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Once she might have been the glue that held them together, but somewhere along the way they became a unit, complete and whole, and it’s reflected in the way they move, the way they make love.
Fuu can’t say when she’d first thought about having them both. At some point she began to harbor secret little desires in the dark of night, wide-eyed as she listened to their breathing, or so exhausted that sleep claimed her before her head hit the ground and she indulged in dreaming. But, even from the beginning, she couldn’t think of one over the other—couldn’t pick, couldn’t choose—she always pictured herself in the middle. There couldn’t be any other way. How they were, they would have to be held apart, her body a buffer, and she’d have to be quick with soothing words and distracting kisses if their hands happened to brush.
Only, when those private wishes had surprised her and become reality, it hadn’t been like that at all.
It still isn’t.
Mugen always complains she’s too skinny and that she has no curves. “Flat like a boy,” he’ll say, scowling, yet when they do this his hands clutch greedily and his mouth roams hungry on her skin. He’s nothing but low sounds and scratching kisses, the sly curve of his mouth dripping with dirty words that make her blush and press against him.
Tonight it’s him in the middle, his tongue between her legs and Jin behind him, snow-pale draped over warm earth. Jin’s long hair has slid forward over Mugen’s shoulder and keeps getting in the way, keeps making Mugen snarl and twist to spit it out. Mugen never quite manages to complain, though; Jin always does something right as he gets the air for it, and Fuu stifles laughter between little trembling shudders as Mugen groans and brings his mouth back to her.
Even when things are sweet and slow, sex is never pretty the way it is in her head. It doesn’t matter. They’re beautiful together: Mugen with his rangy muscles flexing under the scarred mapwork of his skin, and Jin who manages to still be graceful even when the rhythm is off, stilted and faltering. Sometimes, because of this Fuu thinks she doesn’t belong. She’s awkward in ways that they aren’t, but the feeling never lasts, silly worries melted away like frost by steam-hot kisses.
Spinback.
Twist of tongue, arch of spine. Teeth against the heel of her hand. Muffled laugh giving way to a soft cry, yes, right there, like that. Do it
“Harder,” Mugen says, the word a rush of damp heat against the inside of Fuu’s thigh.
Fuu flexes her hands, shivers when Jin’s eyes lift to meet hers, and there’s a moment, crystalline and trembling on the edge of a leaf, that she feels like he’s buried inside of her instead of Mugen and asking without words if she’s ready, if she wants it. Fuu flushes, opens her mouth to find nothing but a moan singing in her throat.
Jin’s eyes drop, the fan of his lashes a perfect stroke of ink that sets off a chain reaction: the motion that shivers through the fringe of his hair builds like a wave, crests and crashes with a fierce thrust that sends Mugen’s lips crushing against her.
And oh, oh the sound Mugen makes as Jin rocks into him slips under Fuu’s skin, hums in her veins and in her bones. Her body lightens and threatens to float away, anchored here only by the rhythm of his fingers. Mugen’s open mouth presses against the bend of her thigh as Jin sets the pace now. The push of Mugen’s fingers deep in her are an echo, Jin’s raw thrusts filtered through Mugen’s body, softened before they get to Fuu.
“More, give me more. Fuck, let me really feel it,” Mugen demands, saying everything Fuu holds trapped in her throat.
Scratch.
Feels so good—so damn good. Can’t think. Can’t—Can’t breath. Can’t figure out how to say how muchmuchmuch she loves them.
At times like this, voicing aloud how much she loves them seems trite, while during the day, the road is too long and food more important than love. If she said it then, they’d grunt, keep walking, and she’d hurry to catch up.
She doesn’t think they don’t love her, she just wants to hear them say it—to her, and to each other. But, maybe, this is how they do that, sharing soft growling sounds and little hisses like the slide of steel traded in place of I love yous.
And even if Mugen says she has no tits, and Jin never says anything at all, they still make her feel beautiful, wanted (in a good way).
Fuu’s not sure what she makes them feel, and maybe someday when the fire has burned low she’ll ask, but until then she hopes it’s the simple pleasure of belonging.
With that warming her belly, Fuu twists, dares to push back against the thrust of Mugen’s hand. She’s so close, almost there, a cliff’s edge beneath her toes and the void looming dark and wide beyond. With blurred eyes she finds Mugen watching her along the line of her body. He grins wolfishly.
Breakdown.
Time slows. Stops. Holds. She hangs there, arms out. They’ll catch her if she falls, but not before, not before—
Everything hits at once.
Jin’s breath explodes and his teeth dig into Mugen’s shoulder. His arm wraps tight around Mugen’s body. Fuu watches Mugen’s grin crumble, twist, turn into a snarl, and then he’s surging up holding Jin’s weight on his back as his hands curl around Fuu’s hips and he drags her towards him.
She gasps, shudders, feels warm and wonderful with their weight on her. She can feel Jin’s hand, the rhythm of it as it’s wrapped around solid heat, his knuckles brushing where she's slick and aching and that’s enough. That’s enough.
When it’s over, they can’t get apart fast enough. Her lovers—her loves—topple like felled trees: Jin a stretch of long limbs to her right, Mugen a tangled sprawl to her left. They’re spent and yawning, inches from sleep just like that. Fuu smiles. She's so different than them. She always feels more alive, more awake, but she doesn’t try to talk, she just listens to the pace of their breathing and waits for it to even out, align in soft syncopation. And she alters her breathing to match.