigger bed, one that could fit your wings spread wide and your belly which was swollen round with child. His child.
"You're staring," you said, not looking up from the tiny knit socks in your lap.
"Can't help it." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling softly. "You're gorgeous like this, sweetheart."
Your cheeks burned. They always did when he complimented you. "M'not."
"Are so." He crossed the room, dropped to his knees in front of your chair, and kissed the taut curve of your belly. "Both of you. Gorgeous."
The baby kicked. You laughed.
"Baby thinks so too," he murmured against your skin.
Your hand found his light brown hair. Carded through it. Remembered the first night you'd crept into his bed, frozen and dying. Remembered the way he'd held you like you were precious, remembered how he'd taken care of you, loving you, accepting you.
"I love you," you said.
He looked up at you with those violet eyes, still warm after all these years. Still burning with love and desire.
"I know," he said. And then, because he was a bastard, "You kinda need me for survival, remember?"
You hit his shoulder. He caught your hand. Kissed your palm.
"Love you too," he said quietly. "Now come to bed. The fire's low and you're looking a little pale."
You weren't pale. You were flushed, happy and so warm you thought you might burst.
But you let him help you up anyway. Let him guide you to the bed he'd built for your family. Let him wrap himself around you and fill you deep like he had that first night—only now you didn't have to sneak.
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
You swing in your desk chair as he undresses, scrolling through the comments on your last video. A scoff leaves him,
“Those pervs just want to see another angle.”
“Well, it is porn...” You mumble while setting up your phone on the desk so your bed is in frame. The springs squeak with his weight and you adjust the camera to crop out everything above his shoulders.
“Can't really complain about mice when we keep leaving wheels of cheese in the kitchen.”
“That’s a terrible analogy.”
He’s casually fisting his cock, bracing one arm on the bed. You grab your lube and motion for him to hold out his hand.
“Less talking, you're not even hard yet.”
You squirt a healthy amount of clear liquid in his palm, watching him spread it all over his hardening cock. He gives you an almost offended look.
“Give me a second. Are you even prepped?”
“I prepped before you came.”
“Of course.”
Instead of asking him what that means, you slipped your underwear off and watched his tip slowly turn a blushing red.
"At least let me check."
You scoff as if that's an inconvenience and swing a leg over his lap, resting your arms on his shoulders.
He edges two fingers inside you and gives a little hum of satisfaction when they ease in smoothly.
He looks down at the sheets next to him and braces his other hand on the bed, sounding a little strained when he mumbles,
"That's good."
You watch him avoid your eyes and shuffle a little on his lap.
"I can do it this time."
He nods, looking you in the eyes, relaxing his shoulders a little.
"Well, I cum either way so doesn't matter to me."
He shrugs playfully and you smack his shoulder making him huff a laugh.
He taps the mushroom head against your entrance like he always does for some reason and you lean against his chest.
"Why do you always do that?"
"It's polite to knock before coming in."
He mumbles before easing the tip past your entrance. You keep it there, circling your hips, feeling the friction of it against your walls before dipping just a little lower, your pussy sucking in a little more of him.
His hands move under your thighs, supporting your weight and making it a little easier for you to move. You can feel his breath against your shoulder as your moans grow louder.
You wish you could look at his face but it would just ruin your concentration so instead you imagine him looking over your shoulder at the full length mirror, watching your ass jiggle as you take him.
You ride him, leaning most of your weight on him, your fingers digging into his shoulders taking more and more.
"Half way."
His raspy voice vibrates against your shoulder and you reply with a groan. You already feel that heat curling too tight in your stomach and you're only half way down his cock. If you cum now, you'll just be too sensitive to go all the way and you'll have failed again.
In a bit of panic, you dip yourself down too far and too quickly, making your walls clench down on him at the painful intrusion. You hiss and clutch his shoulders, weaving one hand between you to rub your clit so your muscles loosen up but it only makes you more sensitive and you clamp down harder.
"Hey. Slow down."
You whimper into his shoulder, trying to push yourself down further but his hands take firm hold of your hips, keeping you from taking any more of him.
"Stop. You're going to-"
"I can do it!"
You grip at his hands trying to wrench them off of you but they don't budge.
"You're going to hurt yourself over a stupid bet?"
"It's not about the bet!"
You stop struggling and collapse against him, head on his shoulder as you accept defeat. Your thighs are sore and cunt is aching as he pulls out, leaving you completely empty.
You're embarrassed and you want to just get up and leave but he holds you on his lap, thumbs rubbing your hips gently.
"Then what is this about?"
With your head against his chest you can hear his heart beat, slow and deliberate. You shrug your shoulders.
"I don't know... I just want it to feel good."
You want to prove yourself to him, you want him to want you the same but when you open your mouth, nothing else comes out.
You want to tell him how much you want him, to prove yourself to him, but when you open your mouth the words don't come. He sighs again and leans back to look at you, eyes full of conflict flicking around your face. He looks like he wants to argue but instead he stands and sets you down on the bed.
He leans over you, shadowing you in his frame.
"You could've just said that."
He slinks a thick arm under your back, making you arch and adjusts his hips so he's nestled right against you.
He taps his cock against your clit, dragging his shaft down your slit and just slightly easing the tip past your entrance.
He watches your face as he eases in, looking for any signs of discomfort while you distract yourself from his gaze by watching where he disappears inside you. One of his hands massages your thigh as the other stays firmly against your lower back, doing wonders to relax your muscles.
"Don't think about how much is left or if it's enough. Think about me."
You meet his hazy, dark eyes. He inches in further and you let a moan leave you. You watch the way his eyelashes flutter, the way his hair falls around his face, his lips parted in huffed breaths, his dark cheeks, flushed with heat.
He starts a slow rhythm, it must be painfully slow for him but it makes you melt into his warm hands, relaxing into the friction. The room is filled with quiet moans and the shlick-shlick-shlick of your pussy taking him bit by bit.
“That's it." His voice is breathy and low, fanning your face, "Just think about how good it feels. How good it'll feel when you take everything. I'll fuck you so deep. My balls slapping against your ass, my cum filling you up right here.”
He places a hand against your stomach, smoothing over the naked skin. You tip your head back, fully letting go and trusting him to take care of you. Your hands massage his arms and shoulders as his pace increases and your stomach tightens again but you don't stop it this time. Instead, you buck up into him, babbling incoherently to him which he responds with bringing a hand between your bodies and brushing a thumb against your clit.
"Cum around me, baby, c'mon."
At any other point, you might've been embarrassed by how quickly your release comes but now you can feel nothing but euphoria. It's not intense or mind breaking, it's just a wave of sweet relief washing over you.
He doesn't stop and you don't want him to. Your orgasm only unwinds your muscles further, making is easier for his cock to reach deeper and deeper. He reaches deeper than he ever has before and the new sensations have your pussy fluttering around him. There's no tension left to stop him and your eyes flutter shut, feeling his tip kiss your cervix.
You barely register that he's bottomed out until he mumbles a strained, “There we go.” and nestles his hips against yours, like he's making sure he's as deep as he can go.
“Hey, look. Look at us.”
He brushes some hair from your face and you open yours eyes to look down at where you’re joined. Your pussy lips press against his base, kissing his pelvis, exactly as it should be. The sight makes you groan, your pubic hair brushes against his giving some lovely friction.
You look into his eyes and he looks back. He must look just as fucked out as you do, lips parted for sharp breaths, eyes lidded and dazed. You feel so content and so whole with him above you like this that you finally have the courage to do what you've been too scared to do. You brush a hand through his dark hair and bring him down into a kiss.
Your lips fit together perfectly, his fat tongue envelops yours and you suckle on the soft muscle for more. Your hips slowly start circling and just that little movement reminds you of exactly how deep he is.
You both moan into the kiss, spit slicking your lips.
"Are you gonna move or do I have to get on top again?"
He snorts, adjusting his elbow on the bed beside your head,
"Oh, now you wanna get cocky?"
His moves his hips in short, deliberate thrusts. The drag of his cock against newly reached walls, soft and sensitive, has you moaning without inhibition.
He lays his forehead against yours, your sounds mixing together as he gains momentum, complemented by the squelch of your soaked pussy and the plap-plap-plap of skin slapping against skin.
His heavy balls press into your ass every time he bottoms out. You open your legs wider, holding your knees against your chest.
He's babbling nonsense as he fucks you with abandon, you only make out, "So fucking tight" and "Gonna fill you up s'good."
You clutch his shoulders tight, clenching around him with a fiery need.
"Give it to me"
His moan vibrates in your ears, and his lifts you up to bounce you on his cock, the new position hitting all the right places to wrench another orgasm from you just as he releases.
He holds you tightly against his chest, grinding into you, making sure you get every drop he has. He kisses your cheek, down your neck and the ticklish feeling makes you clean h down on him, making you both moan.
He gives you a few more thrusts, fucking his cum deeper, as deep as he can get and you feel him seep down your ass onto the bed.
He then collapses on the mattress, you still in his arms as he lies back, catching his breath. He softens inside you and you slowly pull out, leaning on his chest, watching his cum leak out of you in a satisfying trickle.
He feels his chest move with a breathy laugh and you meet his gaze.
"Did we really come up with some stupid bet just so we'd have a poor excuse to fuck each other?"
You laugh and lean up so you're face to face.
"You're just saying that cause you lost."
You catch his lips with yours before he can reply and his desire to argue is no match for his desire to kiss you stupid. His arms slink around you, keeping you close.
"We're keeping that recording for ourselves."
He chuckles against your lips, tongue slipping against yours.
A/n: not as fleshed out as id like but uhhh... i have so many ideas...(´ω｀*) 3/4 of my stories with them involve them kneeling... i am unwell about this combination.
*also note - halfway through i end up naming them because i got tired of writing "the warm one" and "the cold one"..(you'll see what i mean) ik... im sorry.. the single braincell can only handle so many things at a time
Cw: NSFW, mention of being drugged, oral, fingering, both holes, alien anatomy, multiple orgasms, overstim, sukuna blushes, dabura has an alien tongue lol
You wake with blood in your mouth.
Not much, just a smear against your teeth, the dry tang of it soaked into your tongue—but enough to remind you that someone put you here. Someone drugged you. Or struck you. Or both.
The details swim just out of reach, curling at the edges of your memory before slipping behind your eyes before you can pin them down.
The room is wrong.
You realize it before your body fully responds. It’s the air, if it can even be called that. Too thick. Too warm. It doesn’t feel like it’s meant to be breathed. Every inhale sticks, coats your lungs with something metallic and slow. It smells like a place that’s been sealed for centuries, and still somehow knows you’re here.
The floor beneath you hums. Very softly.
You open your eyes.
Dim red light bleeds down in thin veins from the ceiling, as if filtered through flesh. There are no windows, no doors, only curved stone walls, dark and almost wet-looking, glistening with a sheen that refracts the red into soft bruised purple where it pools in the corners.
You sit up, slowly. Every muscle in your back screams. The last place you remember being is a holding cell—white walls, observation slit, that bastard with the needle telling you, “Just hold still. You’re lucky they picked you.”
You thought it was bluff.
Or euthanasia.
Now you’re here.
“Fuck,” you rasp, voice breaking against your own throat.
The walls don’t echo. They don’t need to. You can already feel the space listening.
So you stand, wearing nothing but a thin medical gown, ties open in the back. Nothing underneath. Bare feet on warm stone.
The floor is too clean.
Your skin prickles. Something in your blood is beginning to wake.
The first sign is the stillness through absence.
It's the way your breath stops coming out as vapor. The way your heartbeat starts to sound louder than it should in your ears. Because the air’s being replaced. Something denser taking its place. Something watching you from inside the space between molecules.
You walk.
You don’t know why. There’s nowhere to go. But standing still feels worse. Every step is slow, your calves aching, your knees still unsteady. There are no markings on the walls, just that same dark luminous stone, etched so faintly in some places it almost looks like a scar beneath skin.
Then—
You feel it.
The room notices you back.
Your gut twists, a cold shiver spidering up your spine. Something presses against the inside of your skull. Your mouth goes dry.
You’re not alone.
You were never alone.
“Who the fuck is there?” you call, sharper this time, pushing past the thick drag in your throat.
No answer. But the air changes again.
Heavier. Sweeter.
Blood baked into stone.
Your stomach flips. The heat that rises next isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, sick and deep, the kind of wrong that feels good right before it hurts.
You back toward the center of the room. Your breath’s coming faster now.
There’s a pressure behind your eyes.
Your skin itches, too tight.
Something is watching. Right now. You can feel its attention on your ribcage. On your mouth. On your spine. Not a ghost. Not a god. Something much, much hungrier.
You grind your teeth.
They left you here on purpose. You’re not a guest. You’re not a prisoner.
You’re bait.
You curl your fingers into fists.
“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” you say, teeth flashing, voice shaking just enough to piss you off. “You want to look? Then come out. I’m right here.”
A pause.
No sound.
Then laughter.
Fucking amusement.
Rolling through the air like it’s always been waiting.
You twist toward it, throat tight, hands already tensed into a fighting stance—but there’s nothing to see. Just a dark corner of the room thickening at the edges, heat lines emanating toward you in waves that shouldn't exist without fire. Your skin dampens instantly. A bead of sweat crawls down your spine like a finger tracing the way.
“Come out,” you snap, voice cracking against the quiet. “If you’re gonna stare, grow a fucking spine and show yourself.”
Another beat of silence.
Then—
“Look at you.”
The voice cuts out of the dark like a blade dragged through velvet.
A slow drawl, edged with mockery and amusement in equal measure.
Masculine without a trace of human.
He’s toying with you, and he wants you to know it.
“Strutting like you’ve got claws,” he purrs. “All teeth and spit and nothing to back it up. Real fuckin' cute.”
You take a step forward, heat roaring beneath your cheeks.
“You think I’m bluffing?”
A scoff.
“Oh, I know you are. But I like it.”
The presence moves again—closer, but not into the light. He stays just out of reach, bastard, the voice circling around you now, slow and easy, like a shark drifting past a bleeding body.
“I get a lot of them in this room, you know,” he goes on, conversational, as if you’re sharing a drink instead of threats. “Most cry. Some pray. A few piss themselves. You?” A pause, deliberate. “You bark. Loud little thing.”
You refuse to let the sweat on your brow shake your expression. You square your shoulders, set your teeth.
“Louder than you, apparently. Hiding in the fucking dark.”
That makes him laugh again—shorter this time, sharper. It punches the air right next to your ear. You flinch before you can stop it. His satisfaction slithers through the space between you like a tongue.
“You flinch nice.”
There’s a grin in his voice now. You don’t see it, but you feel it.
“And your mouth…”
A click of his tongue.
“…I want to see what else it’s good at.”
You lunge toward the voice before you can stop yourself.
Your hand meets nothing—just air thick as syrup, heat spooling in your lungs, and the knowledge that he’s moving, always, always just outside your reach. The air carries his scent now, smoke, rust, something vaguely sweet and utterly foul underneath.
He’s circling you.
Lazily. Predatorily dragging himself around the edge of the space, watching how you spin to follow.
You stop.
You close your eyes. You breathe.
You want to get under his skin.
“Is this how you get off?” you say, quieter this time. Icy. “Breathing on girls in the dark? That’s your whole routine? No wonder they leave you chained up in here like a fuckin' dog.”
Silence.
The heat pulses behind you.
Then—sharp, way too close—right at your back:
“Say that again.”
You turn fast—but you’re not fast enough.
This time, he lets you see him.
The dark peels back just enough to reveal teeth.
Not a smile. Not a mouth.
Teeth.
And behind them—four eyes the color of dried blood, narrowed with something sharp and pleased and hungry.
He’s tall. Taller than you expected. Built like violence. Every inch of him is cut from something that doesn’t heal so much as scar over and grin. His skin is marked—inked, maybe, or branded—with patterns that seem to shift when you try to follow them.
You don’t take a step back.
You should, but you don’t.
“You heard me.”
He leans in.
There’s nothing human in the sound he makes, it's wet with something too old to be anger.
“I like this one,” he mutters to himself. “All bite. Wonder how long you’ll last before you scream.”
You blink hard, chest heaving, he's so close he eclipses the room. All you see are his eyes and ink. The scent in the air is worse now. Richer. The sweetness is cloying and engineered... almost, like it’s being pumped in from the walls. Your legs feel too warm. Your face is flushed.
Something’s changing in the air, and it’s not you.
“You dosing me?” you bite out. “What is this, some kind of fucking… pheromone trap?”
He doesn’t answer.
But behind you—
A second voice stirs.
“Contaminant release is within parameters.”
It’s colder. Measured. Void of emotion.
You turn—
And see him? (It?)
Different from the first. Still huge and unhuman, but his eyes don’t grin. His body doesn’t flex with threat. He’s still, almost serene. His features are uncannily sculpted, too symmetrical, the kind of beauty that implies danger by omission. Alien, almost.
And he’s watching you. With all three eyes.
You feel a chill crawl down your arms.
“Subject is resisting at an above-average threshold,” he says softly. “Elevated hormonal resistance. Visual markers… interesting.”
The first one snarls behind you, actually snarls, like the sound’s caught in his throat.
“Don’t fucking catalog her, freak.”
The cold one turns his head, very slightly.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
---
They back off and move in tandem with you—as if the very act of you standing in the center of the chamber is a gravitational force they orbit. The larger one, the heat-radiating presence with teeth you still haven’t quite seen, paces wide, dragging his gaze over your body like it’s a place he’s been before. He doesn’t hide his enjoyment. His steps are slow, loose, indulgent in a way that infuriates you. He’s taking his time because he can.
The other moves quieter.
Not slinking—there’s no need for stealth—but measured.
His eyes don’t stray to your breasts or hips the way the first one’s do. He watches your face, your breathing, the twitch in your hands when the chamber grows warmer, the involuntary tightening of your thighs. It’s not desire in his gaze—it’s analysis. Invasive analysis. He’s memorizing not just your body, but each and every way it responds to them.
And the chamber—it pulses simultaneously. It reacts to their closeness, the temperature ticking up with every breath you take. The scent—heady, honey-sweet and sharpened with something metallic—coats your tongue even when you try to breathe through your mouth. It makes your teeth ache. It makes your throat flex like you’ve swallowed something thick. You can feel the skin at your neck and shoulders dampening beneath your gown. You clench your jaw and force yourself to stay still.
“Are you going to touch me or just keep walking circles like you’re waiting for me to lie down?”
You hate the breathiness in your voice, but it’s already there. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, again, but this time it's because the pads of your fingers are beginning to tingle. Too sensitive. Too aware of themselves. The air’s getting under your skin.
The hot one pauses.
He doesn’t stop in front of you. He doesn’t reach. He just tilts his head, slowly, like a predator indulging something small that thinks it’s dangerous. His smile is there again, wide and sharp, and it makes something low in your abdomen twist.
“You want us to touch you?” he says, and his voice is thicker now, dragging across your nerves. “That what that mouth’s really saying?”
The cold one is behind you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
But you feel him.
A subtle shift in air pressure. A pause in the low, ambient hum of the walls. You know if you turned around now, his face would be just inches from yours. You don’t.
You keep your eyes on the other. The grinning one. The one who’s begun to close the gap between you, step by slow step, dragging heat with him.
“I didn’t say I wanted it,” you mutter, chin tilting higher. “I said if you’re going to do something, stop pretending it’s not already in the air.”
His eyes flash, and something in his wild expression brightens, just a flicker of pleasure, of approval.
“Shit,” he murmurs, almost fondly. “Look at that. You can smell it, can’t you?”
He takes one more step. Now you see him. And feel him. The warmth of his body licks across your skin even without contact. The scent rolls off him in waves, deeper than the room’s, heavier. Biological. It’s meant to seduce.
You hate how your knees flex.
You hate that he notices.
Behind you, the cold one speaks—his voice smooth, perfectly timed, like a reading off a screen.
“Her internal temperature has begun to respond. Neurological resistance is present, but not absolute. Stimulation has only reached phase one.”
“I don’t give a fuck what phase you’re in,” you snap, spinning on him.
He’s there. Exactly as you feared. Closer than he should be. His eyes are alien and reflective, wet-looking, too steady. And he doesn’t blink.
You don’t step back.
“You think you can catalog me like I’m a fucking lab rat? Try touching me without permission, see how fast I put something through your throat.”
There’s a pause. His head cants slightly.
Then, very softly:
“You are not refusing.”
The words settle into your stomach like hot stones. You’re too warm. Too flushed. You can taste the truth of them, bitter and slick. But admit nothing.
Behind you, the heat flares again.
Before you can turn, he speaks—right beside your ear.
“You’re trembling,” he breathes.
He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t.
He waits.
You don’t move.
You can’t.
---
Your heart beats harder. More noticeable to say the least. Each pulse a little tighter in your ribs. Your body’s too aware of itself now—too aware of them. Your nipples ache from the air. Your thighs are damp. You curse under your breath and try to center yourself.
But the scent is everywhere now.
Not quite flowers. Not quite rot. Something manufactured by the chamber itself—it feels like the walls know what makes you soft, and they’re feeding it to you inhale by inhale.
You don’t melt. But you feel the shape of it forming inside you.
The hot one speaks again, closer now.
“That little tremor in your knees?” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. That’s your body waking up.”
“I’m not—” you start, but your voice is thin. You swallow. “I’m not some thing to dissect.”
“Mm. You’re not,” the colder one says. He’s bending over behind you now. His breath cools the back of your neck. “You’re a threshold.”
You don’t know what that means. You hate how much you want to ask.
The hot one steps even closer. You feel the air flex around him, rich with his musk. He lifts a hand, slow, exaggerated, like he’s trying to make sure you see it coming.
“Gonna touch you,” he says simply.
And he does.
Just two fingers under your chin, lifting your face so that you have to meet his gaze again.
That smile.
Those eyes.
“You gonna keep pretending,” he murmurs, “or are you ready to see what happens when you stop?”
Your lips part—just enough for a breath to slip free. You feel his heat roll over your mouth as he speaks, but you don’t flinch. You don’t drop your gaze.
You let your tongue wet your lips.
Let your breath drag through your teeth like a blade sliding free of a sheath.
And then you smile something filthy.
“You want me to stop pretending?” you murmur, voice like silk dragged across something sharp. “Fine. But you won’t like what that looks like.”
A flicker of interest coils in his eyes, darker than amusement, more ancient than lust. You lean in just a fraction, forcing him to feel your breath ghosting over his own lips, your throat bare beneath his hand.
“You think I’m scared of you,” you continue, lower now, almost lazy. “But I’m wet, not trembling. There’s a difference. And if I wanted your fingers inside me—” You tilt your head, mouth curling into a slow, mean grin. “I’d be using them.”
His smile wavers.
It doesn’t fade—he’s not that fragile—but it shifts. Something behind his eyes flares hotter than pleasure, sharper than surprise. For one perfect moment, you see him recalibrate—like a knife bending under pressure and realizing it liked the strain.
Closer now, impossibly so. And cataloguing, measuring the flick of your pulse beneath your skin, the damp at your inner thighs, the way your muscles tighten with every breath you try to control.
The warm one hasn’t moved.
But his thumb is still at your lip.
He presses it in. Just a little.
Testing.
Playful.
So you open your mouth wider.
But not to take it in. Oh no.
To speak.
To destroy.
“I’ve had worse between my legs,” you murmur around his touch. “Demons who didn’t just talk about hunger. They fed.”
Behind you—stillness.
Then the soft, wet sound of breath catching in a throat that shouldn’t need to breathe.
Sukuna laughs.
But it’s not amusement now—it’s darker.
His hand drops from your face like it burns him.
And it might.
The heat in the chamber—artificial or not—coils through your blood like an invocation. Your skin slicks, yes. Your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of whatever this rag is. Your cunt pulses, aching and empty. But your spine holds.
You look between them now. Sukuna to your front, breathing a little faster, jaw tight. Dabura at your back, his presence cold, steady, watching the heat between you like it’s data he’ll savor later.
You bare your teeth.
“Stop talking like you’re in control,” you say to the space between them. “I’ve felt leashes before. This doesn’t feel like one. This—” You gesture to the room, to your own body, glistening and flushed. “This feels like you’re the ones slipping.”
Silence.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow.
Dabura doesn’t move.
But the walls do.
Just a pulse.
A twitch in the dark arteries running along the ceiling, thicker now, more swollen with luminescent power. The air’s heavier. Wet-sweet.
Your thighs flex.
You feel it. Every beat. Every tremble. You feel them reacting.
You take one step forward.
They don’t.
You lick your lips slowly and drop your voice to a whisper that cuts like silk on skin:
“Come on, then. Show me what happens when monsters stop hiding behind teeth.”
Sukuna’s hand snaps out and he—
He fucking shudders.
Whole body.
And you see it. All of it. The effort he’s putting into not slamming you against the nearest wall simply because you haven’t asked yet.
Behind you, Dabura’s breath ghosts your shoulder, and this time, you swear you feel his mouth hover just shy of your skin.
You speak to him now.
Quiet. Cruel.
“I bet you’ve been hard since I started talking.”
Another silence. Then:
“…incorrect,” Dabura murmurs. “I was hard before you woke up.”
That stops even Sukuna.
Your laugh is slow. Low. Almost breathless.
And wicked.
“You boys really are fucked.”
Sukuna’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. His shoulders continue to twitch like he’s restraining the urge to pounce. The grin that spreads across his face, and stomach, isn’t cocky anymore—it’s something worse. Something darker. A vow.
Behind you, Dabura doesn’t move at all.
Which somehow feels worse.
The silence stretches just long enough for your pulse to make itself known again, loud in your ears, dragging heat through your veins like a slow burn. You’re aware of your body in pieces—your midline exposed, your spine taut, the damp warmth between your thighs that you refuse to acknowledge as anything other than fuel.
Sukuna takes a single step closer.
Claiming distance.
“You think this is about scaring you?” he says quietly. His voice has changed—lost some of its mockery, gained something heavier. “About snapping your spine and seeing how you scream?”
His hand lifts, hovering near your waist without touching. You feel it anyway, the energy cascading along your skin like a threat that knows it doesn’t need to land to hurt.
“I don’t need fear,” he continues. “Fear’s cheap.”
His fingers finally brush you—just the backs of them, grazing your hip like an accident—and your body reacts before you can stop it, a sharp inhale that makes his mouth twitch.
“I want you aware.”
A sound escapes you despite yourself, soft, frustrated, and too close to a moan. You hate that he notices. You hate that Dabura notices too.
The cold presence at your back shifts, subtle as a knife sliding free of a sheath.
“Awareness achieved,” Dabura murmurs. His voice is close now, somehow closer than before, and when you glance sideways you see him watching the place where Sukuna’s fingers brushed you, eyes intent, unreadable. “She’s calibrating.”
Sukuna snorts. “You talk like she’s a machine.”
“And you talk like she’s prey,” Dabura replies calmly. “Neither is accurate.”
That does it.
Sukuna turns on him, heat flaring sharp and sudden, but you move before either of them can. You step forward—right into the space between them—and the shift is immediate. The chamber reacts with a low pulse thrumming through the floor.
Your voice is steady when you speak.
“You both keep talking about me like I’m not standing right here.”
They stop.
Both of them.
Sukuna looks down at you, eyes narrowed, something dark and intent burning behind them. Dabura’s gaze flicks to your face, then your throat, then your mouth— always just tracking, measuring, listening.
You tilt your head, slow, baring your throat in challenge.
“If you want to earn anything,” you say quietly, “start by paying attention.”
The silence that follows is almost reverent.
Sukuna exhales through his nose, a low sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so tight. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re trouble.”
“Confirmed,” Dabura says. “She’s exerting dominance through self-directed vulnerability.”
You roll your eyes, even as heat curls low in your gut. “You ever try just saying what you mean?”
Dabura considers that.
“I mean,” he says, stepping closer behind you, his presence cooling the air along your spine, “that you are inviting pursuit without yielding control. That is… inefficient.”
Sukuna’s grin finally snaps back into place, sharp and wicked. “And I mean,” he adds, leaning in, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for you, “that I really want to see how long you can keep that up.”
His hand slides to your wrist, anchoring you there. Grounding.
You feel the tremor of restraint in his fingers and smile before you can stop yourself.
Dabura notices.
Of course he does.
He steps closer still, until you’re boxed in by heat and cold, by hunger and calculation. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.
“You’re enjoying the tension,” he says softly. “The delay. The anticipation.”
You swallow. Slowly.
“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe I’m seeing which one of you cracks first.”
Sukuna laughs, low and dangerous. “Bold strategy.”
Dabura’s voice lowers. “Ill-advised.”
Neither of them moves to touch you again.
They don’t need to.
The room is alive now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, the air syrup-thick with scent and heat and something unmistakably ritualistic. You’re not bait anymore.
You’re the axis.
And both of them know it.
Sukuna leans down until his mouth is just shy of your ear.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep this up, and we’re gonna start trying a lot harder.”
Dabura’s hand hovers near your spine.
“Earning,” he corrects.
You close your eyes for half a second.
And smile.
---
You can feel both of them waiting. Holding.
Sukuna’s body is a live wire in front of you—soaked in heat, coiled in want, that ever-present smirk gone soft around the edges with something gritted and feral. He’s been circling, posturing, taunting like a wolf raised on thrones and blood—but now?
Now he’s waiting.
Watching.
You open your eyes and tilt your head slightly, toward him.
“I think you’ve forgotten something,” you murmur. “You don’t get to decide when you’ve earned anything.”
His eyes flicker. The shift is subtle, but it’s there.
That gleam of rage being ground down by restraint.
You pivot slowly to Dabura, who’s still behind you.
“You’re both waiting for me to fall.”
Dabura’s voice slides in, a whisper beneath your ribs.
“Incorrect. I’m waiting to see what you become.”
You almost falter.
Almost.
You turn back to Sukuna.
The air between you is molten now, thick with a tension that doesn’t just hover—it presses. It climbs up your legs, curls into your lungs, slicks your thighs with heat.
“You want this?” you say softly.
He doesn't answer.
But his gaze drops—once—to your mouth.
Then lower.
Lower.
To the damp bare place at the apex of your thighs.
And his hands flex. Empty. Itching.
Behind you, Dabura shifts again. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, mapping the sweat, the tension, the tight line of your spine.
You inhale through your nose. Exhale slow.
And then—
Without looking away from Sukuna—you reach down.
Just a palm.
Flat.
Over the heat between your legs.
Sukuna’s chest rises sharply.
Dabura’s breath hitches—audibly.
And you let your fingers curl just slightly against yourself.
Just to touch the wetness that exists there.
Just to remind them what’s at stake.
Their reactions are instant.
Sukuna’s stance breaks—his knees bending slightly, like the force of watching you ground your own heat in front of him nearly takes him down without a word. His hands twitch at his sides like he's one heartbeat away from losing every shred of performative control. He doesn’t blink. He can’t.
Behind you, Dabura doesn’t speak, but something shifts in the air. You feel it in the drag of his breath, the way it no longer flows smooth and even. You’ve disturbed him. Fractured the perfect order in his chest. He is no longer measuring you.
He is experiencing you.
And that is the final proof.
You lift your chin, palm still pressed between your thighs, and you smile again, deeper this time. You look at both of them, not as opponents, not even as threats, but as creatures waiting.
Waiting for permission to act.
Waiting for a command.
You inhale, slow and steady, and let it linger on the edge of a whisper:
“I shouldn’t have to ask.”
Their silence is answer enough.
And so you speak.
Soft. Certain.
Unshakable.
“Kneel.”
The word lands like gravity shifting. A ripple tears through the chamber’s breath. It hits Sukuna first—he doesn’t resist it, not even for pride. His knees crash to the stone like his body has been dragged there, spine stiff, chest heaving, mouth parted as if he can taste your command still hanging in the air. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even grin. He looks up at you like you’ve ripped something primal out of him.
Dabura follows, steady as ever. His descent is a ritual. Deliberate. He kneels as though it was always going to happen. As though the shape of your voice sealed it long before you ever said the words.
And now—
They are both there.
One seething.
One silent.
Their shoulders bowed. Their eyes lifted.
---
The room exhales.
Or maybe it’s you.
And for the first time since you woke in this hell-chamber pulsing with scent and shadow, something clicks into place beneath your skin.
This was never about escape.
It was about invocation.
You didn’t walk into a trap.
You were summoned.
And now the summoners are on their knees, waiting to be told how to worship.
---
You shift your stance, just slightly, one foot forward, the heat between your thighs damp and throbbing. You’re more than ready, but in no particular rush anymore. It’s nice seeing these massive beasts on their knees. Beasts though they were, they were fucking beautiful.
The warm one looks like he's drowning in the scent of you—because he is. That heat he poured into the room, that chemical musk threaded into the air like a drug—you’ve turned it back on him. You can see it now in his eyes, the flicker of disbelief that he’s the one beneath you. That he’s the one waiting.
The cold one's third eye is glowing faintly, that eerie, wet gleam catching the red-veined light of the chamber, and his expression is impossible to read. He looks... tranquil. And yet, you can feel the pressure rising behind his restraint, the cold precision of him coming undone from the inside out.
You don’t speak.
You don’t touch.
You wait.
The warm one is first to move.
Of course he is.
You feel his gaze climb your body like a hand wrapped in silk and teeth. It drags from your ankles to your knees, your thighs, lingering where the slick has started to drip down from your center. His jaw flexes. His lips part. He leans in just enough to inhale you, to drag the scent of your heat into his lungs like it might choke him, and it nearly does.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, voice low and rough, buried under restraint. “You smell like sin carved into silk.”
You don’t answer. You watch him.
Let him look.
Let him need.
He presses one palm to the ground, then the other, and leans closer—shoulders drawn tight, like a beast crawling toward an offering it hasn’t yet earned. His breath ghosts your inner thigh, and you feel the heat of it there, so close, but he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t dare. He’s seething in place, a growl trapped in a body that obeys your voice more than it obeys its own hunger.
“I could make you sob,” he murmurs, not looking up. “Put my mouth on you and pull those sounds out of you like a curse. One touch, and you’ll forget how to stand.”
You don’t flinch. You don’t soften. You just breathe.
And behind you Dabura shifts again, a cool contrast to Sukuna’s heat, the razor precision to his want.
“I wouldn’t make her sob,” Dabura says quietly. “I’d make her watch. Every breath. Every muscle. Every involuntary twitch of her fingers. I’d show her what it means to know herself from the inside.”
His words land softer, but no less heavy. They slide down your spine like a hand made of ice and intent, curling between your ribs, chilling the heat just enough to make it throb deeper.
You let your other hand drift lazily down your torso.
Sukuna stares. His tongue slides across his lower lip, breath catching when your knuckles brush between your thighs a second time. He moves forward a little too far, forgetting himself—then stops, catches the leash, growls low.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Let me. Just a taste. I’ll prove it.”
Dabura doesn’t move. But you feel his focus lock onto your hand. Onto your heat. Onto your commandment held in that small, merciless gesture. And he speaks like he’s reading scripture from inside your bones.
“She’s testing us. Seeing if we understand the ritual. This isn’t about taking. It’s about showing her why we deserve to give.”
His words make your pulse flutter.
Sukuna mutters something low under his breath, but he doesn’t argue.
You don’t need to tell them to stay where they are. You don’t need to give them more rules. They already know: this is yours to decide.
So you shift your leg forward a little more.
The hem of your garment brushes Sukuna’s cheek as you move, and he groans, pained, desperate to taste but holding, holding, holding. Dabura’s gaze lifts, eyes locked on your face. Waiting.
You look down at them.
Sukuna leans forward—starving.
Dabura’s mouth finally parts.
And you smile.
“Well?”
Your voice is hoarse now, thick with heat and power.
“Show me what kneeling’s good for.”
---
You say it, and the words are still curling off your tongue when they move.
Like dogs loosed from a leash.
Like gods given permission.
Sukuna lunges first.
The heat of his body rolls toward you in a wall, all snarling need and brute grace as he closes the last breath of distance. His hands are on your thighs in an instant, rough and reverent, fingers spreading over your skin like he wants to brand his hands into the flesh. His mouth parts before he reaches you, and his breath, searing hot, spills over the soaked seam at the center of you, making your legs quake.
He growls something guttural. Something worshipful.
“Fuck, you’re—”
But he doesn’t finish.
He drops his mouth.
Tongue first. A broad, sweltering drag up your slit, bottom to top, deliberate as death. It punches the air from your chest in a cry that fractures, your body jerking like your nerves short-circuited. Your hands slam to his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase—and they’re massive. Thick corded muscle shifts under your fingers, tattoos flexing with each movement of his tongue, a beast’s body serving a sacred purpose.
And the man works.
He sucks your clit into his mouth and growls around it like he’s savoring something forbidden, vibrations skimming the bone. His teeth graze, again and again, never breaking skin but threatening to. The way he flicks his tongue—circling, stabbing, flattening—is reckless brilliance. It’s what a virtuoso might do if their instrument was between your legs and the song was obliteration.
It’s messy. Loud. Wet. And so so sloppy.
He makes no attempt to be polite about it. Spit strings, saliva slicks, and your thighs shine with a lewd sheen of his effort. Every sound he rips from you, he devours. He moans into you like your taste is addictive, like it’s breaking something sacred inside him. Like he wants to coat his throat in your slick and let it stain.
He groans with every suck. Slurps as though starving. Grinds his face deeper between your thighs like he wants to choke.
And then—cool air ghosts over your back.
The cold one behind you.
How could you forget.
The shift is magnetic, polar. Sukuna burns below you, devouring—but Dabura arrives like the chill of a night wind, like the final note of a prayer.
He doesn’t rush.
He just places his hands.
One at your lower back. One just beneath your ribs.
Guiding you—forward, gently, onto Sukuna’s mouth. As if you’re the blade and he’s setting you into the whetstone of worship.
And then he moves in closer. Encasing you.
You feel his chest at your back, his breath cool on the nape of your neck, and his voice—so quiet you barely register it as sound—slides into your ear like a thread being pulled through skin.
“Don’t speak,” Dabura murmurs. “Just feel.”
His hand slips beneath your garment. Flat palm against your belly, holding you there. Holding you open. Keeping you steady while Sukuna feasts.
And fuck, does he feast.
He’s beneath you, groaning nonstop now, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you against his face like he wants to drown in your heat. His tongue plunges—thick and relentless—and when your hips jerk, he growls something feral and sucks harder. Your head falls back, and Dabura catches it in the cradle of his palm.
“Let him work,” he says. “He wants you incoherent.”
“Fuckin' right I do,” Sukuna snarls between licks, voice muffled by your cunt, lips glistening with you. “She talks like she’s untouchable—let’s see how long she lasts with my face buried in her pussy.”
Your throat tightens around a retort.
But then his tongue curls just right—pressure precise, rhythm obscene—and what you meant to say breaks apart on a cry.
“A-ah—!”
Your whole body jolts. Lightning forks through your limbs. Dabura’s hand tightens at your stomach, bracing you while Sukuna growls triumph into your core like he felt it too.
“She’s close,” Dabura says, like a medic reading vitals. Except his voice isn’t clinical. It’s proud now. Because now, he’s shepherding your ruin, inch by inch.
And Sukuna—fuck. He groans, eager, almost joyful. He shifts, drags you tighter, buries his face deeper, mouth working faster, tongue and lips and teeth making you pulse, twitch, cry out—
It’s too much.
Too good.
Too—
“Don’t finish yet,” Dabura commands.
“What?” Sukuna snarls, breath hot and frustrated.
“Let her hold it.”
He obeys.
And it’s torture.
The strokes slow. The suction eases. Sukuna’s tongue traces just off the spot that had you ready to collapse, your hips jerking in desperate confusion. The pleasure doesn’t vanish—it simmers. Builds pressure without release. You feel it gathering, gathering, pressure coiling like a spring with nowhere to go.
Your whole body is trembling.
“She’s right on the edge,” Dabura says, hand tightening at your stomach. “Hold her there.”
Sukuna looks up, face soaked, lip curled in irritation—but he’s panting. Eyes black with need. He doesn’t argue.
And that’s how you know:
They’re not just trying to fuck you.
They’re trying to master you together.
Dabura’s lips brush your ear, his voice nothing but breath now.
“When you cum,” he says, “it won’t be by accident.”
And below, Sukuna grins, tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles still just off the spot you need, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to beg.
---
They’re watching you circle the edge.
They think they’ve got you.
Think you're unraveling just the way they planned.
And for a breath, you let them believe it.
You keep your voice quiet. Breath hitching. Your eyelids flutter heavy, lips parted in a trembling pant. Your hips begin those tiny rolls, those subtle, involuntary jerks forward Sukuna's been working for, grinding ever so slightly against the edge of his mouth like you’ve lost the will to resist.
Behind you, Dabura’s hand spreads a little lower over your belly. He steadies you. Or braces you. He thinks you're about to fall.
And then—
You laugh.
Rich and sultry as smoke.
It breaks the rhythm like a whip crack.
Sukuna’s tongue halts mid-flick.
Dabura’s breath catches, sharp.
The whole fucking room stills.
You drop your gaze to Sukuna,down the length of your body, slick and glistening, thighs flexed around his face, and find his eyes staring up, half-lidded. His lips shine. His face is soaked. And for one last heartbeat, you let your hand slide into his hair, gentle, at first. Stroking like praise, petting like you might thank him.
Then you fist it.
Right at the roots.
Hard.
Yanking the pink headed giant towards you as you grind down onto his tongue. Commanding him. Adjusting his angle, forcing his face where you want it. Your thighs flex like a vise, locking him in place. And your voice when it drops is made of pure ruin.
Velvet filth.
“You’re not making me cum,” you breathe, dragging his mouth tighter against you. “I’m using your fucking face to get off.”
The jolt in Sukuna’s shoulders is an instant full-body flinch of arousal and shock that snaps into his spine. He chokes, fucking chokes on your cunt, and the sound it pulls from him is filthy. The guttural noise vibrates against you as he clamps his hands to your hips and begins to fuck his tongue up into you with wild, red-faced fervor.
You feel it: that shift from service to submission.
He moans into your slick with helpless devotion, tongue punching and curling and lapping like he’s no longer trying to win but to survive. Like he knows his role now and has accepted it—your seat. Your toy. Your throne.
And the heat that rises in his cheeks is unmistakable.
A flush.
A blush.
Rage tangled with lust, humiliation braided with adoration.
You’ve rebranded his glory.
Turned his power to utility.
Made him yours.
Behind you, there’s a sound. Quiet. A breath, almost silent, but it betrays him.
You glance back.
Dabura is watching. Eyes sharp, lips still, but there’s tension pulsing through him now like barely bridled violence. His composure isn’t shattered, but there’s a fracture. You see it in the clench of his jaw, in the rigid hold of his spine. But mostly you feel it where his palm still presses low and hot to your stomach, fingers twitching once when he sees the way you ride Sukuna’s mouth now.
You own every twist, every pressure point, every slow push of your clit against the exact shape of his mouth that gets you there. Sukuna moans under you like he’s fucking dying, like the slick drip of your arousal onto his chin is absolution.
And Dabura is studying it all.
Watching you fuck his control out from under him.
He’s flushed a bit too.
A bloom of color creeping up his throat. A pulse flicking under the skin. The beginnings of sweat at his temple—barely there—but you see it.
And grin.
You look at him first flashing teeth and heat and feral triumph, then down again, dragging Sukuna’s hair tighter in your fist as you grind forward once, hard. A stroke that forces a wet, sloppy groan out of him that you ride all the way through.
Your voice cuts through the space between all three of you.
“Earn it,” you murmur. “I want you both red in the face by the time I’m finished.”
And the pink one below does something that shocks you.
He whimpers.
A hoarse, breathless noise that sounds like a man shattered, and eager to be broken more.
You feel the quake start in his fingers, feel the stuttering inhale through his nose as he redoubles his efforts—tongue thrashing, lips sucking, nose nudging just perfectly beneath your clit as if he’s trying to drown in the scent and taste and feel of you.
And behind you, Dabura moves. Finally.
Silently.
He crouches in behind you like a shadow folding in on itself. You feel the cool press of his chest at your back, the steady inhale of his breath as his hands resettle, one pressing lower on your belly, the other gliding between your ass and thighs, where Sukuna’s mouth is already wrecking you.
And then—
He touches.
Fingertips slide into the slick mess where Sukuna laps, parting your folds just slightly, barely intruding, just enough to make every nerve between your legs light up like fire meeting frost. And it's.. perfect. Cool and careful, an echo of precision next to Sukuna’s animal devotion.
Sukuna jerks.
He breaks rhythm. Lashes his tongue once, hard, then snarls into you, voice shredded.
“Don’t—fuck—don’t take her from me—”
“I’m not,” Dabura murmurs, low and patient, like a man correcting a child. His voice drips over your ear like warm wax. “I’m assisting.”
And fuck—is he.
Dabura’s fingers trace slow, devastating circles just outside the point of penetration, never rushing. He gathers slick with measured strokes, dragging it between his knuckles, mapping the folds Sukuna’s mouth is buried in. It’s obscene. It’s methodical. And it works.
Sukuna groans. Long, low, shattered. His hips jerk beneath you, grinding into nothing, cock leaking in time with the moans he’s swallowing from your cunt. You feel him twitch under your thighs like he’s so hard he might split open. And yet—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. His tongue fights to keep pace even as Dabura’s fingers make a new rhythm alongside him.
And you—
You fucking gasp.
Too much attention. Too much heat. Too many skilled hands and mouths all moving together in synchronized worship of you. One tongue dragging filthy, wet circles into your clit, mouth open and moaning into you. One hand tracing wetness with impossible precision, fingers never quite entering but always threatening to.
Your thighs are seizing. Your lungs can’t catch up. Your whole body is drawing tighter, tighter—
You tilt your head back—no control left. It lands on Dabura’s shoulder.
He exhales against your temple.
And speaks:
“Now you’re the altar,” he whispers. “Let us pray.”
His fingers slide in.
Slow.
Two of them, cool and knuckle-deep, curling endlessly with flawless aim, finding that place inside you that’s already desperate. He presses. Sukuna’s tongue flattens against your clit. The combination is unholy.
And you break.
The orgasm hits like lightning—violent and sudden, an electrical surge through your whole nervous system that wipes every thought in your skull. Your back arches, mouth wide in a cry that doesn’t even sound human. A ragged, high-pitched ah-h-hhngghhh!! tears out of you as every muscle clenches, ripples, convulses. Your thighs snap tighter around Sukuna’s head as he groans into your release, devouring it like he was born for this moment. His mouth chases every pulse, every spasm, every drop.
Dabura’s fingers don’t stop. He slows them, yes, but he stays inside. Holding you through it. Stroking you with gentle insistence that turns the crash into a series of violent aftershocks. Each little tremble becomes another high. Another ripple.
Your knees buckle.
And they catch you.
Sukuna stays kneeling, his arms now locked around your thighs, his forehead pressed to your inner thigh, breath ragged against your skin. His face is fucking ruined. Soaked. Shining. And smiling in worshipful hunger.
Dabura is still behind you. Still inside you. Still holding your belly like something sacred, his chest now warm against your spine. You swear his breath is shaky now. He’s not untouched by this.
Neither of them are.
They’re both panting.
They think they’ve done enough.
That they’ve served.
And maybe, for a moment, your body agrees—quaking and damn near electric with aftershocks.
But your mind?
Your will?
Still aching.
And it shows on your face when you lean forward, hand still tangled in sweat-darkened hair, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles.
You grin.
Knowing.
A queen in the moment before she opens her throat to drink what the gods offer her.
And you whisper—voice barely there—
“...more.”
The word lands like a spell.
The one beneath you makes a sound that’s almost pain—half moan, half growl, buried in your cunt like he wants to die there. His fingers dig in tighter. His head moves forward, mouth open and wet, tongue dragging slow and needy against your oversensitive skin.
He groans, mouth flooded with you, and still—he licks.
Still—he begs.
But you don’t fall.
Even as the ache builds again, pressure mounting in your core like a struck bell ready to sing, you hold. Your breath is broken. Your knees threaten to give.
And then—
behind you—
he shifts.
The quiet one. The shadow. The scholar of your body.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t give a cue. Doesn’t ask permission. He just descends.
You feel it before you register it. The sudden absence of his chest at your back. The drag of cool breath over your spine as he sinks lower behind you, hands trailing down your sides, hips, thighs, knees, mapping you again but slower this time. Less like he’s preparing for something. More like he’s claiming territory.
And then—he’s lower still.
His breath hovers.
The first kiss lands where no mouth has ever touched you.
Lower.
Between your ass.
Right there.
Over that place you’ve felt stretched thin with wanting.
Your gasp snaps out of you—l
Because he knew.
The quiet one.
The patient one.
The one who traced every tremble and catalogued every clench and read every pulse like scripture. He knew. Knew what you’d hidden. Knew what you hadn’t voiced. Knew where to place his mouth as if he'd read it on your skin days before you arrived.
His hands part you like pages.
And he licks.
Slowwww.
A broad stroke from his tongue, cool and unrelenting, sliding through your most private heat like it belongs to him.
You gasp again.
Louder.
Your spine arches, your head tips, and your mouth opens, but no words come. Just breath.
The third gasp is a moan—long, rising, too loud, too honest. Your thighs shake.
Below, Sukuna groans.
The sound vibrates against your clit; jealousy and desperation tangled into a single animal snarl. His tongue starts to move faster, harder. Sloppier. It loses rhythm, becomes furious in its hunger, as though he thinks he’s being replaced. He isn’t.
He’s being joined.
But you...
You are split.
One tongue lavishing your clit with the fury of a man wrecked, circling and flicking and sucking like a drowning man grasping for breath.
One tongue pushing between your cheeks with perfect, clinical pressure—like he's building you, like you’re a spell he’s activating one syllable at a time.
You are beyond open now.
Beyond feeling full.
Your body can’t decide what to tense for.
Sukuna’s mouth clamps tighter, lips sliding up and over your clit with abandon, every breath he exhales soaked in you. His moans turn pitiful. He’s trying to reclaim territory, to drag your focus back down with brute force.
But behind—
Dabura moves with precision. Each stroke of his tongue is exact, thorough. Circles, laps, presses, all of it calibrated. He’s tasting you like you’re forbidden. Like you are his. A temple with a door no one else has entered. And the hum that vibrates from his mouth as he sinks his tongue inside—fuck—that shakes you from within.
Your whole body jolts.
Your voice splinters into a sound you don’t recognize, somewhere between a cry and a plea. Your hands shake. Your legs are quaking, barely holding their place over Sukuna’s face.
The man beneath you grunts—a desperate, broken sound. His grip on your thighs tightens until you feel fingernails. He's groaning now, panting, rhythm broken and furious, like he’s hurting with how bad he needs you to cum. But he’s losing himself. You feel it. He’s not close to orgasm.
He’s close to breaking.
You lift your chin.
Your voice cuts through the tension like silk dragged through broken glass.
“Don’t stop.”
And they don’t.
They don’t even hesitate.
The pink beast groans like he’s just been granted. Permission? Purpose? Salvation? It doesn’t matter. He dives. There’s no gentling. No winding down. His tongue plunges back into your folds with the reckless hunger of a man who thinks if he laps hard enough, deep enough, fast enough—he can resurrect the orgasm you just gave him.
He’s wrong.
Because you’re already past resurrection.
You’re on fire.
His lips fasten around your clit again with brutal intent, sucking hard, tongue flicking with slurred abandon through the slick he’s already made a mess of. He’s not licking to please anymore.
He’s licking to conquer.
To break you.
And fuck—your body lets him.
You cry out, sharp and shocked, like it caught you off guard. It did. You weren’t supposed to be ready again, not this fast, not while your lungs still ache from the last quake. But your hips roll anyway. Your cunt pulses. Your clit screams against the pressure. You’re not backing away from the edge. You’re slamming toward it.
And behind you?
The quiet one moves with the same measured silence as before.
But now?
There’s no pretense of patience.
His hands return like ghosts made solid—one spreading your ass wide, the other anchoring you with terrifying calm at your lower back, pressing down like a divine seal. Holding you in place. Holding you open.
Then—
His tongue.
Again.
But not how it started.
This time, he goes deeper.
Not just purposeful, downright invading.
He presses in past where you thought tongues could go, licking with that same unshakable control, that terrifying knowledge of how to unravel you one nerve at a time. There’s no teasing. No fluttering touch. It’s penetration now. Fucking obscene.
And you whimper.
You moan.
It keeps going. Keeps filling you.
You shudder so hard your arms nearly give out, hands scrabbling for anything to hold. Anything to ground you while your body turns to lightning between their mouths.
One mouth is sucking your clit like it’s punishment. Like you dared to come once and now he’s mad about it. His sounds are wet and loud, tongue flicking fast enough to blur, jaw flexing as he chases your pulse. There’s nothing gentle left in him. He’s lashing you with pleasure.
The other—
His tongue fucks you.
That’s what it is now.
Not licking.
Fucking.
Measured, strong strokes that push into you from behind with devastating calm. Dabura’s mouth doesn’t shake. Doesn’t groan. But you feel the control in every second. He’s not trying to bring you over.
He’s trying to own how you fall.
And your body?
Your vicious, sacred, betraying body?
Receives it all.
You rock helplessly between them, thighs burning, ass flexing, back arched in a perfect curve of surrender and power and need. You can’t tell if you’re trying to ride Sukuna’s face or fuck yourself back onto Dabura’s tongue. It doesn’t matter.
You're theirs.
Your hands claw at hair and horns, nails raking, breath a sob caught between pleasure and disbelief.
Because you feel it.
That second orgasm.
Already rising. Already climbing before the first has even faded. This one burns hotter. Hurts more. Your chest tightens. Your lungs seize. Your vision flashes white at the edges.
“F-Fuck—fuck—fucking don’t stop—”
You scream it.
And they dive.
Sukuna growls into your cunt, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as his mouth gets messier—milking the orgasm straight from your soul. You feel spit and slick running down your knees, feel his teeth graze your skin as he moans without shame.
And Dabura?
He moans too.
Low. Intimate. Cold and hot at the same time.
And his massive alien tongue slowly fucks into you with the kind of composure that terrifies. Because he’s not being overwhelmed.
He’s orchestrating this.
He knows exactly what your body is doing.
Exactly how many seconds are left before it detonates.
And it does.
You snap.
Your entire body locks. Ribs heaving, spine arched, hands clawing, thighs convulsing as the second orgasm tears through you like a seizure. You can’t even scream. Your mouth opens but nothing comes. Just air. Just a high, broken gasp as your vision whites out and your hips rock back into Dabura’s mouth, then forward again into Sukuna’s.
You cum so hard you feel it in your teeth.
Your ass shudders. Your cunt pulses. Every muscle twitches. Your limbs go weak.
And you collapse.
But they don’t let you fall.
Sukuna’s hands stay clamped to your thighs, holding you in place as he keeps licking, chasing the aftershocks like a dog gnawing bone. He’s moaning, whining into your clit, slurping every last pulse out of your body.
Dabura’s arms slide around your hips, pulling you back into him. Insistent as hell. You feel his tongue still moving, fucking endless, tracing the very edges of your oversensitivity.
You twitch.
You twitch again.
They don’t stop.
And when your voice finally staggers back up your throat, it’s wrecked.
“Y-you—f-fuck—I can’t—”
But the one behind you finally speaks again.
“You said don’t stop.”
And the one beneath you laughs.
It’s thick. Rasping. Muffled against your dripping cunt.
And then he says:
“Take it. Let’s see what happens when you can’t.”
You try to answer, to say something—anything—but all that escapes is a whimper strangled behind your teeth.
You can’t respond.
Not when your hips keep rolling down into their mouths like they’ve got their own will, not when every nerve in your spine is short-circuiting.
The one below licks you again—slow and obscene, flat tongue dragging from the mess of your hole all the way to your swollen clit, and your entire torso seizes up with a cry.
“Shit,” Sukuna groans, like he just swallowed your name. “Didn’t even touch my cock. You’re doin’ it for me. Just sittin’ up there, cummin’ in my mouth like a fucking altar whore.”
The words hit like fire, vulgar and perfect, and split something in you wide open.
You whimper again.
Not even from embarrassment.
From how wet it makes you.
And he knows.
His grin is audible, even muffled by your cunt, his nose buried in the slick folds, breath hot and ragged.
“Yeah, you like that,” he pants, and then he’s licking again, sloppy circles around your clit, tongue fast and off-rhythm like it’s driving him crazy too. “You want more, don’t you? Wanna get used so hard you forget your name.”
You try to speak. Your mouth opens. Your lips tremble around some broken shape.
And then—
Fingers.
Behind you.
Dabura.
Two fingers slide into your soaked heat without hesitation, parting your folds with mechanical elegance, slipping in with a devastating ease that makes your body jerk. You weren’t ready—,ot for more, not for this, and he doesn’t even press deep.
Not yet.
He curves them. Just slightly. Just enough to find that spot. The one Sukuna’s tongue keeps pummeling from above. The one you didn’t know was even real until they started treating your body like a map they’d studied in silence.
The sound that leaves your throat isn’t human.
A strangled cry cuts from your lungs and echoes through the air, splitting itself in half as your whole body bows.
“Beautiful,” Dabura murmurs behind you, low and clinical, but you hear it. The reverence, as if he’s cataloging divinity. “Her contractions are still peaking. The muscles haven’t released yet. She’s still cumming.”
And you are.
You are.
The wave hasn’t even finished, and your body’s already surrendering again, slick and pulsing and begging without words.
Tears sting your eyes. From capacity. From the sheer magnitude of sensation. You can’t take more.
But you dont get to breathe.
Because then, Sukuna goes feral.
He laughs, unhinged—and that alone is enough to make you twitch again. Then his mouth seals around your clit and sucks. Hard. A violent drag that slams straight through your core like a lightning strike.
At the same time, he pushes his own fingers in—beside Dabura’s.
No warning.
No mercy.
You moan.
The stretch is incomparable.
Your hips snap forward, locked between tongues and fingers and pressure that shouldn’t fit but does, stretched open so wide you forget what it felt like to be empty. Sukuna’s fingers are thick and brutal, knuckles grinding against your front walls while Dabura’s stay curled, and deep, stroking that inner point like he’s tuning you with surgical precision.
They’re both inside you now.
Working together.
“Fucking hell,” Sukuna growls, voice warped with arousal and something else. “She’s squeezing like she wants it—look at that. Ya' feel it? She likes when we fight inside her.”
The one behind groans.
“Pressure is increasing. Depth tolerance rising.”
Sukuna grins.
“Oh, she’s greedy, huh?” he huffs, dragging his mouth to your thigh to bite, the sting so sharp you yelp. “You hear that, baby? You’re not done. Not even close. You just came, and your greedy little cunt is pulling us in.”
“F-fu—” Your voice cracks.
You sob.
You howl.
You don’t even know what you’re trying to say anymore.
But your body does.
Your hips roll again. Your knees buckle. You’re straddling Sukuna’s mouth like it’s your throne, like you’ve lost the ability to do anything else, and you can feel the hands anchoring you: one on each thigh, each wrist, each hip, keeping you spread, shaking, devoted.
Each syllable cracking at the edges, your breath a wreck between them, every moan stacked over the last until they collapse into full-throated, throat-torn screams.
Every sound you make is an offering.
Every cry, every gasp, every wrecked plea.
And they’re on their knees, mouths open, fingers deep, praying to you.
Still fingering.
Still licking.
Still spreading your thighs wider, grinding their palms into the shaking flesh to keep you steady—
Until your third orgasm slams into you.
And your voice
Breaks.
You don’t scream this time, you sing.
One long, cracked, raw-throated exhale that ends in a sob. Your entire body snaps taut, then collapses, spasming between them. You feel the flood between your legs, the wet heat soaking Sukuna’s face as he groans, tongue still moving.
Fingers keep thrusting.
Dabura’s voice, calm as ever, drifts up your spine:
“She’s still seizing. Hold her.”
And they do.
Hands strong. Tongues relentless.
---
You’re screaming.
And they drink it.
They drink every broken cry like it’s proof of divinity, like the sound alone is enough to keep them kneeling forever.
You don’t just cum this time.
You rupture.
There’s no clean rise and fall, no neat arc of pleasure.
And still—
they’re inside you.
Two pairs of fingers moving with merciless coordination. One set curled just right, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white, dragging the orgasm out of you like silk being pulled from your lungs, long and unending. The other pushes even deeper now, stretching you wider, molding you from the inside out. The pressure almost unbearable, but your body opens anyway, greedy and helpless and aching for it.
Two mouths.
One at your clit—relentless. Sukuna’s laughing now, actually laughing, breathless and wrecked, like he lives for the way your scream changes pitch when he swirls his tongue just a fraction slower, then faster, then mean. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows you’re past mercy. He likes it.
The other mouth roams—your thighs, the outside of your hips, the curve of your waist, your spine. Dabura’s lips brush and press, almost gentle, almost reverent, but never neutral. Every kiss claims. Every touch marks territory, even when it feels like comfort.
You sob.
A ragged, desperate sound clawed up from somewhere deep in your gut, ugly and honest.
And that—that—is when they both groan.
Not in unison, but in answer.
Like you just spoke a sacred word.
“Keep crying,” Sukuna pants against your cunt, fingers fucking you harder now, curling in brutal time with his tongue. The sounds fill the chamber. “Fuck. Let me see what it looks like when you fall apart for real.”
Behind you, Dabura presses closer, his body a solid line of muscle at your back, your spine arching helplessly into his chest. Your head tips back against his shoulder, throat exposed, nowhere to go but down—between their hands, their mouths, their worship.
“She’s shaking,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice calm but thick with something dark. “She can’t stop.”
“I won’t stop,” Sukuna snarls, feral now. “She wanted this—she asked for it. So we give it. All of it.”
And they do.
One hand thrusts into you hard now, soaked and slick, pumping with obscene force, every push rubbing you raw in the best, worst way. The heel of his palm grinds into your clit, merciless, the sound of skin on skin echoing wet and loud between your thighs.
The other hand slides behind you again—cool fingers spreading you wide, exposing every oversensitive nerve—
And then his tongue.
Gods.
That alien tongue again, back there, slower now. Deeper. Almost soothing. Long, deliberate strokes that make your whole body melt even as the front of you is being ravaged. It’s wrong. It’s impossible. It’s like he’s calming your nerves while Sukuna sets them on fire.
You shouldn’t feel anything anymore.
You should be numb.
But instead—
You swell.
Another pressure blooms low in your belly, sharp and sudden, stealing what little breath you have left. There’s no space to recover. No climb. No warning.
They hold you right there.
At the peak.
Suspended.
Like wolves pinning down a kill that just won’t die.
You writhe. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, fucking their fingers and faces without meaning to. Sweat slicks your skin. Your thighs are beyond soaked, shaking so hard they barely hold you up. Your toes curl until your calves cramp. Your mouth hangs open, drool slipping down your chin as you sob and moan and gasp all at once.
Your eyes burn.
Tears spill.
And they see.
Dabura groans softly into your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumb brushing your nipple in slow, deliberate strokes, as he memorizes the way each sob changes the rhythm of your body.
“She’s crying,” he breathes. “She’s not stopping.”
Sukuna looks up.
His face is ruined—glistening, mouth red and swollen, eyes blown wide and obsessed like he’s staring at a miracle.
“Fucking holy.”
He spits into your cunt.
Spits.
Just once.
And then he fucks it in deeper with two relentless fingers.
You scream.
Your third orgasm hasn’t even finished tearing through you and you’re cumming again. Harder. A violent shudder rips up your spine, snapping your voice clean in half. The sound dies in your throat, replaced by a whimper.
You sob.
Your whole body seizes.
And still—
They. Don’t. Stop.
One mouth licks you through it, slow and merciless.
The other fucks you through it, fingers sliding deeper, one curling, one spreading you open wider than you thought possible.
And your voice—
You scream again, but it’s ruined now. Fragmented. The words fall apart as they leave your mouth.
“F-fuck—fuck, it’s too much—I c-can’t—can’t—please, please I’m—I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna take it,” Sukuna growls against your clit, tongue never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking cum again. Right now.”
“Just breathe,” Dabura whispers at your ear, voice smooth, unyielding. “Let it happen. We’re not going to stop until you shake yourself hollow.”
And you do.
You shake.
You break.
You come apart completely—body emptied of anything but sensation, sound, and their hands holding you together while they pull you through it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
---
You expect them to stop.
To slow.
To breathe.
They don’t.
Instead, the one in front groans against your soaked cunt, dragging his tongue up through the mess and laughing, absolutely delighted.
“Fuck—still twitchin’,” he pants, face slick with you, voice wrecked from devotion. “How the fuck are you still—still this tight?”
You try to answer—but you can’t.
You’re keening from the overstimulation.
And they still don’t slow.
Not when your screams shatter into nothing but gasps.
Not when your limbs lock for the fourth time, muscles pulled so tight you shake without moving.
Not even when your throat collapses around the breath you can't catch and your cheeks burn with the heat of salt and tears.
Because this has never been about your limits.
It’s about devotion.
Their devotion.
The sacred, endless kind.
Dabura’s tongue is still drilling into you from behind—longer than any tongue should be, too smooth, too deep, curling inside a place untouched by human mouths. He doesn’t thrust. He spirals. He searches. His grip on your hips is inhumanly steady, as if he’s recording the topography of your ruin. Every twitch. Every clench. Every flutter of overstimulated muscle is measured and used.
In front of you—Sukuna’s mouth is sealed to your cunt like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He’s past rhythm now. There’s no technique. No performance. Just hunger. Just need. He growls into your clit every time your hips twitch, every time your body tries to flinch away from sensation it cannot contain. His teeth graze, just enough to make your breath catch in sobs.
And his fingers—
Still fucking you.
Still absolutely devastating.
Driving home with a rhythm so merciless it becomes scripture, hammering that spot that makes sees stars and your legs seize like they’ve forgotten how to stand.
And still—
They.
Don’t.
Fucking.
Stop.
Even when your body sags, your spine curving downward like a marionette finally letting go.
Even when your voice shatters, first to whispers, then to nothing at all.
Even when your vision fractures white, splitting into pieces, like light breaking against glass.
You’re slipping.
And they want it.
No, they need it.
This is the moment they’ve worked for.
Not your climax.
Your ascension.
“Don’t you fucking go quiet on me,” Sukuna snarls suddenly, voice wrecked, wild, soaked in spit and cunt and purpose. His mouth rips away just long enough to bite your inner thigh—hard—the shock slicing into you like lightning.
You scream.
And behind you—
Dabura moves.
He plunges.
His tongue pushes deeper than it has, a slow, pervasive press that feels like he’s trying to reach through you. Like he heard the signal. Like he was waiting for the final tremble, the final cry, the sacred noise that gives him permission to take you all the way out.
Your entire body seizes.
It isn’t like before though.
This isn’t climax.
It’s fucking apocalypse.
The orgasm that hits is not a wave.
It’s a detonation.
“...She’s slipping,” the one behind murmurs, still deep inside you, still stroking with gentle, sacred precision.
The one in front pauses—then presses a kiss to your trembling inner thigh.
“Let her,” he whispers. “She’s transcending.”
You scream again, but it’s fractured, thin, breaking apart as your whole body locks, writhes, shudders violently. Your jaw drops. Your back arches—cracks—and your thighs clamp tight around Sukuna’s head like a death grip.
And he fucking moans.
Like you’re blessing him.
Like suffocating on your cunt is some kind of holy communion.
But your mind—
Your mind is gone.
Your mouth is still open.
But nothing comes, because the white hits.
Oblivion.
It floods through you like a storm of silence. Every sound, every thought, every breath is stripped from you. You don’t cum. You die and rise again.
Your body arches one final time, held in place by their hands like you're something precious they’re terrified to let go of—and then you drop.
But they don’t.
They don’t pull out.
They don’t move away.
Sukuna’s fingers are still buried inside you, his tongue lazily dragging over your clit like he’s still feeding. Dabura’s tongue is still nestled deep, inhumanly still, like he’s waiting to see if your soul will return to your body or stay wrapped around him.
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
Simon Riley with his weird ass acts of love and bizarre concept of boundaries
You’ll be waking up confused in the middle of the night, feeling a strange pulling at your feet, only to glance down and see your boyfriend has thrown the covers off and is attempting to clip your toenails for you
“What in the actual f-”
“I’m tired o’ your talons diggin’ into my legs every nigh’. This is for both o’ us, love.” He’ll grumble in that tone of his that leaves no room for argument, only the sound of nail clippers echoing in the room as your roll your eyes before shutting them again
Every so often when you’re on your period, you’ll be stepping out of the shower, bewildered to find that the night time pad and underwear you’d set aside with your pyjamas on the bathroom counter top, have been put together for you?
“Simon- you saved me all of two steps at most? Opening the wrapper and sticking it on?”
“And you’re welcome.” He’ll mutter casually with a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s off to brush his teeth
“I’m so confused. I might be losing it, Si.” You’ll mention one time, coming home after work with bags of greasy takeout food in hand, his brow only raising in question. “This is maybe the third time now I’ve noticed that the petrol was nearing a quarter tank, so I’d plan to fill up the next day. But next time I get in the car- the tank is fucking full! The first time I thought I had dreamt it, second time I thought I was hallucinating a little bit, but now-”
“Love, I’ve been filling up your car.”
“…what?”
“That’s me. Every time I’ve heard you say you need petrol- I’ve filled up the car.” Simon shrugs as though he’s simply telling you what the weather is for today, not that he’s been sneaking out in the middle of the night with your car keys to run a quick errand for you as you sleep
“I don’t know if I want to ask how or why first.”
“Well petrol’s fuckin’ expensive now, that’s why. You don’t need to be payin’ tha’.”
“You could have just … asked me?”
“… righ’. Noted.” He’ll nod in quick agreement before moving on to take the bags from you, no intention whatsoever of changing his habits
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
✮ getting stuck in an elevator with two hot bosses who want you cannot be that bad, right? *pwp
"shit, we're gonna be here a while," nanami breathed out annoyed and loosened his tie after the dispatcher didn't answer again and the call button totally stopped working. your shift ended like three hours ago, but you were still there, typical you, obsessing over some report. the office was totally empty.
well, except for two department heads you were lucky enough to get stuck with in one cramped elevator.
the elevator felt way too small for three adults. you were basically squeezed between them and could feel the heat coming off their bodies. behind you was nanami's tall figure, and right in front of you — higuruma. both were a head taller than you, wider in the shoulders, and fucking hot.
i mean, it wasn't for nothing that you always wore short skirts even though the dress code said no, that you accidentally spilled coffee on higuruma's pants so you could apologize with bambi eyes and wipe a napkin near his cock. for months you played a dangerous game: you leaned over a little more than you should, showed off your chest when you sat across from him, brushed your shoulder against nanami's in the narrow hallway, and left documents on hiromi's desk that were soaked in your boldest perfume. you teased both of them at the same time, gave them hope, but always slipped away the second their stares got too heavy. a little flirting is fun, alright?
but right now you weren't having fun at all.
nanami slowly leaned in. his hot breath hit your ear, making you shiver. "you look spooked, sweetheart. you okay?" he said, and he sounded dangerously protective. "y-yeah, i'm fine," you gulped, trying not to look at him. "it's just super hot in here."
you noticed nanami lookedup at higuruma. for a while they just stared at each other in silence, and then this slow, knowing grin spread across both their faces. that look made your knees go weak. higuruma took his time taking off his jacket. he did it slow, eyes locked on yours, and tossed the expensive thing right on the dirty floor.
"what a shame," he said, rolling up his sleeves and showing off those strong forearms. "maybe we should talk about your behavior."
before you could get a single word out, nanami's heavy hands landed on your waist. he pulled you back, pressing you into his hard chest. "you've been waiting for this the whole time, haven't you?" he whispered into your hair. "teasing us so much."
"i... i have no idea what you're talking about," your voice shook, and your heart was thumping so loud they both definitely heard it. hiromi stepped even closer. his hands hit your thighs, bunching up your skirt. "oh, trust me, you know exactly what we're talking about."
they literally crushed you between them, and you felt the burning heat of their bodies. nanami grabbed your chin and pulled it up, forcing you to look at him. "i think it's time to teach you a lesson."
he didn't let you scream — his mouth covered yours in a demanding kiss. he kissed you deep, filling you up with himself, while hiromi went for your neck at the same time, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on your skin. your head started spinning and reality started to blur.
nanami pulled back from your lips for a second and then with one sharp, confident move he grabbed you by the waist. before you could even gasp, you were up in the air. he held you there, making your legs spread wide and hooking your knees over his arms. now you were basically hanging on him — your back pressed against his chest, and you were completely open in front of both of them.
your short skirt rode up to your waist, leaving you in just thin panties. nanami went back to your ear, nibbling on your lobe and cheek before sliding down to your neck. meanwhile, higuruma slowly unbuttoned your blouse, button by button, and as the fabric parted, he started biting your chest, making you arch in kento’s arms.
"wait— mmnh! hiromi..." you gasped, "there're cameras in the elevator... maybe we should go..."
"don't worry 'bout that, darling," nanami laughed low and soft, pressing his lips to your shoulder. "don't you worry your pretty little head."
hiromi finally threw your shirt open and slowly moved down with kisses toward your stomach. "just enjoy what we're gonna do now, okay?"
he got down on his knees, and you felt his hot breath scorch your delicate skin. he didn't rush. first, his lips barely brushed the inside of your thighs, leaving light, almost weightless kisses that sent an electric charge through your body. you felt nanami tighten his grip on your knees from behind, locking you in the air; you literally couldn't move.
"look how wet she is. perfect," hiromi rasped, looking at how the slick glistened on your already damp pussy. "you wanted this, didn't you? for us to see how much this little pussy leaks when it's needy?"
"n-nngh!... hiromi…" your moan drowned in the quiet hum of the elevator as he lifted two fingers and unceremoniously stretched your folds apart to fully expose you. at first, he just teased you with the tip of his tongue, short and wet strokes. you felt him lick away the drops, smacking his lips, savoring your taste.
"mmngh! haah! please…" you jerked in nanami’s arms, but he just held you tighter against his chest. "hold on, sweetie, we're just gettin' started," he whispered in your ear, and at that moment, he started to slowly rotate your hips in circular motions.
those circles made you literally rub against hiromi’s face. you felt the stubble on his chin, his nose pressing into your already swollen clit, and his tongue going right into your soaking pussy. wet, obscene sounds echoed in the cramped elevator.
"haah! more… nngh!" you weren't in control of your sounds anymore, gasping with pleasure. "oh yeah," hiromi growled, not pulling away for a second, "you're so sweet. i'm gonna lick you dry 'til you start beggin' us to stop."
his pace picked up. he went rougher now. hiromi didn't tease anymore. he took your clit between his lips and started sucking on it hungrily like he’d fuckin' die if he didn't.
"a-ah! hiromi! nngh-aa!" you screamed, throwing your head back on nanami’s shoulder while he kissed your cheek, holding you in place, and your cry echoed through the tight cabin.
hiromi’s tongue went deep between your stretched folds, licking everything inside, while the two fingers he’d managed to shove in kept roughly stretching you, opening every millimeter of your tender flesh for his mouth. loud, squelching sounds of your pussy and the wet sounds of his mouth filled the elevator.
"mmm, look what you're doin' to us," nanami kept rotating your pelvis, forcing you to grind even harder onto hiromi’s tongue. "you wanted this, didn't you? walkin' 'round in front of us in those skirts that show off your ass?"
"haah! mmngh… ahh! more… more!" you didn't even know what you were saying anymore. the man behind you didn't give you a second's break — his palm covered your mouth, muffling your next moan. "hiromi, please… mmmngh-ah!" you broke free from nanami’s hand, and your moans got louder. "yes! right there! ahh-h!"
nanami pulled his hand away from your face only to sink into your lips, catching your next whimper. "stick out your tongue, baby," he whispered, and you obeyed before you could even think. "come on."
as soon as you parted your mouth and the tip of your tongue peeked out, nanami let out a low growl and bit into your lips. he captured your tongue with his lips and started sucking on it, slow and greedy. "mmmmmfff!.. kento!... " you moaned right into his mouth, feeling your whole body tighten like a string.
nanami sucked your tongue rhythmically, like he owned it, making you gasp for air. meanwhile, higuruma, feeling your reaction, stretched your folds even wider and sucked on your clit with twice the force. "mmmngh... most perfect sweet pussy. gonna eat this little swollen clit up."
your sounds turned totally incoherent, becoming a solid stream of moans and ragged breaths mixed with whimpers. nanami pulled away from your tongue for a second, his whisper brushing right against your lips. "good girl. hear how loud you're bein' for us?"
your body was stretched to the limit, like a wire about to snap. nanami kept dominantly sucking your tongue, cutting off your oxygen and making you choke on your own moans while his hips rhythmically rotated your pelvis, grinding you into hiromi’s face. you thrashed convulsively in kento’s arms, feeling everything inside tighten into an unbearably hard, hot knot.
higuruma, feeling your orgasm coming, stretched your already swollen folds with his fingers until it almost hurt, and for the last time, sucked your clit in as deep as possible, licking it frantically. a loud, dominant squelching filled the cramped elevator.
"a-a-ah! kent— oh god, i'm gonna... mmmngh-a-a-a!" your scream broke into a rasp as the first wave of orgasm literally ripped through you.
you felt your muscles inside start to contract uncontrollably, pulsing hot wetness right onto hiromi’s face. you shuddered all over, your legs on nanami’s shoulders shaking with a fine tremor. kento pulled away from your tongue at that moment just to catch your wide-open mouth in a silent scream and greedily breathe in your orgasmic moan.
you gasped, your head falling onto nanami’s shoulder as white spots swam before your eyes. hiromi didn't stop even when you started twitching in convulsions. he kept greedily licking and sucking up your slick, which was now dripping down his chin and lips.
"hiromi, stop... ah... i can't anymore..." you went limp in kento’s arms, feelin' a heavy, leaden weakness spread through your body. you barely breathed, pressing your forehead against nanami’s shoulder. your body still shook with small, lingerin' tremors, and your head was a total vacuum. you were literally floating in the clouds after such a crushing orgasm, feeling like soft, pliable clay in their hands.
but the blissful silence didn't last long. nanami pulled back a bit to look at your face and took you by the chin, forcing your blurred gaze to focus on him.
"you think that’s it, darling?" his voice sounded scary calm and low. "you really think we're gonna let you come just once?"
your eyes widened. you tried to say something, but only a weak, ragged exhale escaped your throat. "what're you..."
hiromi slowly pulled away and got up from his knees. his lips glistened wetly, and there was a streak of your juices on his chin that he didn't even think about wipin' off. he looked down at you, fixing his shirt cuffs.
"that was just the start," he tossed out, and his voice vibrated in the tight cabin. you were still hangin' in nanami’s arms, legs shaking, and your mind was fading. "n-no... wait..." you tried to pull your thoughts together, "someone could walk in right now... the dispatcher... he might hear through the intercom..."
nanami just laughed low against your neck, and that sound made you shrink. he didn't let you go. instead, he shifted his grip to get comfortable and started to slowly, intentionally rub your aching, oversensitive cunt against his huge, rock-hard cock through the fabric of his pants.
"ah!" you sobbed, whimpering from the unbearable pleasure that bordered on torture. "nanami..." "we could just call the dispatcher again so help comes right now," kento whispered, keepin' up the methodical grind against you, squeezin' out new portions of wetness that now fell in heavy drops and dripped onto the elevator floor. your heels had been lyin' in the corner for a while now. "is that what you want? you want us to get pulled out of here right now?"
he didn't stop, and you felt his hardness throb, promisin' somethin' way bigger. at that moment, hiromi stepped in close. he cupped your face in his palms and sank into your lips with a deep, greedy kiss. you tasted yourself mixed with his hot spit — intimate, and crazy turning you on.
"m-m-m," he hummed into your mouth, pulling back only a millimeter. "is this what you want?" you should've said "yes." you should've screamed 'bout how they broke all the rules, how hierarchy was trashed, and how you're all gonna get fired in disgrace. you should've stopped this.
but you didn't. your first orgasm was so mind-blowing that all you could think about was the throbbing weight you felt with your ass through nanami’s clothes. you couldn't even dream of just one of them in your wildest fantasies, but getting both at once? that was the kind of extreme greed they write about in books.
“n-no…” you aggressively shook your head, completely forgetting you were in the damn elevator of an office building. your hands dug into higuruma’s shoulders on their own, and you started desperately, almost insanely grinding against the man behind you in every way possible, begging for more with your body alone.
hiromi gave a faint, barely noticeable smile without taking his eyes off you, watching the way you writhed in kento’s hands. “that’s what we thought. dirty girl… you spent months tempting your bosses just so they’d fuck you at the same time?”
you barely heard him. his words drowned in the rush of blood pounding in your ears, and you only nodded quickly, feverishly, agreeing with every word he said. “c’mon, baby,” nanami caught you with one hand, giving you more space, “use your hands. take my pants off.”
with trembling fingers, you reached behind you as much as the cramped space allowed and touched his cock through the fabric for the first time. nanami let out a low, rough groan and pushed himself into your palm, rolling his hips forward. you tried to feel more of him, but kento only tightened his grip on your waist.
“baby, i just had to sit there without getting to taste you. you’d better hurry up.” you frantically searched for his belt buckle, but your fingers wouldn’t cooperate. you couldn’t see what you were doing behind your back, and helpless little whines started slipping out of you.
“i-i can’t do it… kento, i can’t…” you sobbed, tears blurring your vision. nanami laughed quietly, enjoying your desperation. “what an impatient girl, huh?”
he jerked his hips sharply to help you, and finally you managed to undo the belt. then the button and zipper gave in too. his pants slipped down, and immediately, without waiting, you covered his cock with your hand over his boxers. nanami threw his head back, sucking in air through his teeth with a hiss. you moaned too — just the thought of him being inside you turned you into a melted, shapeless mess.
by then, hiromi already pulled his pants down slightly. you froze as you looked at him. his cock looked intimidating: long, heavy, veins standing out clearly along it, the tip already wet. exactly the one you imagined whenever you touched yourself.
you breathed heavily, your pussy still pulsing after your orgasm while your hands already pulled down the blond man’s boxers behind you. the second his cock came free, it pressed against your ass with a dull thud. you felt the heat of it against your skin.
nanami wrapped a hand around himself and slowly dragged the tip over your untouched back hole first. panic shot through you instantly, your voice turning high and almost frightened. “kento!.. please, kento…”
he immediately buried himself against your neck, kissing you greedily with his mouth open, leaving your skin wet and burning. “relax,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through your body. “we’re not going there… for now.”
you relaxed a little, but the realization crashed over you in another wave: that meant they were both going to fuck you. at the same time.
your thoughts didn’t even have time to form into words before higuruma stepped closer. he cupped your face, gently but firmly sucking on your lower lip before pulling away and looking directly into your eyes.
“if it hurts, just tell us, okay?” his voice sounded serious, almost gentle. “we won’t do anything that’ll hurt you. we’re here to give you what you’ve been begging for all this time. tell me you understand.”
you only nodded shakily, unable to force out a single word. “use your words, sweetheart,” nanami insisted, pressing his cock against your lower back. you swallowed hard, your voice rough from all the screaming and moaning. “i… i understand. yeah. please…”
nanami adjusted his grip on you more comfortably, one arm still holding your weight while the other slowly, carefully guided his cock. at first, he only teased you with it, dragging the tip through your folds, coating himself in all your slickness, practically soaking himself in your juices before finally giving one decisive thrust.
he pushed in slowly, giving you time to feel every inch of his impossible thickness. you cried out instantly and grabbed onto higuruma’s shoulders with a death grip. meanwhile, hiromi pressed himself flush against you, holding your hips steady and helping you keep your balance while his eyes tracked every shaky breath you took.
he really was huge. you felt him literally forcing your insides apart, pushing so deep that every experience you’d ever had before suddenly felt like some pathetic joke. your head fell back, your moans breaking apart into weak little whines.
“mmmngh! kento… haa-ah… hurts… no, feels good… god—!” you choked on the words as he filled you completely. “that’s it, sweetheart, take all of me,” nanami rasped, his voice vibrating through your body.
“you’re too big… kento, you’re too big…” “i know, baby,” he started moving inside you slowly, deeply, “it’ll feel better soon. just relax for me.”
while that happened, higuruma kissed his way down your neck to your chest, which already spilled out of your bra cups. he wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking greedily while nanami kept thrusting into you from behind.
“fuck…” kento growled, picking up the pace. “knew you’d have a fucking heavenly pussy… she’s squeezing me so tight.” all you could do was whine and sob. “ah! mmngh!! feels so good… more… haaah!”
“yeah?” higuruma pulled away from your chest, his gaze turning sharp and hungry. “it’s about to feel even better.” nanami cupped your face with both hands, turned you toward him, and crashed his mouth against yours in a deep kiss. “take a breath,” he ordered right against your lips.
you were already completely fucked stupid from his cock and the heat of their bodies. the second you gasped for air, you felt another huge, hard shape starting to push into you. hiromi entered you from the front, and you practically whimpered into nanami’s kiss while your fingers dug into higuruma’s shirt hard enough to make the fabric strain.
the moment he fully pushed inside, stretching you beyond anything imaginable, you screamed so loudly it felt like your voice tore through the entire building. “oh god! god! fuck… fuck! a-ah-ahh!”
tears spilled from your eyes automatically from the shock and overwhelming fullness. nanami laughed low against your lips, licking away the salty wetness. “no god here, sweetheart. we’re the ones making you scream like that.”
both of them stayed still for a moment, letting your body adjust to the unbearable stretch. hiromi’s hand squeezed your breast possessively while nanami bit at your shoulder and every patch of exposed skin he could reach.
it felt like forever or maybe only a few seconds — you had no idea anymore. the only thing you knew was that you needed them. “more… want more… please…”
“our girl’s getting greedy, huh?” higuruma smirked while looking at your flushed face. “one cock isn’t enough anymore? now you always want two?” then they started moving. together. hard. rhythmic.
it felt like your pussy was about to split apart, your whole body turning into one shaking, dripping mess. you moaned and whimpered while they kept taking turns kissing you, your chin already soaked with spit, your face damp with sweat and their touches. saliva and slick ran down your neck and chest, and you were pretty sure there was already a puddle forming on the elevator floor beneath you.
their movements turned sharp and perfectly synchronized, and you felt them practically pounding you into the narrow space between them. nanami set a deep, animalistic pace from behind while hiromi matched every thrust from the front, forcing your body to stretch to its absolute limit. the cramped elevator filled with unbearable wet sounds: skin slapping against skin, heavy male growls, and your endless, choking moans mixed with the smell of all your arousal.
“ah! haaah… nngh! fuck, kento… romi… a-ahh!” you cried out when they bumped against each other inside you, trapping your womb between them.
“look at this fucking mess,” hiromi rasped without taking his eyes off the place where your bodies merged together. “you’re sucking us in so greedily. such a needy little hole for your bosses.”
nanami grabbed your hair, pulling your head back slightly so he could see your face twisted with pleasure. “hear those sounds, baby?” he slammed into you hard, and the elevator filled with a loud, filthy squelch. “that’s all you. you’re so fucking wet we’re practically drowning in you.”
“mmmngh! yes… more… ” you couldn’t even control the saliva dripping down your chin anymore, mixing with their sweat. your face stayed damp, your hair stuck to your forehead, and your eyes rolled back.
higuruma leaned forward and crashed his mouth against yours, swallowing your moan with his lips. his tongue moved just as aggressively as his cock while his hand kept squeezing your breast hard enough to hurt. when he finally pulled away, a thin string of saliva stretched between you before breaking against your neck.
hiromi tightened his grip on your thighs even more, lifting your hips so you stayed completely open for both of them. the elevator smelled heavy with sweat, bodies, and slick, and the only thing breaking the silence were the filthy sounds of their bodies slamming against your ass.
nanami slowly moved his hand down the front of your body. his fingers, soaked with your slick, found your clit. “look at this little thing,” he rasped, his voice vibrating through your spine. “look how swollen it is. you’re pulsing so much, sweetheart.”
he started playing with you, and the elevator filled with another wet, messy sound from his fingers moving against you. every touch sent a shock through your body.
“mmmngh! kento… ah!” you sobbed shakily as your thighs started trembling uncontrollably. “please… i wanna come… i’m gonna… mmhnm!!" “no,” he cut you off. he gave one deep, crushing thrust. “don’t even think about coming without permission.”
their pace grew even faster, turning into something raw and primal. nanami’s heavy thrusts from behind crashed against hiromi’s from the front. the mirror in the elevator completely fogged over now, thick drops of condensation sliding down it just like the sweat running along your back. you could barely breathe anymore, your moans dissolving into broken little whimpers.
“tell me,” nanami suddenly pinched your clit hard between his fingers, making your back arch violently as you screamed. “who does this sweet, greedy pussy belong to?”
“a-ahh! yours! only yours! always only yours!” you practically sobbed the words out, losing the last of your sanity from the overwhelming pleasure. “good girl,” hiromi whispered smoothly against your damp shoulder before kissing it. “such a good girl. keep taking us, baby.”
your pussy pulsed violently, burning from the friction and impossible fullness. every thrust from nanami and hiromi forced more slick out of you, thick drops falling onto the floor and adding to the puddle already spreading beneath your feet. you felt completely used, ruined, and unbelievably happy in exactly that role.
the tension inside you coiled into a tight, unbearable knot that was about to snap. from behind, nanami made one last, crushing thrust, driving into you to the very hilt with a loud, wet sound, while hiromi made a powerful lunge forward at the same time, pinning your uterus in a vise between the two of them.
at that moment, nanami pressed hard against your pulsing clit, and that was the final straw. you literally buckled in their arms. the elevator walls started to swim before your eyes, and a series of choking, ragged sobs ripped from your throat.
"mmmngh-a-a-a! god! god! i— aah!" you gasped, feeling the first wave of orgasm paralyze your legs. your pussy started to contract convulsively and rhythmically around them, trying to squeeze every last drop out. you felt every vein on their members, every movement that now felt a hundred times sharper. a frantic, wet squelching filled the tight cabin — it was your juices, forced out by their pressure, literally splashing onto the floor and mixing with sweat.
you felt everything inside flip. your stomach muscles cramped, you threw your head back aggressively, pressing the back of your skull into nanami’s shoulder, and you just stopped breathing for several long seconds. you were shaking so hard that hiromi had to grip your thighs in a death lock to keep you from sliding to the floor.
"yes, just like that," nanami growled, feeling your pussy literally suck him in. "cum on our cocks, our pretty girl." you could not answer. you only whimpered and shuddered in a long, agonizingly beautiful ecstasy. tears of happiness and shock rolled down your wet cheeks.
you were still shaking from the lingering waves when you felt the blonde’s breath grow heavy, turning into a muffled growl. "fuck, you are so tight...so perfect baby..." he rasped, driving into you one last time with such force that you felt his pulse at your very center.
hiromi, feeling your tremors and kento’s frantic rhythm, also stopped holding back. his movements became sharp, almost rough; he literally slammed you into nanami, wringing the last moans out of you.
for a moment, everything froze. you felt nanami shudder through his whole body, his fingers digging into your thighs until it hurt, and he poured into you in a hot, pulsing stream. almost at the same time, hiromi let out a low, guttural sound and also went still, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, giving all his tension to you.
"so good mmm..." you went totally limp in their arms, feeling the scalding heat of their seed spread inside you. a sharp, mechanical sound and a sudden jolt of the elevator under your feet made you all freeze.
"hello, elevator number four? we have recorded a stop; we are restarting the system now. is everything alright with you?"
