weirdomellow - Tumblr blog

weirdomellow · 6 days ago

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🥵🥵🥵🥵

Damn... I mean Andy is dicking her down so good but sex in the dressing room? 🥵

Also I loved how he knew she was not gonna choose the dress she was wearing 😌

Currents Sweeping Through [I'm Your Man]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader Word Count: 3.8k Summary: You receive a surprising phone call while things progress with your impending nuptials.

Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, sex in a public place)

Author Note: Happy SINday, hoes! A shorter installment, but hopefully just as aggravating satisfying!

Previous Part | Full Collection

You’re showered, dressed, feeling reasonably normal at the table with Andy, eating breakfast together, but as you stretch your arm to reach for an orange, you feel the soreness in your body from being well and thoroughly fucked the night before.

You try to keep your face nonchalant as you peel the orange.

The sun slants in through the kitchen’s east windows, gilding the marble island and picking out golden threads in Andy’s hair. He’s already dressed for work—crisp white shirt, blue tie, dark grey suit jacket today. You admire how he manages to look freshly pressed and casual at the same time.

"Are you planning to avoid eye contact with me all morning, or just until you finish the fruit?" he prompts, laying down his phone.

You reach for your coffee and take a sip to avoid answering immediately, and eye him over the rim of your cup, feeling the bruise of his hands on your hips like a dare. It would be nice, you think, to be capable of ordinary domesticity. Nice to just eat breakfast and laugh about wedding colors or guest lists, not weigh every moment for its undertone of strategy and surrender.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmm, very well after you had me fully spent, boneless, and drove every lingering thought from my head.”

He smirks. “Exactly what you asked for last night.”

You give him a look—playful, but edged—and pop a slice of orange between your lips. The memory of last night flashes hot beneath your skin. Maybe this is the way you’ll survive him: surrender to the moment, pick your battles, and let your body have the pleasures it craves while your mind keeps a running tally. Even now, you’re cataloging the moments of weakness and control like beads on a string.

Andy leans back, stretching with feline grace, and lets his eyes rest on you. You want to believe it’s affection, but you know yourself too well to surrender to that fantasy—his affection is another form of possession, and you are acutely aware which parts of you belong to him and which remain your own.

“What’s on today’s agenda?” you ask, tossing the last bit of orange into your mouth, tasting its acid sweetness.

Andy lifts a brow, considering you for a moment before answering. “The details of my day are better left a mystery to you.”

You snort, but something in his tone catches. “Is it a dangerous day, or just one of those endless meetings where you stare down a boardroom full of terrified men until someone soils themselves?”

“Why not both.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, gaze never leaving your face. “I have a call with a contact in London, a meeting downtown, a private lunch, and—if all goes well—a few hours to myself before dinner.” The different tone when he mentions the private lunch is just noticeable enough to register. You file it away alongside your other suspicions.

You peel off another orange segment for yourself. “And tonight?”

He sets his mug down, the sound precise. “Tonight my calendar is clear. For you.”

It’s said kindly, but you hear the other side: he expects you here with him.

You are about to retort, when Andy’s phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the caller ID, then at you, and silences it with one flick of his finger. Yours buzzes half a second later, as if the universe demands symmetry, and it’s also a call, not a text, which is rare. You glance at the screen and almost drop the device: Uncle Robert. You’ve texted a few times, but haven’t seen or heard from your uncle in almost two years.

You look at Andy, whose eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but you press accept and raise the phone to your ear.

“Uncle Rob?” you say, curious but wary.

On the other end, your uncle’s voice is bright and faintly incredulous. “I’m looking at a wedding invitation with your name on it. And I just called your mother, and she sounded like she’d won the lottery. Is it real?”

You step out onto the back terrace before you answer. “Yes, it’s real.”

There is a tangle of silence, as if Robert is parsing not just what you said, but how you said it. "Well, Christ, kid. In three weeks?”

“Yeah, it’s all happening really fast,” you say.

He is your mother’s younger brother, the one who used to sneak you candy before dinner, who’d take you to baseball games and let you sit in the good seats while he drank beer and explained the stats in a way that made sense, who had you and your sister over for summer adventures in New York City after he relocated there.

He lets a beat of silence fester, but then he laughs. “Your mother cried on the phone, you know that? Happy tears, like she can’t wait for this to happen.”

“If you already called Mom, why are you asking me if it’s real?” you laugh.

He sighs. “Look, I know I’ve been off the grid for a while. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it on the other end of the line. “No, we’re all busy these days.” And you genuinely meant it. You know your uncle traveled a lot for work, and you didn’t hold it against him. He’d always cared, and he always made up for his absence.

“Is he good to you?” Robert asks, his voice lowering into that cautionary register only overly protective lifelong bachelor uncles possess.

The question lands a little hard, a little sincere, and it draws more out of you than you meant to show. “He’s… really something. He takes care of me. He’s good in his way.”

Your uncle hums low. “He must be something, to get your parents on board. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him though.”

You smile, letting the warmth of the morning sun settle into your skin. “I’d like that. I want you there, Uncle Rob.”

“I’d come even if you didn’t want me,” he says.

Your heart swells and aches.

He seems to swallow hard, voice gentling. “You happy, kid?”

It isn’t the kind of question you expected, and you find yourself fumbling for the answer. You imagine Andy in the kitchen, probably able to overhear every word, his attention on you even now. You think of the endless house, the rush of the last month, the way your life has transitioned into something new and alarming. “I don’t know,” you say finally, honest as you can be. “As happy as I can be. It’s all just happened really fast.”

There’s another silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. “That’s the thing about the big changes,” your uncle says. “A little time, and you’ll know either way if you made the right call.” His tone has a rueful edge, a kind of melancholy you remember from one too many late-night conversations when you were both younger and more raw. “Just let me know if you need anything at all, okay. Day or night, I don’t care if you think I’m busy, one word, and I’m there.”

You close your eyes, feeling a young version of yourself—the one who idolized her uncle for every little kindness—flutter in your chest.

He sighs loudly, but it’s a happy sound. He says something about hotels and black suits and promises to get in early for the rehearsal dinner, and you hang up feeling a little more solid than before.

When you come back inside, Andy is still at the island, swirling the dregs of his coffee, eyes on the middle distance. His phone is turned over, screen black. You sense something cautious about the way he waits for you to speak first.

“Well,” you say, “I think you may have your work cut out to try and win over my uncle, and if you don’t, he’s likely to try to punch you out at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Andy says with a smirk, and the glint in his blue eyes is delight rather than intimidation. “Family loyalty is an admirable trait. Perhaps I’ll spar with him myself and see how I fare.”

You roll your eyes, but his smile—genuine for once, not a weapon—leaches some of your wariness. “He’ll eat you alive if you let him,” you warn.

“Good. I could use the exercise,” Andy counters.

You snort, pouring yourself more coffee. “God help us all.”

It feels strange, to joke together, uncoiled from the tension and power games that usually script your time with him. Your uncle’s question—are you happy, kid?—lingers in the back of your mind. What could have been is so tangled in good and bad with what is and what might be. But moments like this… if you can have enough of them, maybe they start to erase the moments you don’t want.

The next day your stomach is full of nerves and excitement all morning.

It’s wedding dress day.

With such little time before the wedding—and the circumstances of your totally unconventional engagement—this is the first thing you’re doing to celebrate and commemorate with those closest to you. Two of your three bridesmaids will be there along with your mom, and you’ll be texting pics and videos to Thea since it obviously didn’t make sense to try and get her to Boston twice in three weeks.

Mark and Shep drive you into town, butterflies in your stomach, and an odd and dizzying nostalgia for all the romcom cliches you’d grown up on swimming in your head. You wonder if it will feel completely performative, or if maybe the right dress can conjure up the euphoria you’re supposed to have when you try on the white dress and see yourself as a bride.

Your mom meets you downstairs at the bridal shop, already in tears, and your two local bridesmaids—"the Boston contingent," as you refer to them in your head—are both over-caffeinated and high on gossip. The shop staff welcome you warmly and usher you through a door into a private suite, which is decked out in white flowers and mirrored walls and there’s ample plush seating, and, impossibly, in the middle of it all:

“Thea!” you shriek, and the two of you rush each other, crying and laughing.

You nearly knock her over, unable to believe it, but yes, your best friend is here, in the flesh, wearing a floral dress you swear you’ve seen in photos as far back as 2016.

“You idiot,” she hisses, eyes sparkling with emotion. “Did you think I was going to miss this? Not when you have a husband with more money than god,” she whispers the last part so only you can hear.

There are tears and full-bodied laughter and a champagne glasses in everyone’s hands within seconds.

Your mother is bemused, radiant, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in years. The staff manage it all with gentle efficiency, and you savor the first minutes as you shed your jacket, take a real breath, and realize this, at least, is about you and the people you love.

It helps, you suppose, that your soon-to-be-husband has pre-paid for the entire experience, stocked the dressing room with your favorite pastries, and made sure you had carte blanche in the accessories department. There’s a small voice in you that wants to resent the extravagance, but why? Especially when one of those extravagances was your best friend being flown in from across the Atlantic.

There’s a scramble as everyone coos over Thea and demands travel stories as she claims a seat at the end of the velvet bench. Shep and Mark, ever the silent sentries, hang by the door in unassuming suits. You catch Shep’s eye, and he gives you a warm, complicit smile, as if to say, Look, it’s all coming together.

Back in the dressing room, you slip into the first dress the attendant brings, a complicated mesh-up of tulle and boning and improbable structure designed, you are certain, for someone with a completely different body than yours. There is a long zipper you can’t quite reach, and a row of covered buttons that seem like they’ll take a team of five to close. But when they do close it, and you step onto the little riser in front of the triple mirror, the room hushes.

“Holy—” one of your friends murmurs.

Your mother’s face scrunches up like she’s trying to stop a sneeze, but the tears are already streaming and she’s laughing at her own predictability. Thea grins at you, wolfish and bright.

“You look like the bride in a Fellini movie,” she says, and you’re not sure if that’s a compliment, but it feels like one.

It’s not the dress, but it makes you feel truly bridal, and it immerses you fully into wedding dress mode.

In the second dress, you feel more yourself. The sleeves are poetic and the skirt drapes nicely. The third dress has more elements that you like.

The fourth dress is almost absurdly beautiful, all silk and restrained elegance, as if designed for someone who gives nothing away. Your mother clasps her hands to her mouth, one of your friends starts to cry for real, and Thea, never one to be sentimental about clothes, simply nods her approval and says, “I could see you running an empire in that.”

Yet in the dressing room, you catch your own gaze in the mirror and see that you’re still searching.

You��re unzipping the back of the sample gown, struggling with the tiny teeth, when you hear a click and the door opens an inch. You’re about to call for help, but instead you freeze, suddenly aware of a familiar presence behind you.

Andy closes the dressing room door behind him.

You gasp, spinning to clutch the half-zipped dress to your chest. “Andy, you can’t be in here! It’s—” you search for the right word, your mind scrambling for a rule to hold against him, “it’s bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.”

He leans against the closed door, his expression somewhere between amused and proprietary. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice, “we both know this isn’t going to be your dress.”

You want to snap something back, but you can’t move for a second, stunned by his audacity and by the way the dressing room seems to shrink around him. He steps closer, and in the reflection of the triple mirror you see his eyes flick over your exposed shoulders, the bare curve of your back, the precarious drape of the gown. He looks at you as though he can undress you with a glance, which, you realize, is probably not far from the truth.

You press your hands into the thick silk at your ribs, fighting to keep your voice level. “You can’t just—”

“That one’s nice, but it isn’t you.”

You stare, caught somewhere between outrage and a wild urge to laugh. “How would you know what’s me?”

He cocks his head, a slow smile spreading across his face—a look you’ve learned means he is already halfway down the path to getting what he wants, has in fact already mapped your capitulation and is just savoring the formalities.

“I thought we were past you underestimating how much I know and notice about you,” he says, stepping close enough that you feel his breath on your ear, his reflection in the mirrors swallowing the rest of the world. “Even now,” he adds, “with my ring on your finger, you’re still looking for a dress that feels like a rebellion.”

You shiver, because he’s not exactly wrong, but also not entirely right. You hold the silk tighter, suddenly aware of how little it covers and how much it reveals. You want to tell him to get out, that you need space, but the words evaporate when you meet his gaze. The look on his face isn’t just hunger—it’s admiration, and something else you can’t name. Maybe pride. Maybe awe.

He slides his hands to your shoulders, thumbs brushing the edge where fabric meets skin. His touch is electric, and you feel the charge run down your spine. “You’re trembling,” he observes, so softly you’re not sure if it’s a taunt or a promise.

You try to muster outrage but your body sings for more. You want to say something clever, call him out for being a cliché or a menace, but you can’t summon wit when his hands are already mapping your arms, your waist, the silk bodice. The mirrors multiply the spectacle: you and Andy, alone in this cathedral of bridal performance, the dress a white flag you never meant to raise.

“Andy,” you try again, but it’s more of a gasp than a protest.

He ushers you forward, closer to the mirrors. The zipper at your back is still half-stuck, but he tugs it down in a single, practiced motion. The gown nearly slides off your hips, but his hands are there, holding it in place. Your skin flushes everywhere he touches.

“I have two minutes before your mother gets suspicious,” he murmurs, and his hand is already under the skirt, finding the backs of your thighs. “Put your hands up on the glass.”

Without hesitation, you do as he asks, palms braced flat against the mirrored glass. Your reflection fragments around you, multiplying this forbidden tableau: you, half-draped in white silk, flushed and wide-eyed; Andy behind, suit immaculate, gaze unwavering, jaw set in a line that tells you no part of this is a joke to him.

You know what he wants the moment his hands climb your thighs, fingers deft and unrelenting, gathering the silk above your waist. In the mirror, you watch your own mouth part in expectation, cheeks flushing pink as he tugs your panties aside and runs the blunt heat of his cock along your seam, once, twice, before notching himself inside you.

"Keep your eyes open," Andy whispers, his breath hot over your neck as he presses at the base of your spine to get you to arch your back, to take him at a better angle. "Watch me fuck you."

You do. You watch: the white dress pooled at your hips, Andy’s suit so dark in contrast, the way your face gives everything away. He pushes into you slow, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass. Your fingers spread on the mirror, bracing, desperate for something to anchor you. Each slow thrust is obscene in its deliberateness, calculated for maximum effect—on your body, on your mind, on whatever part of you still thinks it could ever belong to anyone but him.

From the main room you hear the muffled laughter of your mother, Thea, and your friends. You picture them, just on the other side of a thin wall; the forbidden, obscene thrill of it ratchets the pressure inside you even higher. Your knees buckle, slightly, but Andy’s hand clamps your hip and holds you there, obliging you to take him, to see every moment of your own unmaking.

“You look perfect like this,” he says, the words vibrating through your ribcage. “Like you were made for it, sweetheart. For me.”

The display is humiliating and exhilarating; you wonder if this, too, is part of his calculations, but as he quickens, losing a little control, you suspect for once he might just want you that badly. His voice turns raspy as he loses the ability to keep the mask in place, and you see, in every glassy angle, how he watches your every reaction, as if your pleasure is both the point and the evidence of his dominance and devotion.

The friction, the risk, the inhibition, it’s all too much. You come embarrassingly fast, a wave of pleasure so sharp you nearly cry out. Andy’s hand covers your mouth just in time, eyes burning into yours in the mirror. He follows you half a second later, grip bruising at your hip as his own control slips and he chokes back a groan.

You both go still, breath ragged and uneven, his suit jacket a dark shroud behind your bare back, your palms still flat against the glass.

In the mirror, your eyes meet his. He looks nearly as undone as you, cheeks flushed, tie now slightly askew, a wildness in his face that both thrills and unsettles you. For once, you think, he isn’t in charge of the moment. For once, maybe, you’ve mastered him as surely as he has mastered you.

You both move at the same time—him reaching to right his tie, you hastily tucking the dress back up over your chest. Andy stoops, and you wonder what for, but then feel the coolness of a tissue wiping the mess away from your cunt, efficiently cleaning up the evidence of your mutual pleasure. He stands and kisses you, quick and rough, then sets his jaw and fixes his cuffs like nothing in the world is out of order as he steps past you to the door.

"Wait three minutes," he murmurs, "then come out in the next one." Then he’s gone, shutting the door with a soft click. It’s as though nothing happened, but your body buzzes with aftershock, the echo of his hands and the high-wire memory of your own ruin in front of the mirror.

In the quiet that follows, you try to school your face back to something bridal, not just debauched. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, and fix the slip of silk and the zipper as best you can, hands trembling with adrenaline and the sudden, illicit sweetness of having been claimed and seen at the same time. It leaves you hungering for more, which is both terrifying and, in its own way, a relief: at least the wanting is honest, even if nothing else is.

You gather yourself, and three minutes later run your hands over the front of the next dress, and step out. The small audience in the lounge—your mother, bridesmaids, and Thea—look up, their faces already primed for tears or squealing. No one suspects a thing. Maybe your hair is a little tousled, maybe your eyes a little dazed, but if anyone draws a conclusion from this, it’s that dress shopping is, as promised, emotionally overwhelming.

A wild Thea appearance!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

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weirdomellow · 6 days ago

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I love this 😍

The smut, their dynamic and the story 💕

also the plugs got me like 🥵🥵

Shifting Desire [Obsidian Stain & Sin]

Characters/Pairings: tattoo artist!Ari Levinson x curvy Millennial female!reader x tattoo artist!Curtis Everett Word Count: 6.8k Summary: You're ready for a weekend with Curtis and Ari. They're ready to broach the subject of how things are evolving between the three of you.

Content/Warnings: established situationship; polyamorous dynamic discussion; explicit smut (oral: male receiving, double penetration, vaginal intercourse, anal intercourse, clitoral stimulation, a breast slap, plugging); praise kink; feels and domesticity; inked up menaces

Notes: I know I left many of you very concerned after the last part about what Curtis's and Ari's very different feelings might mean for the future of these three. Finally back to address that and get you undressed with them!

Previous Installment | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You scurry happily up the four steps to the porch of Curtis’s cozy bungalow house, a tote bag hanging on one elbow, and a weekender bag with a few of your things slung over your shoulder. It’s been long enough now, enough of these weekends with these men, that you don’t have to bring that many things with you back and forth anymore, and it’s a given that you’ll be there.

You even have a key, but you still knock as you unlock the front door and go inside, calling out a, “Hey! I’m here!”

“In the kitchen!” Ari calls, but the delicious smell of meat and rosemary that hits you is an equal giveaway.

You drop your weekender by the couch as your make your way through the house, but you take your tote bag along with you to the kitchen. You have gifts—some weird IPA Ari mentioned offhand, and a paperback Curtis wanted.

Ari smiles with his whole face, and loops an arm around your waist. “We missed you.” His hand slides south and squeezes as he lowers his mouth to yours. His lips taste like lime and salt and the end of a very long week. Curtis is quick to greet you as well, coming in from behind, so close you can feel the heat of him on your shoulder, and he nuzzles at your neck, all possessive and lazy, as if weekends don’t start until all three of you pressed together.

“How was the week?” Ari asks once he feels he’s given you a proper hello kiss.

“It was… a week.” You let Curtis herd you over to the stove so he can let you taste the sauce he’s been preparing.

The sauce is tangy and rich and you close your eyes in pleasure, humming your approval. Standing between their bodies as you sample the sauce, you feel a little like the treasured guest at a home you never left.

“It’s perfect,” you say, and Curtis’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s in a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants, still shower-damp, hair just past the buzzed regrowth, which suits him. Ari is dressed as if he never left some sunlit beach, hair almost long enough to pull back in a messy knot, tank top, and board shorts, the gold chain catching every stray sunbeam.

And of course you have ample view of so much of their gorgeous, interesting, and intricate tattoos. The designs on their bodies are maps you’ve become familiar with studying.

You don’t realize how wound up you are until you’re suddenly talking faster, words tumbling out as you recount the week’s small emergencies and tedious microaggressions at work, the way your boss asked for the same thing three times in three different ways, the group chat that descended into a meme war, the disaster of a client meeting that left you facepalming into your keyboard. Ari listens, stirring the cast iron pan with absent-minded efficiency, and Curtis leans back against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your hands as you gesture.

You’re so busy unloading every last irritation that you don’t notice at first how quiet they are, how the usual volley of banter and gentle roasting is missing. It takes a minute for the shift to register. Ari’s attention is a little too focused on the onions, and Curtis’s smiles are softer around the edges, prone to flicker out when you look away.

“Did something happen?” you ask, aiming for a light, teasing tone, but aware it comes out with a brittle, uncertain edge.

The two men exchange a look that holds too much between them, and you tense automatically.

Curtis sets down a spatula, and then he plants his hands on the countertop around and behind you, boxing you in with his presence, but you’re not sure if you’re supposed to feel trapped or tethered.

“We need to talk,” he says, voice low but not unkind.

But that phrase triggers a visceral, full-body panic you try to mask with a resigned smile. Ari sets down the beer bottle he’d been nursing with exaggerated care and leans against the fridge, his eyes serious.

“Uh oh,” you say, aiming for breezy. “That’s never followed by anything good.”

Curtis’s face flickers with a quick, dry amusement. “It’s not bad. Just…” He glances back over at Ari, who shrugs, like, your show. “Some things changed. At least for me. Maybe for all of us. And we wanted to check in on how you…” He breaks off, mouth folding into a stubborn line, then continues, “How you want this to go.”

You blink, the words whirring through your brain. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” It comes out as a joke, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.

“We didn’t think we were dating,” Ari says, but his voice is soft and not at all mocking. “But maybe that’s the point. We keep saying no labels, but it’s pretty obvious we’re not exactly living by that.”

You slide back just an inch, feeling the hard edge of the counter dig into your tailbone. Curtis steps away slightly, giving you space. “I… okay. That’s… yes.”

Neither of them smirks or chides you for inability to be articulate in the moment. And they don’t rush you to process. They let the moment settle in.

Curtis stays close, his eyes fixed on yours, making it clear that he’ll sit in the awkwardness as long as it takes.

You look at the two of them, and it’s difficult not to laugh. Not at them, but at the way you’d built up all these well-defended walls and protocols, and now the world’s most intimidating men have gone soft and earnest.

But the reality is you picked up beer and books. They cooked for you. You have a key. You’re essentially playing house every weekend.

“So we need to talk,” you finally say. You take a deep breath, and your eyes move from Curtis to Ari. You trust them–have trusted them in so many ways, both physical and emotional when you’re being honest–that you attempt to dial back your nerves. You should trust them here, too. “You clearly both have things to say, so I’m ready to listen.”

Curtis’s jaw works, like he’s mulling over the precise shape of the words he wants. “It’s stupid,” he starts, casting another look at Ari.

“It’s not,” the other man says.

Curtis huffs. “I got jealous.” The words land with a solid, unembellished honesty. “Last time you stayed over with me, you said Ari’s name in your sleep.”

Oh.

That you didn’t know, but the memory of how thoroughly and possessively he fucked you that night—that morning?—prickles your skin recollecting even now.

Curtis plows forward, “I wasn’t mad, I just… Didn’t expect it to fuck me up the way it did. I’m supposed to be a grown-ass man.”

Ari’s posture relaxes now that the bomb has been dropped. He’s still leaning against the fridge, but his hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s watching Curtis with a fond, bemused patience. “Don’t sell it short.”

Curtis rolls his eyes at Ari, but you see the pleasure—pride, even—in the edge of his smirk, but he doesn’t retreat. "Wasn't even sure if I should say anything," he continues more softly, looking not at you but resolutely at the countertop. "Didn't want to make things weird. We already have a good thing, and I didn’t want to scare you off with deeper feelings."

You let the words filter through the haze in your head. It’s not unwelcome, this revelation. But it’s still a shift—another bracing, surprisingly vulnerable moment after months of being three people fucking and being friends and blurring lines while trying to stay in the friends-with-benefits territory.

You bite your lip for a moment. “Feelings aren’t bad, but I need you to be specific. What are your feelings?”

Curtis tips his chin up slightly–not to be cocky, but because he’s confident in what he’s going to say. “I’m falling for you. Not in love yet, but heading there. But not if I’m going to be alone.”

His eyes are searching yours, and something in your chest leaps for him, warms the rest of the cavity of your heart. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb skimming the fine, dark hair, and you see his shoulders drop a fraction, an exhale leaving him less defensive, relief evident.

Your mouth feels dry, but the words that come are honest and easy, a truth you’ve tested quietly in your own head more times than you want to admit. “I like this. I like us. I… I’m not in love with either of you yet, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it.”

Ari’s eyes are on you, bright and patient, but a little wary, too. “My turn?” he asks.

You nod, ready to hear it, though your pulse speeds up, wary of what you might find in the depths of his oceanic eyes.

“I meant what I said,” Ari begins. “I care about both of you. It’s not just fun or a kink thing, though I still love those parts. But I’m not in love with you, not in the way Curtis is talking about. I don’t know if I can be, or if I will. Not like that. Not after…” He waves a hand, as if to dust away the ghost of his divorce.

It hangs there, unsaid but present, pressed between the three of you like a thumb on a bruise. You know just enough about his last relationship to know that the edge of it is sharp even though it’s been a few years. It just gets locked tightly away where he doesn’t have to deal with it.

You tilt you head. “To you what does that mean for us?”

“I care about you both,” he says, after a pause that stretches almost elegant in its restraint. “More than anyone else I’ve had in my orbit for a long time. Realistically I think there’s a version of this that still works. We would just have to figure out what that looks like together. If you want that.”

You draw a blank, and you know you should say something, offer a balm or a plan or a punchline, but your brain is as limp and sputtering as a cheap lighter. It’s not bad. It’s just different.

“Okay,” you finally manage, and it feels like the beginning of a panic attack, not a negotiation. You need time—space—to turn this over like a stone in your palm, to decide if what you feel is as real as what they feel, or if you’re just responding in kind.

“I need,” you begin, and then again, “I need a minute.” You dig your thumb into the grain of the countertop, feeling the pressure as something grounding. “Do you guys have a dog? I mean, I know you don’t, but you should, solely so I could take it for a walk right now and talk myself down.”

Ari manages a small laugh, and Curtis’s mouth tics at one corner. “Didn’t want to spring it on you,” he says, “but we get it. We wanted to tell you together and in person, but you can take as long as you need. If that’s a walk, or a night, or a weekend away…”

Curtis trails off, and you know he’s sincere, but you can sense the tone in the last few words—a weekend away—aren’t what he wants you to choose, but understood if you say you need it.

It occurs to you that you’re not in a TV show, that this isn’t a scene with a soundtrack and strings, but a real, complicated moment, no script or writers to make it all better or send it to hell for the drama. That’s both terrifying and a relief.

Because there’s no predetermined way this is supposed to go.

It’s already been out of the realm of possibilities you had imagined for your life, this this with them so far.

You catch Ari’s gaze from across the kitchen. He’s waiting, but not expectantly—waiting like he’s putting himself on pause, letting the air in the room fill with whatever you need it to be. Curtis’s big hand is still on the counter but not boxing you in, just there if you want to lean back against it. The aroma of rosemary and the heat of the range top press around you, an embrace that’s subtle and domestic.

You picture yourself unlocking your own apartment, dropping the weekender bag by the door, but you know you won’t. Instead, you take a slow, purposeful breath, and then force your gaze to both of them.

“I think I want a walk, but I want to stay for dinner,” you say, and your voice is unsteady but honest. “And maybe we talk about it more after that.”

Ari smiles. “That’s our girl.”

The “our” makes you flush, but you like it. Curtis’s hand slides down to your lower back, pulling you in closer, and the moment softens—snaps back to the familiar, even as it moves forward from it. He kisses your forehead, and you breathe him in. “We’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll wait to throw the steaks on for you.”

You slip out of the house and onto the sidewalk, guiding your feet toward the direction where the neighborhood spills into a ragged city park, the sky pale blue and the air with just enough chill to make you pull your sleeves down over your hands.

As you walk, you replay every word, every inflection, but mostly the tremor in Curtis’s voice, the way his eyelids fluttered when he admitted to the wanting, and the frankness in Ari’s gaze when he said he was not going to change but maybe that was okay. You like things defined, but you also like this mess—you like that it’s not quite a triangle, but three lines that tack inward then away, a geometry both impossible and, for you, inevitable.

Somewhere between the crosswalk and the playground, you realize you want to see how it all pans out. That you can live with uncertainty and want to watch, from the inside, as it takes its shape. There’s a kind of power in not picking a direction, in staking out the wilderness together, mapping the new terrain as you feel your way one weekend and one confession at a time.

And you do want them both.

Not in a theoretical, late-night-on-the-couch, what-if way. In a present-tense, heart-racing, laughably sincere way. There’s no neat container for it, no crisp label, just the realness of their arms around you, the pulse of your own desire, and the strange, sacred comfort of knowing that—despite the structural impossibility—it makes perfect sense for the three of you.

You walk the park’s perimeter and think about how you’d been so bent on breaking the cycles in your life, on making choices that were not just reactive. But maybe this—letting yourself complicate and risk and feel whatever it was you were feeling—maybe this was the next chapter. As unconventional as every step may have been, it’s never felt uncomfortable or unpleasant or unwanted, only uncharted.

You’ll have to say all this out loud to them. It might sound ridiculous. One or both of them might make a joke, and it’d somehow be okay. Maybe even great.

Undoubtedly great.

Because this wasn’t some shocking new reality.

No, you can see exactly how it’s been developing into this already, it’s just the moment the three of you stopped collectively together to name it, to take it in, to plot it on the map of everything so far.

The sun is starting to sink honey-orange through the trees when you double back to the house. The quiet of the street lets you hear, long before reaching the porch, the sound of laughter—Ari’s bright, reckless cackle, and what you can only assume is a scolding from Curtis. It’s ordinary. It’s good.

Inside, the kitchen is a little steamy. Curtis stands at the range, using tongs to flip steak on a cast iron pan, his brow furrowed in concentration. Ari, sitting on the counter, watches with the reverence of an acolyte, one hand curled around a fresh beer and the other idly toying with the stem of the rosemary plant.

You eat together at the battered oak table, knees brushing. The conversation is at first mundane—work, the neighbor’s new pitbull, some dumb TikTok Ari can’t believe you haven’t seen—before it circles back toward “us.” Not with the same tension, but with an openness that makes your chest ache in a good way.

“I thought about it,” you say, folding your hands in your lap. “And I want to keep going. I don’t know what that looks like, but I want to be in this with you. Both of you." You can hear it in your own voice as you speak, the calmness and clarity. “I don’t think I need it to fit in a box. I just need it, full stop.”

Ari clinks his beer against your glass, and Curtis just looks at you, really looks, then reaches over to tilt your chin up for a kiss. It’s less a gesture of claim than a wordless acknowledgment: message received.

It hits you fully then, the tripwire sweetness of possibility, the relief of not having to choose, the permission to want them both and be wanted back as you are, not as you might be in some culturally more palatable, marriage-and-mortgage universe. You’re dizzy in it, and content.

After dinner, with the dishwasher humming and the kitchen lights dimmed, Ari tugs you onto the couch and Curtis follows, sliding in beside you so that all three of you fit, legs tangled together. The TV is on but no one’s really watching. The steady noise is just a heartbeat in the background as you find yourself propped between them, shoulder-to-shoulder, their presence a buffer against the world. Ari stretches out, his legs long and tanned and sprawled over your lap with impossible selfishness. Curtis, ever the tactician, tucks an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in until you’re resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.

There’s so much familiar contentment in it, the three of you collapsed together, like you’ve been engineered to fit this way. You lean against Curtis, letting him prop your weight, and rest one hand on Ari’s outstretched thigh, your thumb tracing lazy circles on his skin. He grins at you, blowing a stray gold strand of hair from his eyes, and gifts you a wink.

There’s no pressure or expectation for any of you to talk more. When the credits finally roll, it’s Ari who moves first, carefully extricating himself from the tangle and standing, stretching his full length so that his t-shirt rides up over the muscles of his stomach, the thin band of his shorts and ink of his hipbones. He offers you a hand, and you let him pull you upright, only for Curtis to catch you before you’ve even found your feet, drawing you back into his arms from behind. His hands clutch you around the waist, greedy and warm and possessive, and his mouth hovers so near your ear you can feel the ghost of his breath as he murmurs, “You want to go to bed?”

You nod, and though your voice fails you, your legs work fine enough that you follow them both down the hall, half-floating, half-laughing as the silent, electric anticipation builds. You can feel the shift between you—how, having named it, the air is sharper, more purposeful. There’s no floundering for position or waiting to see who makes the first move. Curtis pulls you to his chest at the foot of the bed, slipping his hands beneath your shirt as Ari’s hands skate the ridge of your shoulder blades, the warmth of his palms outpacing the cool air of the room.

In one seamless, practiced motion, Curtis peels your top off and over your head, leaving you in the bra you barely remember putting on this morning. Ari’s hands find your waist, and with a tug, he brings you in close, all three of you pressed together so tightly the only thing distinguishing whose limbs are whose is the contrast of skin and ink, the different textures of stubble and muscle, with you soft between them.

You are not a spectator here—Ari’s mouth is on yours, hot and hungry, and his hands are already tugging the cups of your bra down, exposing your breasts to the cool air and the heat of their gazes. Curtis’s big hands spread over your ribcage, dragging you against him, and you feel his cock, hard through his sweats, pressing into your lower back. He moves his hands up, cupping your tits from behind, and you arch back into him, moaning into Ari’s lips.

Ari’s tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you with the same practiced greed that makes you brace your knees, knowing what's coming next because it never fails: the spiral, the way they escalate together. Curtis’s hands are rolling and pinching your nipples, rougher than Ari but tuned to the sound of your moans, and you feel yourself melting, your body helplessly compliant as Ari drops his own shirt to the ground, bare-chested and golden, tattoos wild over his skin. The sight of his body, familiar and newly charged by all that's been said, sends a shock through you.

Curtis’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously, and you twist your head instinctively so Ari can watch it happen, see the mark as Curtis sucks at the spot just below your jaw.

Curtis’s hand, callused and certain, makes a slow trek to the nape of your neck, and the suggestion is plain as he guides you to the floor. You go easily, a current of anticipation zipping through you as your knees touch down on the soft rug. The two men stand above you, Ari’s body sun-kissed and vibrant, Curtis’s pale and striking, both haloed by the dim lamplight, ink-mapped, their focus pinned with surgical precision on you.

Curtis’s cock bobs as he steps out of his sweats, thick and already leaking, and he brings it to your lips with a slow, reverential movement. “Go on and take it, Sugar,” he murmurs, voice gone raspy with want, and the pet name does something to your pulse, sets it running double-time. The head of his cock is flushed, skin taut, and you wrap your lips around it, greedy, letting the salt and heat of him fill your mouth, tongue swirling around the crown as you look up to meet his gaze. Curtis’s hand anchors at the back of your skull, just enough pressure to remind you where you belong, and you settle in, taking him deeper, savoring the weight and heat as it slides over your tongue.

Ari watches, and it takes only a heartbeat before he draws his own cock free, heavy and thick in his hand as he strokes it, watching you with lazy hunger.

“Look at you,” he says, voice a low rumble, “so fucking pretty on your knees.” He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as you look up at him, mouth stretching wide around Curtis’s cock. The compliment lands hot in your chest, and you shiver as you hollow your cheeks, taking Curtis deeper, letting the head bump the back of your throat.

“Good girl,” Curtis growls, hips rolling forward, not breaking eye contact. “You ready for both of us tonight?”

You nod, mouth impossibly full, unable to speak but meaning it with every cell in your body.

Ari grins, a slow, wolfish flash of teeth, and kneels beside you. He’s gentle at first, coaxing your face around until you’re kissing him, Curtis’s cock sliding from your mouth with a wet pop. Ari tastes like beer and want, and the kiss is filthy, tongue deep as he palms the back of your head, keeping you locked to him. Then he disengages, just enough to bring his own cock to your lips, the heat of him pressed to your cheek as if marking you.

"My turn," he murmurs, and you acquiesce, letting Curtis’s cock rest against your face as you tongue the head of Ari’s, dragging your mouth wetly along the shaft, letting him tap it between your lips, over your tongue, then sliding into the warmth of your mouth.

Ari is not gentle for long. He fucks your mouth with the same single-minded rhythm that Curtis uses, and the two of them work you together, alternating who holds your face, who thrusts, who guides your hair out of the way, their cocks slicking your tongue and lips and cheeks, spit and precum everywhere. You let them—love to be used between them—your body melting into obedience as your jaw strains and tears prick the corners of your eyes. They trade you back and forth, hands all over your face, words a haze above you: “fuck, look at you,” “taking us so deep,” “so fucking hungry for it,” until you are shaking with desire, your own thighs pressed together, desperate to be filled, to be ruined just as thoroughly as they promised.

Eventually, they pull you up. Curtis guides you backwards, your heels skidding as you let go and fall into his orbit. He manhandles you onto the mattress and you sprawl there, half-dazed, arms and legs akimbo, before Ari’s weight joins you, tumbling you together into a skin-warm, greedy tangle. Curtis is already pulling you up onto his lap, and you can feel his cock slick and hot against your thigh. He grabs your hips and yanks you down, impaling you in one swift, steady thrust.

You cry out at the sudden stretch, the delicious pressure of being filled to the brim, and Curtis just grins up at you, teeth bared, as he sets you rocking against him, hands wrapped tight around your waist as if you might try to slip free. He never lets you forget whose you are in these moments, the way he fucks up into you, relentless, his mouth all curses and endearments and ragged, hungry praise.

Ari’s palms glide up your back, kneading your shoulders, and then he bends you forward, your nose almost brushing Curtis’s. There’s a moment where you breathe each other’s air, Ari’s hands anchoring your hips even as Curtis’s thumb strokes your jaw, and then Ari’s cock is sliding into your tightest hole, and you gasp, breath stolen from your lungs as he fills you because it’s so much when they both have their cocks in you this way at the same time.

So much.

Too much and yet somehow not enough.

You whimper, not from pain but from the overwhelming fullness, and Curtis’s hand is at your waist, steadying you even as he urges you to take it, and Ari’s voice is in your ear, tender and obscene at once, “You’re okay, you’re so good, you’re fucking perfect, let us have you, just like that.” Every muscle in your body is tight and trembling, and then, slowly, impossibly, they start to move, setting a rhythm that is inhuman, uncanny, shifting you between them, two cocks sliding inside you, grinding up against the impossible limits of your pleasure.

You’re nothing but sensation, a pulse point of ecstasy suspended between these two bodies, and every word is stripped from your vocabulary except “yes, yes, fuck, please, more,” spilling out of you as they drill deeper, Ari’s voice a rolling tide of filth and worship, Curtis’s grip a constant, bruising pressure that keeps you anchored between them.

Everything is friction, the generous drag of skin and the way their hands map your body, owning every inch. You claw at Curtis’s inked chest, nails raking the color, heels digging into the mattress for leverage as he fucks up into you with feral intent. Ari paces his thrusts to counter, his pelvis flush against your ass so each push pins you helpless in the middle, stretched and sandwiched between them.

"Christ," Curtis hisses, blue eyes damp and wild as he watches your face contort. "Taking both of us at once—fuck, Sugar, you were made for it.” He leans in to bite softly at your chin, then ghosts his mouth to your ear. “You want more?”

More? How can there be any more than this?

You try to say “yes,” but all you can manage is a high, keening moan, the syllable lost in the riot of pleasure as Ari and Curtis rut into you, perfectly synched, perfectly opposed, holding you between them in a vise of relentless sensation. But even the question is a promise that they’re going to take you as they always do—they’re going to find out how many times you can shatter and reform before morning comes and it’s all three of you eating pancakes at the same battered table, pretending you don’t have fingerprint bruises on your ass and thigh.

Somewhere in the haze of it, Ari’s hand finds your clit and circles it with familiar, expert precision. Curtis’s arm crushes you close, so his mouth can bite down on the point of your shoulder, and the sharpness of it triggers something low and hot in your belly. You’re wound so tight already, but the friction, the heat, the intensity bleeds into that delicious, devastating promise of ruin. But you’re not there yet, only on the precipice, and so you beg for it, voice breaking on the words, “please, need it, please let me—”

Curtis’s palm comes up and slaps your breast, the sting and shock of it slicing through the vortex of sensation so suddenly that your entire body jerks, and then it’s over the edge, the orgasm a blinding current you could never have prepared for. You shout and convulse, muscles fluttering and clamping, the involuntary milking of both cocks triggering a chorus of groans from the men holding you captive.

“Fucking god,” Ari curses as you nearly squeeze him out entirely, and then he wrests you back onto him, thrusts gone uneven and desperate.

Curtis is panting, his forehead pressed to yours, the blue of his eyes nearly white in the dim lamplight. “That’s it, Sugar,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Let us have all of you.”

You do—you shatter, all three of you shaking apart and then fusing together again as within moments or minutes Ari comes, you come again, and finally Curtis.

It’s a messy, perfect pile-up at the end, bodies collapsed in a thicket of limbs and sweat and residual aftershocks. You are almost certain you’ve moaned yourself hoarse, but your sense of shame is so far behind you it’s not even visible in the rearview.

When they pull out, you remain boneless and slick with sweat between them, and they maneuver you until you’re sprawled comfortably on the sheets, bracketed by them on either side. Curtis’s hands massage gently at your thighs, rubbing the ache away, while Ari kisses the curve of your shoulder first, then your ear, then the salt-and-tear-damp plane of your cheek.

Neither of them says a word—no one needs to—but you feel a radiant, wordless affirmation in every touch, as if the reality of the three of you bound together is undeniable despite there being no resolute definition of what you are and where the future of your arrangement will end up.

“Get the plugs,” Curtis grunts over you.

“Plugs,” you gasp, alert enough to register what he’s just asked Ari for.

Ari rolls off the bed and pads to the dresser, and you dazedly watch his silhouette, outlined in the glow from the living room, as he rifles through a top drawer, tattooed arms a riot of shadow and color. Curtis, meanwhile, is petting your lower belly as if soothing a wild animal, and his mumbled “Atta girl. Still with us?” barely makes it through the rush of blood in your ears.

You feel yourself nod, the motion birdlike. Ari returns bearing two silicone plugs, one purple and jewel-shaped, the other clinical black. He shows them for your inspection with a flourish, then sets them on the nightstand, as if this act is seduction in and of itself. Curtis plants a heavy hand on your hip and splays your thighs open.

You watch as Ari lubes up the first plug, then hands it to Curtis.

Curtis is careful—always careful, even when he’s brutal. Gentle but purposeful, he brings the plug to your aching, freshly used cunt. He teases at your lips, collects the leaking cum with his finger, and works it in slow, insistent circles before pressing the plug in. You groan, overwhelmed and already slick with their combined mess. He slides the plug home, and it seats inside you with a soft, complete pressure.

“How’s that feel, Sugar?” he murmurs against your cheek.

“Mmm, so full,” you manage.

He chuckles. “Think you can handle squirming a bit tonight? Keep you plugged while you sleep so you remember how we filled you up?”

You whimper at the thought of it, but nod. One plug already feels so foreign and present in you, and maybe you can manage two, but all night? Your stomach twists with hunger and with a little hesitance, but you’ll try anything once with them.

Ari kneels beside your head, stroking your hair. “You good?” he asks, eyes crinkling with sincerity, but also with the anticipation of someone who knows exactly what this means, what he’s eager to have his turn with next.

You nod, words still absent, not because you don’t want to answer but because there are none sufficient for what you feel. Instead, you reach for him, pulling his wrist so he can stroke your face. You hum when he complies, his fingers giving you the connection you crave.

Then Ari moves his hand down to stroke at the curve of your thigh, his calloused tips working circles into the soft crease where leg meets hip. “Deep breath,” he says, and it’s not a command, just a reminder, like he’s telling you to brace for a wave rather than a storm.

He lifts your upper thigh, his grip gentle, and nudges the plug’s tapered tip to your ass, already loose and slick from the fucking he and Curtis just gave you. The anticipation frays your nerves to the quick: you tense, and Ari hushes you, his mouth touching the shell of your ear as he starts to press the plug in. It yields, the pressure steady and inescapable, a fullness that’s not pain but the shocking promise of it. He pauses, letting you gasp and shiver, his lips ghosting over your cheekbone, his voice low and clear, “You’re okay, sweetheart. Keep breathing.”

Curtis’s hand is on your breast, pinching and rolling the nipple until you’re keening, hips canting forward to chase the pain-pleasure edge. The first plug, already nesting in your pussy, makes the second one feel ten times more present. Ari sinks the black plug deeper, and you clench hard around it, the fullness dizzying, a head rush.

Curtis strokes your calf as Ari finishes, the two of them working in a silent, wordless rhythm so practiced and tuned to your body that the thought strikes you, somewhere above all the endorphins, that maybe this can never be untangled.

You whimper as the last inch settles, and Curtis’s hand covers your belly, palm flat, a spot of comfort as he murmurs, “That’s a good girl.” His thumb strokes in slow arcs, grounding you in the reality of the moment. Ari tucks your hair behind your ear, then kisses you, soft and lingering, as if to soothe the overstimulated wildness vibrating under your skin.

"Still with us?" Curtis asks when Ari’s lips leave yours.

You manage a breathless, “Barely. Yeah, I’m—fuck.” You laugh, shaking from the aftershocks, sensation needle-thin and electric in every nerve. You think, fuzzily, about how a year ago you would be embarrassed, or polite, or mask the way you sound like you’ve just transcended your body and can’t remember how to use it again. But you’re not. It’s them; there is no shame here, only trust and connection. And different levels of something even more.

You ride the strange, perfect buzz of it as Ari and Curtis get you upright, two big hands under your arms, the slickness and pressure of both plugs making your legs wobble as you’re marched, ever so gently, to the bathroom. They never let you out of their sight—Curtis leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed and lazy-eyed but tracking your every movement, while Ari kneels at your feet, cool washcloth poised to clean you up. There’s no humiliation in any of it, only the deep, unmovable sense that you’re cared for, watched over like the rarest thing in the world.

You sit on the closed toilet, careful not to press too hard or disturb the foreign, thrilling fullness between your legs. Ari’s hand is careful and firm as he cleans the slick from your thighs, his other hand settled comfortingly on your knee. He’s humming a little under his breath, some 70s tune you don’t quite recognize, and when he finally stands, he kisses the top of your head and leaves you to find your footing while he cleans himself.

Then, you all brush your teeth together in the bathroom, the three of you crowded in so close that elbows bump and you have to take turns at the sink. It’s so stupidly domestic it almost makes you want to cry.

After you rinse and spit in concert, Ari slaps your ass gently as you bend to the sink. You feel the plugs shift, the pressure a constant throbbing echo of what the three of you just did. You’re unsure if you’ll sleep at all with them in. Maybe that’s the point.

Back in the bedroom, Curtis is the one who insists on helping you get into a t-shirt and sleep shorts, even though every shift and bend makes you whimper. He does it meticulously, almost reverently, and when your head pokes through the neck hole, you catch him watching you with that rare, raw look that’s all soft edges. Ari waits until you’re tucked under the covers to join, sliding in on your other side, his arm thrown over your stomach, the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton of your borrowed shirt. The three of you lay there, breathing in sync, not quite asleep and not quite awake, in the territory that belongs only to those who trust one another enough to give up control and be held for as long as needed.

You press your nose into Curtis’s chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and the rosemary that lingers from the evening, his arms wrapped around you, grounding you against the lingering ache and fullness. He pulls you tighter, and you feel the grind of his stubble on your scalp as he kisses the top of your head. Ari’s hand glides along your hip, resting at the waistband of your shorts, fingers splayed wide as if to cover as much of you as possible.

“Nobody’s ever made me feel like this,” you say, voice small in the dark, and for a moment neither of them speaks. Instead, Ari’s hand squeezes your thigh, and Curtis, who you thought was asleep, murmurs, “Good,” into your hair, soft but possessive. There’s a pause so deep it feels like a shared inhalation.

“You’re ours,” Ari says, quiet and final, as if cementing a pact, and then you do cry a little, but only for the stupidest, happiest reason: there has never been a time in your life when you believed you could have this, and now it’s here, and you cannot—could not—imagine a better arrangement, a future less fraught or more inevitable.

You drift off not quite sure if you’ll be able to stay asleep through the dull, throbbing pressure, or with the two men bracketing you in so tightly, but when you wake in the middle of the night, it’s to Curtis’s warm breath on your cheek, Ari’s foot tangled with your own, and the distant, perfect ache of being so utterly filled and wanted and protected. And you slip back into sleep.

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