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Lydia was pretty sure she’d cornered the market on both unimpressed and dismissive expressions, but Malia has, apparently, become a very good mimic in the past few years. The downturn of her mouth is part pout and part disapproving frown and she sees herself in it, the same way she sees Stiles in the furrow of her brow. Lydia remembers when most of Malia was an affect – cobbled together reactions and turns of phrase that she’d picked up as quickly as she could. Adapting. She’s as much her own woman as Lydia, now, but the reminders of her introduction to them shine through so clearly at times.
Like now.
“But I want to eat you out,” she’s insisting, hands planted on her hips in defiance, dangerously naked. Raw and confident, legs spread to widen the space she takes up – it tempts Lydia for all the same reasons Malia has always tempted her. The boys she dated could always make a show of being tough, more than enough bluster and bravado, but they were brittle just beneath. Allison had been Snow White on the outside and huntsman within; Malia is untamed from her brash mouth straight through to her core. Lydia had made the mistake once of letting a chance pass her by. It simply hadn’t been an option the second time. Of course, this is what she has to deal with for her trouble.
“Thursday evening.”
“I want to eat you out now.”
Lydia sighs and looks to Stiles, sitting at the vanity and waiting for them to come to some kind of decision. The condoms, she knows, are in the second drawer on the left, and he’ll need one when Malia lets up and takes the sex she’s being given instead of the sex she’s trying to talk Lydia into. He’s feigning innocence here, though, despite the fact that she knows he’s the reason Malia thinks this is perfectly acceptable behavior for average people who don’t, actually, get up to anything that out of the ordinary – beyond the near-constant threesomes. She’s pretty sure the most adventurous thing they’ve gotten up to in the last month or so is taking turns on Stiles’s face for an hour or more at his own request, and that much makes perfect sense. Boys like Stiles don’t anticipate being tongue-deep in pussy whenever they want; the fact that he has been for years now hasn’t made him any less enthusiastic about absolutely drowning in it. Not that anyone’s complaining.
“Eat Stiles out, if you’re so stuck on it. I’m out of commission until at least Wednesday night, and I’d like a nice hot bath before I let you anywhere near me. I can do anything for you that you want, though.”
Malia’s face brightens in a way that can only spell trouble. “Anything for me?” she asks. Lydia nods against her own best interests. “Then you can ride my mouth.”
Stiles outright laughs from behind them, too amused with this to remember he ought to be on his best behavior at the moment. “She got you there. She wants to do it, why don’t you just let her try? If she hates it, you stop, someone gets fucked instead. If she likes it, you get to come. There’s literally no bad outcome here.”
“Except the one where I ruin these incredibly high-quality sheets with blood. Again.”
“Okay, that was one time and it was one million percent not my fault. I didn’t fuck myself face-first into the headboard. If I tried hard enough, I probably could, but-”
“So it was Malia’s fault?” Lydia arches an eyebrow and waits for the panicked backpedaling. Before Stiles can do more than open his mouth wide enough to fit his own fist in, Malia crawls up onto the bed and kneels between her legs, blocking the view across the room. “What?” She tries to keep her voice sharp and focus on the bridge of Malia’s nose; any lower and she’ll slip but any higher and she risks the glint of those electric blue eyes that her girlfriend absolutely knows how to use against her.
Instead of the immediate answer that kind of question gets her from Stiles, Malia’s hand slides under the comforters and up her thigh, tapping gently at the front of her underwear. “No pad. You’re wearing a tampon,” she asserts, triumphant. “You won’t get blood anywhere.”
“And I can get a towel to put down just in case,” Stiles adds from somewhere that is not directly between Lydia and Malia’s breasts, which means she can’t be bothered looking at him. “One of the crappy ones I brought from home, not your little monogrammed things.” Again, he doesn’t add, though that particular case was more necessity than carelessness. You blame the monster for the carnage, not the victim.
Neither of them is going to leave her alone about this, she can tell, and it is a little more appealing than getting herself off alone in the bath where she can wash everything away down the drain. She waves Stiles vaguely in the direction of the bathroom before she settles her hands on Malia’s sturdy thighs, tan beneath her own pale skin. “I suppose you can lick my clit for me,” she allows. “When Stiles comes back with our safety net.” Malia takes hold of her hands and slides them just where she wants them before she leans down to lick into her mouth.
Stiles finds them like that, Lydia’s fingers dimpling the soft flesh of Malia’s ass, tongues touching, the occasional click of teeth that neither of them can be bothered to avoid. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last that they start without him. With Malia’s teeth worrying at the lobe of her ear, she can see him hovering in the doorway, wet mouth hanging open. The clean (at least it better be) kitchen towel is hanging limply in his hands as he stares. Lydia moans dramatically for his benefit, shutting her eyes as Malia latches onto her throat in a way that is a guaranteed future concealer emergency. The hand beneath the bedclothes is less hesitant this time, the heel of it rubbing her just right through her soft cotton backup undies – not shark week panties, like Malia and Stiles insist. The implication that she just tosses bloodied clothes back into her drawer for her next cycle is more than a little repugnant; they’re simply comfortable and alright to ruin and throw out just in case.
“Take them off,” Lydia says finally, brushing away half a mouthful of Malia’s hair. “You’re making me nervous.” Malia doesn’t do anything by halves, though, and Lydia feels the unbearable edginess of being tickled for a few moments before the hem of her nightie is being tugged up and over her head. She’s still quaking a little when Malia’s fingertips skitter right back down over her sides and drag her underwear in the opposite direction, leaving them tangled around one of her ankles. Stiles picks them off for her like the good boy he can be when he wants to, folds them and sets them on the vanity where she can see herself reflected. No one can say she doesn’t factor practicality into her interior design.
Malia’s body dips further and Lydia can see her own breasts in the mirror, pale and pink-tipped, nipples tight with anticipation. For all her reluctance, she’s always excited when Malia gets into a giving mood. They all like that she’s usually much more about taking. She’s rough with Stiles in the way he needs some days, winding her fingers into his hair and yanking, whether she’s pulling him back onto her favorite toy or shoving his face into her cunt. Lydia she treats more equally but never delicately, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy Malia’s stamina, hips and thighs seemingly never tiring and the wonder of a cock that can never go soft when she most needs it. They always come out the other end of things sore and satisfied. But something in Malia seems to build up over time, growing until she spends more time than not with her nose buried in the nooks and crannies of their bodies, her hands grasping as much of them as she can gather at once.
That’s the Malia that Lydia is at the mercy of now, judging by the tongue laving along the crease of her thigh like there’s something secret hidden there that needs tasting. Stiles stops gaping and folds the towel in two, lays it flat on the bed beside her and taps just above her knee expectantly. Lifting her hips into Malia’s mouth is arousing all by itself and rewards her with a lick that strays nearer to where she wants it. When she settles, it’s into the rougher texture of the cheap towel, and she lets go. Nothing to be worried about now.
Malia’s mouth isn’t as nimble and eager as Stiles’s always is, like he’s trying to devour them as quickly as he can before he loses his chance. Lydia remembers the first time this mood cycled around, the first time she got more from Malia than two or three relentless fingers and a ring of purpling love bites on her throat. She’d not been so thoroughly eaten out since Jackson, and only then when he was in one of his better moods. By the time Malia was sated, Lydia had come twice and had been well on her way to a third orgasm. That was the first time she’d let Stiles fuck her, long, restless fingers helping her along from the outside while his cock sank deep where she needed it. Technically, she guesses, Malia’s first foray into cunnilingus is the reason they are what they are now. A set of sorts – not a matching one, nothing so neat, but a set all the same.
It isn’t long before Lydia’s heart is racing and her stomach tensing. Her body is accustomed to this sort of slow assault now, vibrating on the same frequency, and it responds in ways that have her sinking further into the bed, vaguely aware that her hair will be a mess after this. Malia’s tongue curls and presses and strokes and Lydia feels so strange, too hot and edgy. She’s never had anyone else touch her when she’s bleeding and her nerves behave differently, sharp at some moments and melting at others. The conflicted noises she’s making are pure gold to Stiles, most likely, and she realizes her eyes are shut so tight that she has no idea where he is, if he’s lingering near the bed or back on the stool near the vanity. For now she doesn’t care, holding tight to Malia’s hair and the edge of the towel, not wanting to muss the sheets too much. She just made Stiles make the bed this morning.
Malia keeps letting out frustrated growls, turning her head this way and that, smearing her fingers across Lydia’s clit from time to time after sucking them into her mouth. It’s taking Lydia out of the moment a little.
“I’m gonna spit,” Malia finally says.
“You are not,” Lydia tells her, tipping her hips away and trying to sound less winded than she is. “Don’t you dare. Get the lube if you need it.”
Malia’s whole face twists in disgust, which Lydia could’ve anticipated if her thoughts weren’t so scattered. “It tastes like plastic.” It looks like she might get huffy for a second there, but then she’s diving back in and Lydia doesn’t have to start a ‘this is not porn’ lecture that will devolve into an argument with Stiles. Instead, she settles back into that warm, buzzing state of pleasure, punctuated with tiny shocks that make her hips jerk and her teeth clack. Malia hums against her every time she feels the twitch, practically radiating smugness. Lydia pretends the way her eyes roll back is a critique of that attitude and nothing to do with the way she’s teetering on a razor’s edge.
The closer she gets, the more the sharp sensations blend with the softer ones, blurring until there are no tongue and lips or fingers; there’s only the building pressure making her shiver from her core. Malia yelps at the wrenching tug on her hair and that’s it for Lydia. Her head swims with bright, heady chemicals and her body ceases to exist for precious seconds, nothing but a string of electric pleasure.
When she comes down, Lydia can feel her slick trickling down the crease of her thigh and she mentally thanks Stiles for his forethought. She feels Malia gently spreading her lips to suck at them and the rush of wetness intensifies, more than she’d have expected with the -
She looks down, heavy-lidded eyes widening when she finds Malia’s fingers still tangled in string, the bloody cotton bright against the kitchen towel beneath her. The mouth still working her over is just starting to smear red, more bold a color than Malia would ever choose for herself. If anything, she seems more ravenous than she was before. Lydia can feel her straying, soft tip of her nose nudging at her clit as Malia’s tongue slips down and in.
“Oh my god.” It’s Stiles’s voice instead of her own, but she appreciates the sentiment. She can still feel herself clenching with aftershocks, pulsing around Malia’s reaching tongue. “Malia, what-”
“She smells so good,” Malia growls, and Lydia sees a flicker of glowing blue in her eyes before she plunges back to her task. It’s hard to tell how much of the wetness she feels is blood and how much is thanks to the too-soon spike of returned arousal. Digging her heels into the bed is useless, she knows; Malia is as deep in as she can get with nothing more than her soft, flexing tongue. She wants, though, with an intensity that makes her overly aware of her pulse thumping hard in her veins and the dull ache in her middle taking a backseat to pleasure. She’s throwing out the heating pad. This is all she’ll ever need.
Her ears, as tuned to the sounds of this plane as she can manage, pick up on the sloppy sounds coming from between her thighs and then the the metallic stutter of a zipper being slowly pulled down. She means to tease Stiles, ask him if this is the kind of porn he normally beats off to, but she loses the sweet, humid press of Malia’s mouth and her voice is nothing but a whine.
“No!” Their girlfriend is practically roaring. Not exactly a deterrent for either of them, usually, but Lydia watches as Stiles practically sits on his hands in a rush to obey. “Wait,” she tells him, voice quieter but just as forceful. He nods jerkily and meets Lydia’s eyes, swallowing hard when she nods to him that she’s okay with this. Surprisingly okay with it. She can work on rationalizing it later.
Her second orgasm comes quicker, the way it always does, and Malia doesn’t let her come down at all. It’s too much, the sloppy suction against her clit too focused and fingers sliding inside of her, encouraging the itch rather than scratching it. She’s about to ask to just stop when Malia pulls back. She’s grinning, white teeth stained and cheeks messy with blood and come. She smears her sticky fingers along Lydia’s soft, pale thigh before she pops them into her own mouth, content.
It takes no more than a glance back over her shoulder for Stiles to jump into action. Sometimes the two of them seem to flow into one another, one wavelength, a thought jumping from one mind to the other seamlessly. His hands are fumbling in the drawer, coming up with a condom and a bottle of lube. He passes them off to Malia and starts to strip, lean body with smatterings of moles and dark hair appearing in wide swaths as he struggles. The condom packet pressed between two fingers, Malia turns her focus back on Lydia, eyebrows arched. “We need this?”
“Yes,” Stiles says by reflex. He’s been involved in one, exactly one, pregnancy scare and he’d rather stay out of that business for good, as he’s repeatedly stated. They all get tested a lot anyway, especially considering that even as a triad, the beds they fall into don’t always belong to each other. “Right?” He’s balancing on one foot to pick his left sock off, teetering as he looks to Lydia for approval.
“No,” she disagrees, surprising herself a bit, but logically it makes sense. They’re extremely low-risk at the moment. Definitely clean, at the very least, and… “I have an IUD and I’m actively menstruating, I think we’re as safe as it gets.” Malia’s eyes light up and Lydia feels in her bones that her messy mouth will be even more filthy later, eager to tease out every bit of the taste of Stiles in Lydia’s (literally) blood-hot cunt.
Stiles, comically wide-eyed, nearly falls over before the sock slips off his foot and he stumbles onto the bed. Lydia struggles with the desire to touch herself, to dirty her hands up and mark Stiles the way that Malia had marked her. She watches the two of them kiss, Stiles not one bit shy about the fresh – if it can be called that – blood that he licks from Malia’s lips and chases into her open mouth. Her whole body feels on fire, tingling hot just like the very first time. Stiles and Malia had never been anything but Stiles and Malia to her individually. Sure, she had kissed Stiles that once, frantic and hating the feeling of helplessness that came with watching him struggle to breathe. But it wasn’t until she’d seen them together, Stiles’s long-fingered hands in Malia’s fresh new haircut and her human fingernails leaving half-moons in the skin of his hips, that she’d felt it. That heat licking up her nerves, making her dizzy, making her want.
Since then, it’s never quite the same when she takes someone alone to bed, even when it’s one of them. She needs four hands against her skin – those four hands, the same four hands always haunting her gentlest dreams – and two mouths to feed her sighs into. Malia’s fingers are slipping on sweat in the crook of Lydia’s knee, pulling her wide open for Stiles to crawl into the space she makes for him. He hesitates, kissing her throat instead of her needy mouth, trailing up to suck at an earlobe, ticklishly light. “Are you sure?” he asks while he’s there, voice hoarse with lust, trembling when she touches the soft skin of his belly. “Really sure?”
“I want us both to feel it,” she tells him, nodding, hopefully sounding more lucid than she really is.
It should be agony, the hard line of his cock arrowing through her where she’s so tender she could cry. She’s on the verge of it as it is, whimpers she’ll never admit to later spilling out as he sinks in slow and deep. He makes concerned noises at her, maybe words but she doesn’t know, while Malia’s fingertips trace soothing patterns against her thigh. Lydia’s alright, though, kisses him so that he’ll know. So that he’ll move, friction sparking up something deeper and less edged inside her, heat filling a hollow in her that she hadn’t felt until now. It pains and pleasures her at once – a hurt that’s for her own good. There’s a wave of relief when she remembers this is Stiles, and she clings to him hard, intent on never letting go.
When they’d started all of this, Malia and Stiles had always fucked like rabbits, chasing orgasm as if there was no prize for losing the race. Stiles, especially, gets overexcited and loses track of his hammering hips and the way they seem to compete with his thundering pulse. It’s not Lydia’s favorite thing about him, if she’s honest – and she is. Tonight, though, Stiles rocks slow, feeding into her inch by careful inch, starting over and giving her that torturous drag again. His hands trace her face and collarbones, her breasts, but never stray too low. He’s so observant, their boy, taking in what he’s seen and heard and gifting her with something beautiful and just what she’s needed. Even the barely there bump of his body against her on the slide in sends shock waves through her hypersensitive clit. She couldn’t bear the pressure of his clever fingers on her. She’d come, hard and fast, but it’d be nothing but sting and scream and no reward.
They can both feel when he’s close, Lydia with her hands and Malia with her special sense for these things, the one that Lydia wants to pick apart and study, to put to good use. He’s heaving in breaths, looking for enough air to apologize. “I can’t, I just,” he starts, and Lydia lays a finger over his bitten-red mouth, watches it disappear inside.
“Shh,” she whispers, watching his eyes droop shut and feeling the edges of his teeth and the ridged roof of his mouth when he sucks. “Next time.” It’s a promise that holds a handful of meanings at once but he accepts it, hips stuttering against her, body taut in pleasure and then limp in release as he’s given his permission to come.
Lydia doesn’t feel anything like she’d imagined she would. She’s too hot and soaked inside already to tell any difference, but when Malia starts to tug Stiles out of the way, the mirror comes into full view. Her cunt is a bloody mess, sticky and deep red where it dries. She pries herself apart and jolts at the sight of Stiles’s come dripping out, streaked through with pink. It sates a hunger in her, something so much more vital than any need for orgasm, and she wishes she were stupid enough to take a picture. Something to remember it by. Stiles’s sharp little hipbones are just as ruined, smeared to hell and back from the both of them. Her own fingerprints are stained from grabbing him there.
Malia is slurping at her boyfriend’s spent dick, making him whimper and pull the pillow over his face while she takes what she wants, the salt-copper taste of their coupling. Everything in Lydia’s body feels loose and feverish, the cramping in her belly vanished and the wheels so often spinning in her head grinding to a stop. This is all new, something so filthy and yet somehow normal, but it fits them like a glove. She smiles when Malia moves away from Stiles’s cock, shiny-clean with saliva, and watches her sink two messy fingers inside herself, rocking on them.
Lydia crooks a finger at her, inviting, and thinks that this is not nearly over yet. They have until Wednesday night, after all.