Work Text:
Cassandra has had a respectable number of romantic entanglements in her twenty-two years: boys who inspired her to fill up diary pages, girls who had her wrapped around their little fingers at the first batting of eyes, men who swept her off her feet, women who made her swoon.
But only Grayson could brush fingers against her elbow in passing on the way to disappear through the gate, mid-garden-party, and have Cassandra suddenly aching to follow like a puppy. To her own damn bedroom. In her own damn home.
By the time enough minutes drag by that Cassandra feels it inconspicuous enough for her to hustle through the gate, too, and across the grounds, and into the mansion, and through her bedroom doors, she’s practically, shamefully, deliciously dripping.
Her fingers are in Grayson’s shaggy black hair, and her tongue is in Grayson’s daiquiri-flavored mouth, and her legs are around Grayson’s powerful waist before the locks even click shut behind her.
It always starts like this—with Grayson pressing the much daintier Cassandra into the mattress (or floor, or couch, or backseat of her motorcar, or picnic blanket, or…). Grayson’s hands are so large that they can almost encircle Cassandra’s entire slim waist, commanding and yet so gentle, even as one drags Cassandra’s hemline up and her thick calluses rasp on the sensitive skin of her thighs. Cassandra’s panties are tugged down her legs and kicked off with her shoes with little fanfare; Grayson’s warm palm covers her up instead, not yet parting lips to feel where she’s slick and white-hot, but rather cupping and rubbing the whole of her sex lightly, letting the weight of her hand tease at Cassandra’s needy cunt with indirect pressure.
It makes Cassandra shiver and sigh into their kiss, and Grayson chuckle warmly in response. She loves how big and strong Grayson is—how it feels to be underneath her, positively smothered in smooth olive skin and heavy muscle, wrapped up in a soothing blanket of body heat, sweat, and the unique blend of their scents, while Grayson’s fingers or strap pound into her.
But they couldn’t possibly fuck like that today—not with all four of their parents and half the city milling about her damn yard. Even on a balmy summer day, there’s only so much dishevelment she could blame on the humidity, and there’s not enough time for them both to come and shower before someone would start to wonder where the lovebirds flew off to.
Cassandra breaks the kiss, breezing out a frustrated whine that makes Grayson grin as she nuzzles her way to Cassandra’s ear.
There, Greyson sucks softly on her pulse point for just a moment, the thin skin nearly vibrating with the thrumming of the hot blood just underneath it, before whispering in her low, gravelly voice: “Cassie, why don’t you sit on my face?”
She’s no wordsmith, this one, but Cassandra has always admired her directness and problem-solving skills. Doing it like that, they wouldn’t work up much of a sweat and afterward, and after a quick washing of the face and hands, they could easily return to the party (a few minutes apart, of course) with dignity and plausible deniability intact.
Suffice it to say that only Grayson could propose such a lewd act, and so casually, and have Cassandra scrambling up to comply.
Grayson’s shirt comes off promptly, revealing a modest black bra and an impossibly tantalizing expanse of skin and muscle. She doesn’t have the time to properly bask in her girlfriend’s body, but Cassandra spares the few seconds to run her hands up from Grayson’s obliques, over her powerful abdominals and the soft swell of her bust, to tangle her fingers again in thick black hair and pull them together for another kiss.
They’re forced to break apart again when Grayson tugs Cassandra’s sundress up over her head—smart, as they couldn’t possibly get it dirty—and Cassandra marvels, for the millionth time, at how nimble Grayson’s thick, callused fingers are as they swiftly liberate Cassandra from her lacy bra as well.
She’s never been a prude, but there is a slatternly thrill at being stark naked and desperately aroused in the broad daylight seeping through her windows; the blinds are wide open, too, although the architecture makes it impossible for anyone to see inside her bedroom from, say, the garden—but a girl can disregard facts to feel a little extra naughty if she wants to.
And she does feel naughty, especially with Grayson still in her slacks and socks, and even more so when Grayson lays back and takes up so much space on her colossal bed, and beckons, come here.
Cassandra crawls to her. Literally crawls, like an animal, on her hands and knees.
But she hesitates briefly when her hands find the edge of her headboard and one knee prepares to swing over Grayson’s gleeful face.
“I want to touch you, too,” Cassandra announces like an epiphany, an idea forming in her head.
“After the party, bunny. We need to hurry,” Grayson promises with a reassuring pat on her thigh. Even the annoying nickname Cassandra pretends to hate sounds so good in her rich voice and pretty accent.
It’s a bolder move than she ordinarily would make without substantially more lead-in, but Grayson’s right; they don’t have the time for her to be shy. Cassandra decisively rearranges herself to face away from the headboard and plants her hands on Grayson’s waist. “What about…,” she trails off, nudging Grayson’s shoulder with her knee. “I could reach,” she over-explains, brushing a hand over Grayson’s clothed crotch as if the sharp-minded deputy sheriff would need help adding it all up.
Grayson’s eyes light up and the most obnoxious grin spreads over her lips as she reaches to help pull Cassandra’s leg over her head. With a little wiggling into place, Cassandra finds herself kneeling with her feet next to Grayson’s ears, her shins supported on her shoulders, and her cunt hovering just inches from warm heat.
She must literally be dripping by now; she can feel her arousal clinging thickly to her folds, threatening to fall right into her girlfriend’s mouth. It’d be somewhat humiliating, no matter how many times Grayson has drawn that kind of reaction from her body, if Cassandra didn’t finally work her hand down Grayson’s stomach into her pants, petting the treasure trail there and the thicker thatch on her mound reverently along the way, and find her similarly soaking.
Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Grayson is as smitten with her as she is with Grayson; that Grayson finds her just as sexy; that Grayson wants her in all the same ways.
That’s what the inside of Cassandra’s head sounds like nowadays. Grayson, Grayson, Grayson. Whether she’s playing tennis, or hunting, or having tea with friends, or reading, or interning with her mother at the council building. Grayson, Grayson, Grayson.
“Grayson,” Cassandra gasps, aloud this time, as a firm tongue makes a wide, impatient swipe of her entire slit from top to bottom. It sends a hot bolt of arousal through her blood, making her skin burn along with the protest already forming in her thighs as she hovers, thus far too timid to fully sit.
“Cassie, Cassie, Cassie—you know you couldn’t possibly break me,” Grayson teases, low and rumbling, lips so close, they practically spell it out against Cassandra’s cunt. Her strong hands flex where they’re anchored at the junctions between Cassandra’s thighs and hips and tug, urging her to melt downward.
Cassandra gives in. She sinks down the rest of the way and groans as her softness meets the hard ridges of Grayson’s nose and chin, with the plush cushion of her lips in-between.
With no distance left between them, a ghastly and thrilling slurp sounds out as Grayson administers a messy, open-mouthed suck, lapping up arousal and her own saliva, both in ample supply. Grayson moans, like she’d just bitten into the most decadent cupcake in Piltover, and takes a second helping, somehow louder and wetter than the first. It’s obscene, but if one can moan that means they can also breathe, which reassures Cassandra enough to rut, albeit shyly, against Grayson’s roving tongue.
The response is immediate and approving, huffed directly into her clit: “That’s it, bunny, take what you need.”
Cassandra shudders and steels her nerves. They need to stop dilly-dallying.
With renewed resolve, Cassandra clutches Grayson’s belt with one hand like a horse’s reins and rubs her fingers in a tight circle against Grayson’s slick, stiff clit. Her brain is too fried to handle more than one rhythm, so she works her pussy down against Grayson’s face in the same way. Grayson meets her fingers with game pulses of her hips up, and leaves her tongue out, tensed and determined, for Cassandra to ride as she pleases.
Cassandra has physically been on top of Grayson during sex before, but never like this, sitting her full weight on her face, pinning her shoulders under her shins. Usually, she loves to be the one getting held down and fucked, but this new position gives her a surge of power she didn’t expect. Grayson is more than strong enough to toss her off, to flip their positions and have her way instead, but she won’t—because she wants this, too. She wanted Cassandra to use her like this. And wouldn’t Cassandra give her Grayson, Grayson, Grayson anything in the entire world that she wanted?
Her confidence grows rapidly, and she does just what Grayson asked: she takes what she needs, which is all of Grayson’s tongue, and all of Grayson’s cunt.
Distant sounds of merrymaking float in through the open windows, hardly audible over the wet sounds of sex, breathy moans, the click-clack of Grayson’s belt buckle as it jostles with the bounce of the mattress. Greedily, Cassandra slides her hand deeper into Grayson’s pants and sinks two fingers inside her, using the heel of her hand to rub her clit instead. Grayson groans in appreciation, a little extra vibration that makes Cassandra sigh. In a bit of a retaliation, Grayson slides her hands up over Cassandra’s soft belly and tickles each rib she can find, and shuts down Cassandra’s squirms of protest by cupping both of her breasts and pinching her nipples.
A pre-orgasmic haze crawls into Cassandra’s empty brain, making the tips of her toes tingle and anticipation nip at her spine. That telltale pressure builds up in her stomach, like there’s a bottle of champagne inside her and each rut of her swollen clit against a firm tongue yanks the cork out millimeter by millimeter, until it pops and she bubbles over in pleasure.
She comes with a strung-out, quivering moan, drawing the two syllables of her lover’s name into at least ten. Grayson’s dutiful tongue remains at her service and Cassandra rapidly cycles between it being too much and needing to pull away for a breath, and not enough and needing to grind down on it harder. Her every insecurity long since forgotten, she rides Grayson’s eager face for everything it’s worth, using it to wring out every morsel of relief possible.
It lasts forever, and it’s over in a flash. Thoroughly spent and with her limbs feeling as heavy as lead, Cassandra tips forward and collapses onto Grayson’s muscular body, the supposed goal of keeping clean by minimizing skin-to-skin contact long forgotten. As gentle and supportive as ever, Grayson murmurs praise and wraps her arms around her waist, squeezing her lower half in a tight hug and then reaching down to rub her back soothingly.
Cassandra’s hand is still down Grayson’s pants, her fingers having stilled when the first wave of orgasm stole the last vestige of her brain. Sweet, patient, loving Grayson would be fine with going back to the party keyed-up and unfulfilled, but the more Cassandra’s brain comes back online, the louder the unyielding chorus of Grayson, Grayson, Grayson returns and she needs Grayson to come like she needed to come, herself: desperately.
Rock-hard abdominals ripple underneath Cassandra’s flushed breasts as she redoubles her efforts and slips a third finger into Grayson’s slick entrance. From this angle, Cassandra can’t fuck her very deep, but she knows from ample experience that it’s the shallow and the stretch that Grayson likes best, anyway, paired with the insistent and consistent pressure of the heel of her hand on her clit. This is the power that Cassandra is used to having in sex: for all her height, and big muscles, and broad frame, Grayson’s pretty cunt fits just right in the palm of Cassandra’s dainty hand. Three of Grayson’s fingers would be much too thick for Cassandra most days, but three of Cassandra’s slim fingers fill Grayson up nice and full every time.
Grayson’s moans come out like gravelly purrs when it’s her turn getting fucked. She sounds good around Cassandra’s fingers, too, wet and willing. Cassandra can feel her abs tense as pleasure builds like tension inside of her like a drawn bowstring. From Cassandra’s perspective, her orgasm feels like being swept along with a full-moon wave along the ocean’s shore, teeming with power, but similarly dangerous only in the sense that it drags Cassandra deeper under her skin every time.
Always sentimental in the afterglow, Cassandra clambers around to meet her love in a deep kiss. She doesn’t mind the tang of her own come on her lips, but she much prefers the taste of Grayson’s typical cocktails or rare cigar on her tongue.
Oh—cocktails, and cigars. They’ve been gone from the party for way, way too long.
Well—the damage must be done already. Whatever they do now, however fast they return at this point, Grayson’s mother will be staring daggers at her for the rest of the evening.
Surely, they’d save more face by coming back clean, than coming back faster but reeking of each other. So, they clearly have time to cuddle a bit and share a quick shower, now.
With a resigned yet also freeing sigh, she breaks the kiss and melts into Grayson’s arms like a candle, spreading out to touch as much skin as possible. Grayson is at her most delicious immediately post-sex—and that’s really saying something, Cassandra thinks—so it would simply be imprudent to waste her extra sentimentality, her languid, heavy limbs, her luxuriously warm and fragrant skin just to rush Cassandra’s inevitable frigid showdown with Grayson’s mother, who already hated her, anyway.
Grayson seems on the same page, so she rolls them over. Cassandra sighs in contentment as her slim body is fully covered by Grayson’s, blanketing her in a comforting weight and warmth. She wriggles to press her ear against the left side of Grayson’s chest, easily finding the slow, steady thump of her heart.