Your bedroom door opens without a knock.

They never knock.

Miffu steps in first — because Miffu always goes first. She fills the doorframe the way she fills every room: completely, unavoidably, like a force of nature that learned to wear skin. The single grey-blue eye that isn't hidden behind her eyepatch sweeps over you with that particular look she gets — warm and hungry at the same time, like she can't quite decide whether to hold you or devour you. Knowing her, she'll do both.

She's wearing a red ribbon.

That's it. A thin red ribbon looped across her chest, tied in a bow between her enormous K-cup breasts — breasts that the ribbon does absolutely nothing to contain, her thick dark nipples and puffy areolae fully visible on either side of the satin. Another ribbon sits low on her hips, a loose bow perched just above her fat, plush mound. Her body is all hard muscle and impossible softness at once — massive thighs, wide hips, abs you could break your hand on. Her platinum hair is swept to the side, casual and effortless. Her black collar sits at her throat.

Behind her, Faji leans against the doorframe with that smug, pretty face of his, glasses slightly crooked, his own red ribbon doing exactly as much work as Miffu's — which is to say, none. It bisects his enormous implant-firm chest, tied in a neat bow that sits between his K-cup breasts, dark nipples peeking out from both sides. His second ribbon wraps low on his wide hips. He looks annoyingly beautiful and he knows it.

Miffu crosses the room in three unhurried steps and cups your face in both hands — her palms are warm, slightly rough from years of training, impossibly gentle.

"Happy birthday, baby."

Her voice is low. It always is. She presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then pulls back just far enough to look at you, her thumb brushing your cheek.

"We talked about what to get you." She glances back at Faji over her shoulder.

"I said gift card," Faji says, pushing off the doorframe and padding into the room. "She vetoed it."

"I vetoed it," Miffu confirms, no apology in her tone whatsoever. Her eye stays on you. "We decided to give you something better."

Faji stops beside her, sliding an arm around her waist, his chin dropping to her shoulder. He grins at you — that easy, unhurried grin he wears like a second skin.

"We're the gift," he says. "Bow and everything. You're welcome."

Miffu's thumb traces your jaw. She is not rushing. She never rushes. She just watches you with that steady, patient, devastating look — like she has already decided how this ends and she is content to let you get there yourself.

"So." Her voice drops another register. "What do you want first?"

Your phone buzzes on the desk. You're in the middle of class.

You glance down. It's from Faji.

Faji 😈 (10:43 AM) hey baby look what you're missing rn lmaooo 📎 [image attached]

You open it under the desk.

It's a mirror selfie. Bathroom mirror — your bathroom, at home. The lighting is warm and slightly blown out, the kind of glow that makes skin look like it's lit from within.

Faji is on his knees on the tile, ass pressed back toward the camera, spine curved in a deep arch. His long platinum hair is pulled into a high ponytail with a blue scrunchie, a few loose strands falling across his face. He's got his phone held up behind him, angled down, catching the full picture: that enormous, obscene ass jutting back — each cheek round and overflowing, impossibly fat, the skin smooth and flawless — with his thick, half-hard cock hanging heavy between his thighs, tip already flushed and damp. His glasses are slightly askew. He's smirking at the camera like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Another message comes in before you can even process the first.

Faji 😈 (10:43 AM) was gonna touch myself but figured id send u this first ur welcome btw also class ends at noon right? asking for a friend (the friend is my ass) (it misses u)

Your professor says something. You don't hear it.

It's almost midnight when the front door opens.

You hear the click of heels first — deliberate, unhurried — then the soft thud of a clutch being set on the entryway table. Faji is already asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed like he owns it, one arm thrown over his face.

You're still up.

Miffu fills the living room doorway and for a moment she just stands there, letting you look. She'd been at some private gala — charity event, corporate dinner, something with suits and champagne and people who didn't deserve to be in the same room as her. She's wearing a black coat, open now, revealing the dress beneath: a dark, low-cut thing that somehow contains her K-cup breasts through sheer structural miracle, the fabric stretched across her chest and flowing loose over her wide hips. Fishnet stockings hug her enormous thighs, disappearing into the hem. Her short platinum hair is slightly wind-mussed. Her eyepatch is the same matte black it always is. Her black choker sits at her throat.

She looks like a weapon dressed up as a woman.

She shrugs the coat off one shoulder, then the other, and lets it drop over the back of the armchair without looking at it. Her single grey-blue eye finds you across the room.

"You waited up," she says. Low. Not a question.

She crosses the room, heels still on, and stops in front of you. Up close she smells like expensive perfume and something underneath it — warm skin, faint musk, her. She reaches down and hooks one finger under your chin, tilting your face up.

"Good." Her thumb drags slow across your lower lip. "I thought about you the whole drive home, sweetheart. Every boring minute of that dinner." A pause. Her eye drops to your mouth. "You going to make it worth the wait?"

"I'll be quick, I swear."

That's what Faji said. That was seven minutes ago. He is not being quick.

He's on his knees in front of you, black turtleneck sweater stretching obscenely across his massive implant-firm tits, his long platinum hair loose around his shoulders. His glasses are slightly smudged. He doesn't care. His mouth is wrapped around your cock like he has nowhere else to be — lips soft and wet and absolutely merciless, taking you slow and deep, his tongue working the underside of your shaft with the practiced ease of someone who has done this ten thousand times and still loves it every single time.

"Fmmmph—"

He pulls back, lips dragging slick along your length, a thick thread of spit connecting his mouth to your tip. He looks up at you with those blue eyes, glasses fogged slightly, smug even now.

"Grocery list is on the counter," he says, voice slightly wrecked. "I'm getting everything on it." He wraps a hand around your base and gives a slow, twisting stroke. "But first."

He takes you back in — deeper this time — and the sound he makes is wet and filthy and completely shameless. Glck. Glck. Glck. His free hand presses flat to your thigh, keeping you where he wants you.

It doesn't take long. He makes sure of that.

When you cum he pulls back to your tip and lets it hit — ropes of thick cum splashing across his lips, his chin, painting down his throat and spattering across the chest of his black turtleneck. It pools in the valley between his tits, soaking into the fabric.

He sits back on his heels and looks down at himself. Then up at you.

"...I literally just put this on." He pinches the wet fabric away from his chest, frowning. "I have to change now. You know that, right?" He drops it. Looks at your cock, still half-hard. Back at you. "...You good? Or do you need to go again before I leave?"

You don't know how it started. You never really do with Miffu.

One moment you were on the couch. Now you're flat on your back and she's between your thighs like she belongs there — because she does, she always has — and her mouth is on your cock.

Not kissing it. Not teasing. Devouring.

Her full lips stretch around your shaft and she takes you in slow, deliberate, inch by inch, her grey-blue eye half-lidded and locked on your face the whole time. Watching. She likes to watch you fall apart. Her massive K-cup breasts hang heavy beneath her, dark nipples grazing your thighs as she moves, leaving warm damp trails against your skin.

Glck — glck — sllrp—

She pulls off with a wet, obscene pop and runs her tongue flat up the underside of your cock, tip to base, then takes one long lick around your head like she's tasting something she ordered.

"Sweetheart," she says, voice low and rough. "You're going to want to hold onto something."

She goes back down — deeper this time, your tip pressing into the soft heat of her throat — and at the same moment you feel it: one thick finger, slick and warm, pressing slow and insistent against your asshole. She doesn't rush. She never rushes. She just applies steady, patient pressure until you open for her, and then she slides in to the knuckle and crooks.

Your whole body jolts.

She hums around your cock. Satisfied.

Glck. Glck. Glck.

Her finger starts to move. Her mouth doesn't stop. She works you from both ends with the calm, total focus of someone who has absolutely nothing else to do today and intends to take her time.

You're not sure when exactly this became a normal Saturday morning.

Faji is straddling your face — backwards, thighs bracketing your head, his enormous fat ass hovering inches above you, his thick cock and heavy balls hanging right over your mouth. He smells clean and warm and faintly of whatever body wash he uses that makes Miffu crazy. His asshole — that plump, puffy, perfect donut — is right there. Presented. Waiting.

"You don't have to," he says cheerfully, from somewhere below your waist. "But I will literally cry if you don't."

He punctuates this by wrapping his lips around your cock.

Fmmmph—

At the same moment, you feel it — warm, impossibly soft — as Miffu settles beside you. She doesn't say anything. She takes your cock from Faji's mouth, wraps her thick fingers around your shaft, and presses your tip directly against her nipple. Her K-cup breast is enormous, the nipple thick and dark and stiff, and she rolls it against your head slow and deliberate, smearing the bead of pre across her areola.

"Keep your mouth busy," she tells you, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. She nods toward Faji's waiting ass. "He asked nicely."

Faji leans back down and takes you in his mouth again. Slrp. Glck. Glck. He is absolutely not taking it easy on you.

Miffu continues to drag your cock across her nipple, unhurried, watching your face.

"Okay but the red is genuinely a better color on me."

"You said that about the last three."

"I was right about the last three."

They've been doing this for twenty minutes — sitting on the bathroom counter while you waited, passing lipstick tubes back and forth, trying shades on the backs of their hands. New ones. Miffu bought them this afternoon. Faji immediately claimed half the bag.

Now you're on your back on the bed, and the argument has been resolved in the most practical way possible.

Miffu is between your thighs, her full lips painted a deep, glossy blood red. She has your balls in her mouth — both of them, rolling them slow and warm on her tongue, her big hands holding your thighs open. Every time she pulls back there are dark red lip prints left behind on your inner thigh, your sac, the crease of your hip. She is marking you methodically. She seems very pleased about this.

Faji is behind you. His lips are painted electric blue — vivid, almost shocking against his skin — and his tongue is buried in your asshole. Not teasing. Fully committed. Slrp. Mlm. Slrp. His hands are spread across your ass cheeks, holding you open, and every time he pulls back to breathe there are blue kiss prints stamped across both cheeks, the ring of your hole smudged with bright blue from where his lips have been.

He comes up for air, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and surveys his work.

"Mine looks better," he announces.

Miffu pulls off your balls with a wet pop. Looks at the constellation of red marks she's left. Looks at Faji's blue lipstick disaster across your ass.

"...Debatable," she says, and goes back down.

The pill bottle said "cold & flu." That's what it said.

In your defense, it was on the bathroom shelf with the other medicine. In your defense, you had a headache. In Faji's defense, he should have labeled it better. In nobody's defense, it's been forty minutes and your cock has not gotten the memo that you took cold medicine.

Faji figures it out approximately thirty seconds after walking past you in the hallway. Completely naked. Nipples hard. Hair messy. Cock leaking precum. Looks like he was... preoccupied or is about to be at the very least.

He stops. Looks down. Looks up. His eyebrows go up behind his glasses.

"...Did you take the pills on the second shelf?"

Seeing your OBVIOUS predicament, he continues without letting you answer.

"Baby." He presses his lips together. "Those were my Viagra. I was saving them for tonight." A pause. He looks down again. "Huh. They work fast."

"Okay. Okay. This is fine." He's already dropping to his knees. "This is literally fine, I'm not even mad, we can figure out tonight later." He looks up at you, and there's zero distress in his expression — just that easy, warm, faintly delighted look he gets when something goes exactly the way he wanted even when he didn't plan it. "Take your pants off."

He has your cock in his mouth before you finish processing the sentence.

Glck — glck — sllrp — fmmmph—

He deepthroats you in one slow, practiced push, nose against your stomach, throat working around you. Then he pulls back. Then he goes again. No buildup. No warmup. Just full, relentless, sloppy-wet head, his glasses fogging, spit running down his chin, his massive tits swaying with every bob.

You cum. Hard.

He swallows, sits back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at your cock — still fully, furiously hard.

"...Yep," he says. He sounds almost impressed. He leans back in. "Okay. Round two. We've got time."

Glck. Glck. Glck.

"Faji told me."

That's all Miffu says. She says it from the doorway of your room, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, her single grey-blue eye fixed on you with that calm, unhurried look that means she's already decided what's happening next and is just letting you catch up.

She pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room. She's in her post-workout clothes — a sports bra straining to contain her massive K-cup breasts, shorts that do nothing to hide the devastating width of her hips or the thickness of her thighs. Her platinum hair is still slightly damp. Her black choker sits at her throat. She smells like clean sweat and warm skin.

She stops at the side of the bed and looks down at you.

"Lie back," she says.

You lie back. Still confused about what she's on about.

She climbs up over you — massive thighs bracketing your head, her enormous ass descending slow and deliberate — and then she sits. Her full, fat, juicy pussy settles directly over your mouth, her thick lips warm and already slick, and her weight pins you completely. Her thighs squeeze your head on both sides like a vice wrapped in silk.

"Good," she says. Then: "Don't stop until I say so."

The living room light is on. You figure Faji fell asleep watching TV again.

You push the door open.

He did not fall asleep watching TV.

Faji is sprawled across the couch in nothing but a blue bra that barely functions as a bra, his long platinum hair loose and fanned out beneath him, one leg hooked over the back cushion, the other planted on the floor. His glasses are on the coffee table. In one hand, held high, he's gripping a pink fleshlight — one of those textured ones — and his cock is buried in it, his other hand working his balls, and he is so deep in it that he doesn't hear the door.

"—hah— fuck— oh fuck—"

His hips snap up. Once. Twice. The fleshlight makes a wet, slick sound with every stroke. His massive tits bounce with the movement, bra doing absolutely nothing. His toes curl.

And then he comes — hard — a thick, arcing rope of cum shooting up from the tip of the fleshlight where it's overflowing, spattering across his abs, his bra, his chest. He shudders, thighs trembling, working himself through every pulse until he's dripping.

Silence.

He opens his eyes.

He sees you.

A very long beat passes.

"...Hey, baby." He sets the fleshlight down on his stomach. He seems entirely unbothered. "Miffu's not home yet." He tilts his head. "Close the door. Or don't. Whatever you want."

Forty minutes into the workout, it happens.

You're mid-rep when you hear the sound — fabric tearing, sharp and clean — and you look over and Miffu is standing next to the squat rack with the remains of her underwear in her fist.

She literally ripped them off. With her hand. The elastic is still swinging.

She drops them on the floor like they're nothing.

"I've been watching you for forty minutes," she says. Her voice is completely level. Her eye is not. It's dark and fixed on you with a heat that bypasses your brain entirely and goes straight to your cock. A bead of sweat tracks down the valley between her enormous K-cup breasts. "The sweat. The way you smell right now." She rolls her shoulders. "I lasted longer than I expected."

She crosses to you in four steps, drops to her knees on the gym mat, and has your shorts down before you process that she's moved.

Her mouth closes around your cock.

Fmmmph. Glck. Slrp.

Underneath her — and you can see it from here — her pussy is absolutely dripping. The mat beneath her knees is already darkening with it, a steady, glistening drip from her thick, puffy lips. She's soaked through. Has been for a while, by the look of it.

She doesn't stop. She takes you deeper, her massive tits pressed to your thighs, and makes a low sound in her throat that vibrates up your entire cock.

She does not appear to care about the puddle she's making.

They planned this. You didn't know they planned this.

Faji found out — from Miffu, who found out from nothing, who just knows things — and that was apparently all the invitation they needed.

Miffu has your leg lifted. She's holding your thigh up with one arm like it weighs nothing — which, given what those arms can do, it probably doesn't — your leg hooked over her shoulder, opening you up while she kneels between your thighs. Her blood-red lips are wrapped around your cock, taking you deep and slow, her dark nipples dragging against the sheets with every bob of her head. Glck. Slrp. Glck. Her eye is up, watching your face. Always watching.

Faji is behind you.

His bright blue lips — he is still wearing the lipstick, he insisted — are pressed to your asshole. Not kissing it. Not teasing the rim. His tongue is inside you, deep and warm and curling, working you open with the same lazy, devastating thoroughness he applies to everything he does. Slrp. Mlm. Slrp. His big hands grip your ass cheeks, spreading them, holding you exactly where he wants you. Every time he pulls back to breathe there are blue kiss prints smudged across both cheeks.

"Miffu~," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, voice absolutely wrecked, "how's the front?"

Miffu pulls off your cock with a wet pop. Looks at him over your hip. Looks at the mess of red lipstick she's left along your shaft.

"Adequate," she says, and takes you back in.

Faji makes a delighted sound against your asshole and goes back to work.

Slrp. Glck. Mlm. Glck.

You almost walk past the doorway.

Almost.

Miffu is standing in the middle of the bedroom like she's been waiting — which she has, because Miffu always knows exactly when you're about to walk past and positions herself accordingly. She's got her black fingerless gloves on, both hands cupping the underside of her enormous K-cup breasts, lifting them slightly, holding them apart so you get the full picture. Her platinum hair is loose and slightly mussed. Her eyepatch. Her black choker. Her abs catching the light.

And the thong.

Black. Tiny. Doing absolutely nothing. The fabric disappears entirely between her massive thighs, her fat, plush mound straining against the thin material — and printed across the front, in clean white text:

COCK WARMER

With an arrow pointing down.

She watches your face. Her grey-blue eye is warm, patient, faintly amused — the look she gets when she already knows the answer to something and just wants to hear you say it.

"Well," she says. Low. Unhurried.

She tilts her head.

"Do you like it?"

The bathroom door is right there. You've got your hand on the handle.

"Hey."

Faji materializes beside you the way he always does — silently, from nowhere, like he has a sixth sense specifically calibrated to moments where you want privacy. He's leaning against the wall, long platinum hair loose over one shoulder, glasses slightly crooked, wearing approximately nothing. His white choker sits at his throat. His enormous implant-firm tits press against whatever thin excuse for a top he has on. His wide hips are cocked to one side.

He looks at the door. Looks at you. Back at the door.

"Bath?"

"...Yeah."

"Hm." He straightens up, stretching his arms above his head — his tits lift with the movement, obscene and perfect — and then he drops them and looks at you with that easy, warm, completely shameless expression he wears like a second skin.

"You should let me come in."

You open your mouth.

"I'll wash you," he says, before you can get a word out. "Properly. Really thorough." He tilts his head, the smug little smile spreading. "I'll do your cock with my tongue. Your ass too." A pause. "I'm very good at it. You know I'm very good at it."

He reaches past you and pushes the door open.

"I'm also better company than a loofah." He steps inside, glancing back over his shoulder. "Coming?"

You hear it from down the hall.

A sharp, clean ripping sound. Then silence.

You round the corner and find Faji bent over in the entryway — platinum hair falling over his glasses, white thong visible and very much not doing its job, and his jeans split wide open across the seat. Not a small tear. A catastrophic one. Both cheeks completely out, the denim framing them like a disaster exhibit. His cock and balls hang heavy between his thighs where the fabric gave up entirely.

He reaches back. Assesses the damage with his fingers. Looks at the gap.

He looks genuinely put out about this. Not embarrassed. Just aggrieved, the way someone gets when they lose an argument on a technicality. He looks down at his cock still hanging out of the wreckage, then back up.

"My tits needs some of those fat too. I am losing to Miffu at this point."

He straightens — carefully — and turns around to face you, jeans still thoroughly destroyed, expression somewhere between wounded and thoughtful.

"...Is it bad?" He tilts his head. The glasses are slightly askew. "Is it that noticeable?"