#poly relationship

[ravikboots]

I HATE moving on but!!! thanks we're done

share our lovely child pic with you (actually we have 3 cats!!!!!)

[figs-and-cigs]

Not entirely sure what direction this post will go. Kind of frustrated about a lot of misconceptions about polyamory and enm - and some like really black and white ideas around it.

To give some perspective, if you don't know me. I've been with my husband for nearly a decade, he was poly when we met, we've been actively poly for the majority of our relationship. I've had a comet partner since the beginning of my poly journey. Hubby has a gf of a few years. We've had lots of relationships start and end. I also have a play partner and new bf. We have a fairly large local community and lots of friends. I occasionally get to run the local Poly and Kinky discussion group. So I have some experience.

Ranting to follow

- I think one of the most frustrating misconceptions is this idea that everyone is dating everyone. It's all group dating, group sex, groups living together. In my experience, this is rarely the case, and those dynamics are rarely long term.

In all of my years I've met ONE long-term polycule where they lived together. 4 people, wife, husband, husbands gf, wife's boyfriend. The wife was not in a romantic or sexual relationship with her husband's gf, and he was not romantically or sexually involved with her boyfriend. They raised kids together, those relationships evolved over the course of 5 years before they began living together. The wife and her bf were also active in the swinger community and had other partners. Wonderful people, but even within the Poly community it was a unique set up. One a lot of people strived for but... it's more difficult to manage that many connections in such close quarters.

I've watched couples try to date together, only to unintentionally hurt the third - because it's really really difficult to "add someone" to your established relationship.

Most people date separately, Metamours may or may not interact. Long term polycules, that I've seen, are more Garden Party than Kitchen Table.

- MY LIFE IS NOT THAT DIFFERENT THAN MOST PEOPLES

Ok not entirely true, I'm a disabled stay at home mom. I pretend to be a good house wife who bakes bread and keeps the house clean (HA!) Like most people in a similar situation, I make time to see friends and socialize just like anyone else. It just so happens some of those friends are romantic partners. I go to the movies with my friends once a month - I also go on movie dates with my partners. The difference is my dates have a lot more smooching, and potential sleep overs. I see one partner at least once a week, we talk every day. I see my comet at least once a month, we talk once a month. I have friendships that are just like that - but we aren't doting on each other romantically. My hubby works a regular job, we spend time with the kids most evenings and weekends. We have a weekly date night. He sees his gf for an over night weekly - sometimes he goes out to hang with friends.

To anyone who doesn't know we're poly, they'd see us as your basic white picket fence family. We're not that different.

Fucking Politics

- It is fair to say that most Polyamorous people are left leaning (same with kinksters), but we are not a monolith. Sorry not sorry, but I've dated my fair share of Poly Republicans. (I know I'll probably get hate for this, but I have boomer parents lol.) Yes, Poly Republicans exist. No, they're not all bad people and they have nuance in their opinions. I LOVE hearing a variety of perspectives, dating a varity personalities, with different interests - it's part of polyamory for me. And those relationships ended more amicably than most. (I won't go into the absolute emotional abuse I've experienced from past leftist queer partners - but my point is made.)

On the same note, my experience with Swingers is that they are often much more right leaning than left. Swinging is part of non-monogamy. While typically more romantically monogamous and sexually non-monogamous - they're far more open minded than one might think for being Republicans. While many swingers shy away from the idea of Polyamory, my experience had been that most of them are supportive and curious.

I just wish that people would keep they in mind when they're ranting about "those republican non-monogamous hating assholes," because there's a lot more ENM happening than you'd think. And like... do you actually connect with people outside of the internet?

The Queer Debate

Yes, Polyamory is queer, yes it belongs at Pride. But but but! Polyamory is more about relationship dynamics than it is about sexuality or gender. That sets it in a different category (ENM, it's the ethical non-monogamy community, there are so many ways to be non-monogamous!) The same debate can be had about Kink. Is kink queer and belong at Pride? Yes! However...

You probably do NOT want my white CisHet boyfriend at your Queer events! He doesn't want to be at your Queer events! He's an Ally, of course! But being Polyamorous does not make him "queer enough" to be included or fit in at Pride, or the LGBTQ+ munch. If you're like, "I wouldn't care if he was there," cool - but the gay men hitting in him don't understand why he's there, and the lesbians don't need another bi woman bringing her straight husband into their spaces.

Polyamory is Queer, NOT everyone who is Poly is Queer. There is a lot of overlap - yes!

Non-Monogamy/Open Relationships are very common in the gay community. And - referring back to my earlier rant - you don't want the bisexual right leaning swinger wives bringing their right leaning swinger CisHet Husbands to your queer munch (and number of those swingers ARE that kind of republican you won't like.) .

While I identify as Polyamorous, I can't say whether or not I was born this way. I can say when I met my husband, exploring Polyamory was a conscious choice I made. Whereas, I knew I was Bisexual and attracted to a wide variety of people my entire life. It's different for everyone, but just widely labeling anyone who is Poly as Queer just doesn't work. Everyone defined their own labels, and experiences these things somewhat different.

My point, again, is that we need nuance in these topics.

Polyamory and Kink

Yes those communities overlap, but not everyone Poly person is a Kinkster, and not every Kinkster is Non-Monogamous. I am both, it is common, but Polyamory is separate from Kink for me.

It's worth noting that Kink isn't always sexual, it also doesn't always involve a deep emotional connection.

I have a play partner, we don't date, we're not romantically involved. We plan a play date, negotiate the scene/events of the night, and our entire relationship revolves around Kink. My romantic partners and I have an entire life and relationship that has nothing to with Kink. Our Kinks may or may not be involved in the sexual aspects of our relationship.

Polyamory is not a Kink or a Fetish. It is simply a desire to have multiple romantic intimate relationships. I've had relationships with completely Vanilla partners. I've have relationships with asexual partners (some were into kink, some were not.)

Polyamory is not group sex and orgies. (You can talk to the swingers about that one.) Per my earlier rant, Metamours are rarely involved with each other, nevermind sexually. While I have experiences with those things (I have posts about big poly group trips to a swingers resorts), 90% of my relationships are just your run of the mill boring normal relationships. We go on dates, we fall asleep on the couch watching TV, we bitch at each other when we're annoyed, we whine about schedules, and spend a lot of time a part doing the day to day normal adulting. (And once in a while I get my ass beat - consentually.)

Nuance? Yes?

Adding To Your Relationship Is Unicorn Hunting

- I've made enough posts ranting about this. UH in Polyamory is frowned upon. UH in the Swinger community is normal. It's nearly impossible to ethically and equally add someone to your pre-estbalished relationship. Period.

You're not just jumping into an ABC triad. Relationships (especially romantic ones) need to be nurtured one on one! A triad is 4 relationships in all. AB, AC, BC, and ABC. Would you want to start 3 NEW RELATIONSHIPS at once? Do you know how emotionally draining that is? AB have been together 10 years, how are you going to avoid comparisons and feeling like a third wheel? And on and on and on about the problems that come with UH.

Fuck Unicorn Hunters. Don't do that to someone. Date separately before forming a triad, or quad, or deeply integrated Polycule. Like I said in my first rant, I have rarely seen those dynamics last long term and not blow TF up!

Ok I think that's enough for now.

If you actually read all of this bs, I hope it was helpful.

If you disagree, cool.

If you have questions or want me to rant about more shit - glad to, send them my way. I'm always collecting questions and topics for when I get to host discussions.

[midnightmemoirsofher]

The Pressure

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Riley x Ryan Coogler

Summary: With Ryan away in Atlanta for a series of studio meetings, the office feels strangely hollow. The balance that usually keeps their world running smoothly is gone, leaving Michael buried beneath budgets, projections, and mounting pressure. Riley watches him slowly unravel under the weight of it all and decides to intervene in the only way she knows will actually get his attention.

What begins as a simple distraction quickly spirals into a dangerous game of secrecy, temptation, and increasingly reckless decisions. Between high-stakes meetings, corporate politics, and a perfectly timed phone call from Ryan, Michael finds himself trapped between professionalism and desire while Riley proves just how far she’s willing to go to keep him from drowning in stress.

Warnings:  Explicit sexual content, office romance, workplace power dynamics, established polyamorous relationship, oral sex, public-risk sexual situations, desk/office setting, exhibitionism themes, sexually charged dialogue, teasing, power play, possessive dynamics.

After the Applause Fades | After the Line Was Crossed | The Unspoken Clause | The Unwritten Clause | Twenty Minutes

The office wasn't supposed to feel this big.

Riley had been in this space hundreds of times, a private high-rise suite that was less a traditional corporate office and more a command center for two very different, very powerful men. It was designed for efficiency and comfort, a seamless blend of modern luxury and lived-in ease. But today, without Ryan, the sprawling floor plan felt cavernous. The expensive, minimalist furniture seemed lost in the space, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that usually offered a stunning vista of the city skyline now only emphasized the sheer, empty volume of the room. The silence was the worst part. It wasn't peaceful; it was a void, a vacuum where Ryan's quiet, grounding presence should have been, amplifying every small sound into a grating distraction. The low hum of the HVAC, the distant wail of a siren, the frantic, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Michael's pen against glass.

That was the real noise.

Riley stood in the doorway of her own small, glass-walled cubby off the main area, a tablet in her hand, and just watched him for a moment. Michael B. Jordan, the man who could command a room of thousands with a single, charismatic glance, was being eaten alive by a mountain of paperwork.

He was nothing but frayed energy. His custom suit jacket was tossed over the back of his chair, his usually pristine dress shirt was wrinkled, and the top two buttons were undone, revealing a sliver of the gold chain he wore underneath. He was on his feet, pacing a tight, agitated circle around his massive mahogany desk, one hand raking through his low fade, the other gripping a stack of reports so tightly the edges were starting to curl. He'd stop, stare down at a document on his desk as if it were written in a dead language, mutter a curse under his breath, and then resume his pacing.

"Goddamn residuals," he grumbled, more to himself than to her, his voice rough and lacking any of its usual charm. "How the fuck is this number higher than the gross? That makes no damn sense."

Riley didn't answer. She knew better. Right now, he wasn't looking for a solution. He was looking for a fight, and the numbers on the page were the only thing available to take a beating.

She moved, her heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, a sound that was usually absorbed by the general hum of activity but today seemed to echo in the stillness. She placed a fresh, steaming cup of coffee on the corner of his desk, far enough away from the precarious stacks of paper to be safe, but close enough that he'd see it. He didn't even look up. His focus was laser-locked on a spreadsheet, his brow furrowed so deeply she was surprised a permanent crease hadn't been etched into his skin.

"The revised budget for 'Judgment'," she said, her voice a low, steady alto, the same tone she used to cut through the chaos on a soundstage. "Accounting flagged three line items. I've highlighted them and cross-referenced with the initial projections from the pre-production meeting in May."

He grunted, a non-committal sound of acknowledgement, but his eyes didn't leave the screen. She watched him for another beat, the tension in his shoulders a hard, knotted line. He was rubbing his temples again, his eyes squeezed shut for a second as if trying to physically ward off a headache. This was Michael in a pressure cooker. When Ryan was here, they balanced each other out. Ryan was the deep, still water; Michael was the crashing wave. Ryan absorbed the chaos; Michael created it. But without Ryan to absorb his, Michael was just a wave crashing endlessly against the shore, wearing himself down to nothing.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, knowing the answer but asking anyway. It was part of the rhythm.

"Yeah," he snapped, his voice sharper than he probably intended, the frustration spilling over. "Yeah, there is. Find me a goddamn time machine so I can go back and not agree to this fucking profit-sharing model without a goddamn cap."

Riley’s expression didn't so much as flicker. She'd heard worse. She'd heard him creatively direct a team through a fourteen-hour day on four hours of sleep and still sound like he was having the time of his life. This was different. This was the ugly side of the process, the part where the art met the math, and the math was winning.

She retreated to her desk, the glass wall doing nothing to muffle the sound of his restless energy. She answered a few emails, fielded a call from a very anxious producer in Atlanta, and synced the production schedules for the next three films. All the while, she kept an eye on him. He sank into his chair, spinning it once before leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He looked… defeated. And that was a look she had never associated with Michael.

A slow, wicked idea began to form, unspooling in the back of her mind like a silk ribbon. It started with a memory: the feel of his hands on her hips in that cramped, hot closet, the desperate, hungry way he’d looked at her, the sound of his voice wrecked and rough in her ear. He’d been unraveling then, too, but that kind of unraveling had been fun, a dangerous, exhilarating game. This was just… sad. And she couldn't have that. She couldn't let him sit here and drown in spreadsheets and resentment. That wasn't the man she knew. That wasn't the man who had pushed her against a door and claimed her like she was the only thing that mattered.

He needed a distraction. A real one.

She stood up, smoothing down the front of her blouse. It was a simple silk shell, professional, but it clung in a way that was subtle, not blatant. Her skirt was the problem. It was a pencil skirt, tailored, professional, and a deep charcoal grey. It was perfect for a day of meetings and calls. It was also perfect for what she was suddenly thinking. She walked to the small, private bathroom attached to her cubby, the click of the door closing sounding like a starting pistol.

Inside, she looked at her reflection. Her hair was pulled back in its usual neat style, her makeup minimal. Professional. Capable. The assistant. She met her own eyes in the mirror, and a slow smile touched her lips. She reached behind her, finding the small, hidden zipper at the back of the skirt. The sound of it lowering was a soft, metallic hiss in the quiet room. She shimmied out of it, letting it pool around her ankles before stepping out of it. Her blouse was long enough to just barely maintain decency, hitting mid-thigh. She folded the skirt neatly and placed it in her bag. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked back out into the main office.

The change in the air was instantaneous.

The first person to notice was the junior assistant, a young guy named Kevin, who was trying to quietly organize a stack of scripts near the door. His head came up, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly looked down, a faint blush creeping up his neck. The other two staff members, a pair of writers huddled over a laptop, glanced up, their conversation faltering for a beat before they, too, pretended to be deeply engrossed in their work.

But it was Michael’s reaction she was waiting for.

He was still hunched over his desk, a prisoner of his own misery. She didn't walk directly toward him. That would be too obvious. Instead, she moved with purpose, a slight sway in her hips that wasn't there before, her long legs drawing the eye. She stopped by the large printer against the far wall, ostensibly to retrieve a document. She bent over slowly to pick up the papers from the tray, the hem of her blouse riding up just enough to give a tantalizing glimpse of her ass.

She felt his gaze before she even straightened up. It was a hot, heavy weight that landed on her skin and made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She straightened, turned, and their eyes locked across the room.

The change in his face was immediate and dramatic. The frustration, the stress, the defeat—it all vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. His eyes, which had been dull and tired, were now blazing, tracking every inch of her with an almost unnerving intensity. He leaned back in his chair, his body language shifting from defeated to dangerous in the space of a heartbeat. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face, and for the first time all day, he looked like Michael again.

He said nothing. He just watched her as she walked back toward her desk, her hips swaying with a newfound confidence. She felt his eyes on her the entire way, a slow, appreciative once-over that was more intimate than a touch. She sat down at her desk, crossing her legs slowly, the movement drawing his gaze down to the long, bare expanse of her thighs.

The office was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. It was charged, thick with unspoken tension and a promise of things to come. The paperwork on his desk was forgotten. The numbers on the screen were irrelevant. All he could see, all he could focus on, was her.

Riley smiled to herself as she picked up her tablet, her heart beating a little faster. She knew exactly how to relieve his pressure. And it was going to be so much fun.

The air in the main office had shifted. It was no longer a void of silence but a taut, humming wire of tension, stretched taut between Riley’s desk and Michael’s. The junior assistants and writers moved with a new kind of caution, their eyes darting between the formidable man behind the desk and the woman who had just, with a simple change of attire, become the most interesting thing in the room. Michael hadn’t moved, but his entire posture had transformed. He was no longer a victim of his workload; he was a predator waiting, coiled and ready, his gaze a physical touch that followed Riley’s every movement.

She let him simmer for exactly ten minutes.

Ten minutes of answering emails, of pretending to focus on a production grid, of feeling his eyes on her like a spotlight. Ten minutes of letting the anticipation build, of letting the image of her, of the possibilities she represented, chase away the ghosts of profit-sharing models and budget overruns. She could feel his frustration melting away, replaced by a different kind of heat entirely. A slow, satisfied smile played on her lips. It was working.

Finally, she stood. The movement was fluid, deliberate. She didn't look at him, not directly. She just smoothed down the front of her silk blouse, a gesture that was both professional and impossibly suggestive, and began to walk toward his office. Every eye in the room followed her. The click of her heels on the polished concrete floor was the only sound, each one a percussive beat counting down to something inevitable.

She reached the open door of his private office and paused, her silhouette framed in the light. He was watching her, his head tilted, his expression a mixture of stress and hunger. He hadn't forgotten the way she'd taken him and Ryan at the same time, how she held on to him while Ryan fucked her in the trailer.

She walked in without knocking.

The heavy door swung shut behind her, the soft click sealing them in their own world. The air in here was warmer, smelling of expensive cologne, old paper, and the faint, bitter scent of stale coffee. Michael was still leaning back in his chair, but his forearms were resting on the armrests now, his hands loose, his body radiating a potent mix of arrogance and anticipation.

"Not now, Riley," he said, his voice a low, raspy rumble. He waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that was meant to be commanding but came off as pure theater. "I'm buried."

She didn't say a word.

That was the key. Words were for negotiating, for explaining, for maintaining the fragile illusion of professionalism. She wasn't here for that. She was here to shatter it completely.

She moved around his large mahogany desk, the click of her heels the only sound in the room, a sharp counterpoint to the frantic beating of her own heart. She walked with a confidence she didn't entirely feel, a feline grace that was as much a performance as it was a genuine expression of the power she held in that moment. She saw his eyes follow her, tracking her path, his breathing stuttering almost imperceptibly as she rounded the corner of the desk and entered his personal space.

She stopped beside his chair. The space between them was charged, electric. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the clean, masculine scent of his skin mingling with the faint aroma of his cologne. She could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat, the only sign that his calm facade was a lie.

Then, she dropped to her knees.

The movement was slow and graceful. The silk of her blouse whispered against her skin as she sank onto the plush rug, her knees settling between his polished dress shoes. It was an act of submission, but it felt like the most powerful thing she had ever done. She was at his eye level now, looking up at him, and the shock on his face was her reward.

"What the—?" he started, his voice cracking on the words, his hands coming up to grip the armrests of his chair.

But she didn't let him finish.

Her hands were already moving, her fingers finding the expensive leather of his belt. The buckle was a cool, heavy weight in her palm. She worked it with a practiced ease, the soft rasp of leather sliding through metal the only sound that broke the heavy silence. She could feel his eyes on her, wide and disbelieving, as her fingers moved to the button of his trousers, then to the zipper.

His protest died in his throat, replaced by a low moan as she freed him. He was already hard, a thick, heavy weight straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, his dick springing free.

All the stress, all the numbers, all the deadlines evaporated in an instant.

Riley leaned in, her breath warm against his sensitive skin. She could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the clean, slightly musky scent of him. She stuck out her tongue, flattening it, and gave him one slow, deliberate lick from base to tip. The taste of him was salty, and it sent unspoken words to her pussy.

"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back against the chair, his eyes squeezing shut. "Riley…"

She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips, and then she took him into her mouth.

She started slow, her lips wrapping around the head, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. She savored the weight of him on her tongue, the way he filled her mouth, the low, guttural sounds he was making deep in his throat. She took him deeper, inch by delicious inch, relaxing her throat, her hands coming up to rest on his powerful thighs, feeling the muscles tense and quiver beneath her touch.

She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his as she began to move, her head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm. The sight of her, on her knees for him, her lips stretched around his dick, her eyes dark with desire, was almost too much for him to handle. His hands came up to grip the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles cracked, his body trembling to restrained energy.

"Jesus Christ," he groaned, his hips twitching, fighting the urge to thrust, to take control. "That mouth… that fucking mouth…"

She answered him without a word.

Instead, she took him deeper, slower this time, savoring the reaction it pulled from him. His entire body responded instantly. His head tipped back against the leather chair with a muted thud, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath hissed through his teeth. The muscles in his thighs tightened beneath the desk, a visible tension gathering. She could feel every subtle shift in him now, the way his breathing lost its rhythm, the way his fingers flexed helplessly against the armrests, the way each exhale came rougher than the last.

The office around them seemed to fade into a blur of sunlight and shadow.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city carried on as usual. Cars crawled through afternoon traffic. Sunlight flashed against distant glass towers. Somewhere outside the office walls, phones rang, and elevators chimed. But inside Michael’s office, the world had narrowed to a single point of focus.

To him.

To her.

To the thick, heavy weight of his dick on her tongue, to the salty, musky taste of his skin, to the slick heat of her mouth as she worked him.

She could feel him getting close.

Not just from the tension in his body, but from the way his dick began to throb against her tongue, a frantic, desperate pulse. The way his hips began to lift from the chair, seeking more of the wet heat she was denying him. The low sounds that escaped him before he could stop them were raw and broken.

But she wasn’t ready for that yet.

This wasn’t about giving him an easy escape.

This was about reminding him who really held the reins.

She pulled back just enough to let him breathe, her lips releasing his swollen head with a soft, wet pop.

The sudden absence made him groan immediately, a frustrated, helpless sound that seemed torn straight from his chest. Her hand replaced her mouth, moving slowly, deliberately, her grip firm as she stroked him from base to tip, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed.

His voice was rough.

Stripped bare.

Nothing left of the polished executive who’d spent all morning arguing over projections and budgets.

“Please, baby.”

The plea hung in the air between them, thick with desperation.

Riley looked up.

The sight almost made her smile.

More buttons were missing. His collar sat crooked. His jaw was tense beneath the shadow of his beard, and his dark eyes had lost every trace of their earlier frustration, replaced by something far more vulnerable.

Need.

She returned her attention to him with the patience of someone completely in control.

This time, she dictated the rhythm.

Every movement was measured.

Intentional.

A slow push forward, taking him deep until the head of his dick brushed the back of her throat.

A careful retreat, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge as she pulled back.

Building pressure.

Releasing it.

Then building it again.

She guided him exactly where she wanted him, driving him toward the edge only to pull him back before he could fall. Again. And again. And again.

A quiet form of torture.

The reports scattered across his desk no longer mattered.

The emails waiting in his inbox didn’t exist.

The budgets, deadlines, conference calls, and endless responsibilities that had consumed him all morning dissolved into irrelevance.

There was only this moment.

The muted hum of the air conditioning.

The afternoon light spilling across polished wood.

The scent of expensive cologne lingered in the room.

The sound of his increasingly ragged breathing.

The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth on him.

The feeling of power settled comfortably in her hands.

This was the distraction she’d promised herself she would give him.

This was the relief he’d needed all day.

For a few blissful minutes, the world outside his office ceased to exist. It was just the wet, relentless heat of Riley's mouth, the soft sounds she was making, and the feeling of his tension melting away, replaced by the tightening pleasure that started deep in his groin and spread through his entire body. His head was thrown back against the leather, his eyes closed, a rare moment of complete surrender. His soul was floating, his mind was blissfully blank. The numbers, the deadlines, the crushing weight of responsibility, it was all gone, washed away by her throat and the rhythmic pull of her lips.

Then, a sharp knock at his office door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was like a splash of ice water, a jarring intrusion that shattered the carefully constructed bubble of their intimacy. Michael's eyes flew open, his body going rigid. Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp.

"Hey, Mike?" a voice called from the other side of the door. It was Kevin, "Your 10:30 is here. The studio heads."

10:30.

The words echoed in his head, a death knell. He completely forgot. His mind, which had been a blissful void moments before, was suddenly a screaming chaos of realization. He looked down at Riley, whose movements had stilled. Her eyes were wide, not with panic, but with a mix of shock, mischievousness, and delight. A slow, wicked smile was already playing on her glistening lips, the sight of which was almost enough to make him forget the impending disaster.

Almost.

"Get under the desk," he mouthed, the words a silent, frantic plea. "Now!" He gave her a gentle but firm push, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her down as he scrambled to compose himself. The movement was a flurry of desperate, fumbling energy. He shoved his dick back into his pants, the fabric rough against his still-hard, sensitive skin. He yanked up the zipper, the sound loud and accusatory in the quiet room. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his mind racing a million miles a minute.

Riley, on the other hand, moved with a liquid grace that was infuriatingly calm. She didn't scramble. She flowed. She slid under the massive mahogany desk, the space surprisingly cavernous, tucking herself into the kneehole between his legs. The world from this angle was a new landscape of dark wood, polished shoes, and the hem of his expensive trousers. She could see the frantic, jerky movements of his hands as he tried to make himself presentable, could hear the ragged edge to his breathing as he fought to regain control.

"Uh… give me a minute, Kevin!" he called out, his voice sounding strained and breathless to his own ears. He cleared his throat, trying to force it into its usual smooth, confident register. "Just… reviewing some last-minute notes."

He ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the lingering traces of pleasure, trying to force his expression into one of calm professionalism. He could feel Riley under the desk, a warm, breathing presence, a silent co-conspirator in his sudden, insane predicament. He could feel the heat of her body against his legs, could smell the faint, sweet scent of her perfume mingling with his own scent.

The office door opened.

"Mike, you know these guys," a deep, familiar voice said. "No need to review notes. We're all family here."

It was David Chen, the head of the studio. Followed by two other suits, their faces grim and businesslike. They walked in, their expensive shoes clicking on the polished concrete, their presence instantly filling the room with a new kind of tension.

Michael stood up, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "David. Always a pleasure." He rounded the desk, extending a hand, his movements stiff and awkward. He could feel Riley under the desk, a silent, ticking time bomb. He prayed to God she wouldn't move, wouldn't make a sound.

As he shook hands with the studio heads, his mind was a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts. He could feel the phantom heat of Riley's mouth on him, could still taste her on his tongue. He could feel the hard, insistent pressure of his dick, a desperate, needy reminder of what had been so rudely interrupted. And he could feel her under the desk, a silent, breathing, living embodiment of his distraction.

He was in hell.

And he knew she was loving every minute of it.

The executives, a trio of expensive suits and grim expressions, were settling into the plush leather chairs across from his desk. The air in the office, already thick with tension, grew heavy and suffocating. David Chen leaned forward, his hands clasped on the polished wood, his all-business smile not reaching his eyes.

"Michael, thanks for seeing us," he said, his voice smooth and corporate. "We know how busy you are."

Michael forced a smile, a brittle, painful stretch of his lips that felt like it might crack. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure they could hear it, a frantic, desperate drumbeat against the backdrop of their calm, collected professionalism. "Of course, David. Always a pleasure."

Under the desk, hidden by the cavernous shadow of the mahogany wood, Riley was a ghost. She was silent for a moment, a perfect, statuesque stillness that allowed him a precious second to get settled, to believe, for a fleeting moment, that he might actually survive this. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his thigh, a soft, steady rhythm that was both a comfort and a terrifying promise.

"We've been looking at the third-quarter projections," another suit began, a man named Mark with a face like a bored bulldog. "And frankly, we're concerned about the burn rate on 'Judgment'. The overages are starting to pile up."

Michael nodded along, his jaw tight, his mind a frantic scramble to connect the words with meaning, to form a coherent response. "Right. The overages. We've been… looking at that."

Then, he felt it.

Small hands in his lap.

The sound of his zipper being lowered, slowly, deliberately, the teeth parting one by one. It was a sound only he could hear, a secret signal that sent panic through his veins. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he caught himself, forcing his expression back into a mask of calm, corporate interest.

He could feel her fingers, cool and deft, working him through the opening in his boxers, pulling his still-hard dick through the hole in his pants. The sudden, unrestricted contact with the cool air of the office made him gasp, a soft, choked sound that he quickly covered with a cough.

"Sorry," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "Something in my throat."

Her movements were slower now, more deliberate. More torturous. She wasn't rushing. She was savoring this, savoring his predicament, his complete and utter powerlessness. He could feel her breath on him, warm and teasing, before her tongue made contact.

It was a light, experimental flick.

A soft, wet caress against the sensitive head of his dick.

Michael's entire body went rigid. He could feel the muscles in his thighs clench, a desperate, futile attempt to maintain some semblance of control.

"The visual effects budget alone is twenty percent over," Mark continued, oblivious, his voice a droning, monotonous buzz in Michael's ears. "And we're not seeing the returns on the backend to justify it. We need to talk about trimming the fat."

"Right," Michael managed to say, his voice sounding strained and thin to his own ears. "Trimming. We can… we can look at that."

He could feel her tongue again, this time tracing a slow, deliberate circle around the head of his dick, a maddening, teasing pattern that made his toes curl in his shoes. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, a brief, desperate escape into darkness, before forcing them open again, trying to focus on the concerned faces across the desk.

One wrong glance. One wrong movement. One second of bad luck and this whole thing blows up in our faces.

His mind was a screaming, chaotic mess. He could see it all playing out in his head: David leaning forward, catching a glimpse of movement under the desk, the scandal, the humiliation, the complete disaster. The sheer audacity of it, the insane, reckless risk of it, was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.

"We need to be realistic, Michael," David said, his voice firm. "We can't keep throwing money at a problem. We need solutions."

"Solutions," Michael repeated, his voice a hollow echo. "I have… solutions."

He could feel her taking him into her mouth again, just the head at first, her lips a soft, wet seal around him. He could feel the gentle suction, the way her tongue swirled and teased, a slow, deliberate torture that was designed to break him. He was trying to listen, to engage, to be the powerful, in-control producer they expected him to be, but all he could focus on was the feel of her, the wet, relentless heat of her mouth, the soft, obscene sounds she was making, sounds that were swallowed by the thick carpet and the drone of the conversation.

He could see the concerned look on David's face, the impatient expression on Mark's. He knew he was failing, that his performance was unconvincing, that he was coming across as distracted and incompetent. But he couldn't help it. He was lost in a haze of pleasure and panic, his mind a battlefield where his professional responsibilities were being slaughtered by the overwhelming, undeniable reality of the woman hiding under his desk.

The lead executive, a man named Sterling with eyes like chips of flint and a suit that probably cost more than a sedan, leaned forward, his finger tapping a specific line item on the spreadsheet glowing on Michael's monitor. The numbers swam before Michael's eyes, a meaningless jumble of digits and symbols.

"Michael, this allocation for the Prague second unit seems… excessive," Sterling said, his voice a low, deliberate drone that demanded an answer. "The per-day cost is almost double what we budgeted for the Toronto unit. Can you walk us through your reasoning here?"

It was a direct question. A trap. It required his full attention, his complete focus, his A-game. It was the one thing he couldn't give.

He took a breath, a deep, shaky inhale that was meant to gather his thoughts but only served to remind him of the warm, breathing presence hidden just inches from his straining dick. He opened his mouth to answer, to spin some plausible bullshit about European labor laws and unforeseen weather delays.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Riley took him deep.

Not just deep. All the way.

Her lips met the base of his shaft, her nose brushing against the fabric of his trousers, and her throat constricted around him in a wet, velvety embrace that made him bite his fist. It was a move that stole the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his head.

A choked, strangled sound escaped his throat, a guttural gasp that was somewhere between a sob and a groan. He slammed his hand down on the desk, the sharp crack of his palm against the polished wood making all three executives jump.

"Sorry," he rasped, his voice a hoarse, wrecked whisper. He coughed again, a phlegmy, desperate sound. "Went down the wrong pipe."

The executives exchanged concerned glances. Sterling’s brow furrowed, a flicker of suspicion in his flinty eyes. "Are you alright, Michael? You seem a bit… under the weather."

"I'm fine," Michael insisted, his voice cracking. "Just… a long morning. You were saying? The Prague unit?"

He glared down at the desk, a silent, desperate warning that he knew she couldn't see but hoped she could feel. He felt a faint, rhythmic vibration against his thigh, a low, silent hum that he knew, with a horrifying certainty, was her laughing at him. The little demon. She was enjoying this, enjoying his public humiliation. And the worst part was, a small, twisted part of him was enjoying it, too.

He was so far gone, so lost in the haze of pleasure and panic, that his brain, desperate for an escape hatch, latched onto the one name that could solve all his problems.

"Look," he said, his voice rushing, the words tumbling out in a frantic, unscripted torrent. "This is… this is a Ryan-level conversation. It's about the creative allocation, not just the numbers. I'll… I'll go over it with him. We'll set up a Zoom call. Tonight. I'll have Riley send you the invite."

It was a brilliant, desperate gambit. A way to pass the buck, to defer the decision, to get them the hell out of his office so he could deal with the beautiful, torturous woman currently trying to suck his soul out through his dick.

Sterling didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "That won't be necessary, Michael."

Michael's heart sank.

"We're not leaving," Sterling continued, his voice smooth and cold. "Until we have a solution. Right here. Right now. This is your production. Your responsibility. We're not here to talk to Ryan. We're here to talk to you."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He was trapped. Cornered. And he could feel Riley under the desk, her movements pausing for a beat, as if savoring the crushing weight of his defeat. Then, she resumed her work, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate pattern on the head of his dick, a silent, mocking acknowledgment of his predicament.

The words hit him like a physical blow. Trapped. Cornered. The walls of his office, once a symbol of his success, now felt like the sides of a coffin. He could feel Riley under the desk, her movements pausing for a beat, as if savoring the crushing weight of his defeat. Then, she resumed her work, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate pattern on the head of his dick, a silent, mocking acknowledgment of his predicament.

But then, something shifted.

He felt a new vibration, a subtle, rhythmic tapping against his leg. It wasn't her laughter. It was her phone. He could hear the faint, almost inaudible click of her fingernail against the screen, a frantic, desperate message being typed in the darkness under his desk. He had no idea who she was texting, what she was saying, but the sudden, urgent movement sent a fresh wave of panic through him.

"So, the Prague unit," Sterling pressed, his voice like a surgeon's scalpel, cutting through the fog of Michael's arousal. "The justification. We're waiting, Michael."

He was drowning. He could feel the pressure building, a desperate, frantic need for release that had nothing to do with the pleasure Riley was inflicting upon him. He was going to fail. He was going to be exposed, humiliated, ruined.

Then, his own phone, lying face up on the desk, lit up.

The screen flashed with a single name: Ryan.

The sound of his custom ringtone, a low, soulful jazz riff, cut through the heavy silence of the room. It was a lifeline. A reprieve. A miracle.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. He snatched the phone, his hand shaking so badly he almost dropped it. "I have to take this. It's… it's my partner."

He didn't wait for their permission. He just answered, his thumb jabbing at the screen. "Ryan," he said, his voice a strained approximation of normalcy.

"Put it on speaker, Mike," Ryan's voice came through the speaker, calm, cool, and impossibly clear. "Sounds like you've got company."

Michael's eyes darted to the executives, a silent, desperate plea. He hit the speakerphone button, his heart pounding against his ribs. "You're on speaker, Ry. I've got… I've got David and Mark from the studio here."

"I know who they are," Ryan's voice said, a low, dangerous edge to it that made the hair on Michael's arms stand up. "I also know they're in your office, harassing you about a budget they approved, instead of letting you do your job."

Under the desk, Riley, hearing Ryan's voice, went into overdrive. She took him deep again, her throat constricting around him, her movements more urgent, more demanding. He could feel the orgasm building, a desperate, frantic need for release that was quickly becoming an uncontrollable force.

"Ryan, we're just trying to get some clarity," David started, his voice defensive.

"No, you're not," Ryan cut him off, his voice a calm, cold steel. "You're trying to micromanage. You're trying to intimidate. You're forgetting who the fuck you're talking to. This isn't some cookie-cutter blockbuster you can squeeze into a tidy little box. This is art. And Michael is the artist. You hired him to create, not to justify every single decision to a bunch of suits who wouldn't know a good idea if it bit them on the ass."

The room was silent. The executives were stunned, their faces a mixture of shock and outrage. But Michael wasn't listening. He couldn't. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, all he could feel was the wet, relentless heat of Riley's mouth, the overwhelming, undeniable pleasure that was pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

He couldn't take it anymore.

The risk, the pleasure, the audacity of it all coalesced into a single, white-hot point of pressure at the base of his spine. It wasn't a gentle cresting; it was an eruption he had no hope of containing. He dug his fingers into the buttery leather of his chair, the expensive material groaning under the strain. His entire body went rigid, he leaned forward in his chair with his arm resting on his chair and fist underneath his chin, as the force stole his breath and his sanity.

His face was a mask of strained concentration, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. To the stunned executives, it looked like a man grappling with a complex, world-altering decision. In reality, he was grappling with the overwhelming, mind-shattering pleasure of Riley's throat convulsing around him as he came.

He felt it all. The first hot, thick pulse of his release flooding her mouth, the way she moaned softly around him. He could feel the frantic, desperate rhythm of her swallowing, a hungry, greedy act. She didn't miss a drop, her movements efficient and clean, a testament to her incredible, terrifying skill.

He felt the last shuddering spasm, the final, aching throb of his dick as she gently, reverently, licked him clean, her tongue a soft, wet caress that was both a final tease and a tender farewell. She gently tucked him back into his pants, the fabric a rough, unwelcome intrusion against his sensitive skin. He felt the soft, metallic click of his zipper being pulled up, the final, definitive punctuation mark to the most insane, exhilarating, and terrifying moment of his entire life.

He slumped back in his chair, his body limp and boneless, his mind a blissful, blank slate. He was spent and drained.

"The budget is fine," Ryan's voice continued, a calm, confident rumble through the speaker. "The overages are justified. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me. But you will not bother Michael with this again. Are we clear?"

There was a long, heavy silence. David's face was a thundercloud of fury, but he knew when he was beaten. "We're clear, Ryan," he said, his voice tight with resentment.

"Good," Ryan said. "Now, if you'll excuse my partner, he has a movie to make."

The line went dead.

The meeting was over.

The executives stood up, their movements stiff and awkward. Michael stood on shaky legs, his body still humming with the aftershocks of his release. He shook their hands, his voice a rough approximation of his usual smooth charm. "Gentlemen. Always a pleasure."

He walked them to the door, his back ramrod straight, a king who had just won a decisive, bloody battle. He closed the door behind them, the soft click a sound of victory.

And then, he collapsed back into his chair, his body limp, his mind a blissful, blank slate.

He looked down at the desk, at the dark, empty space beneath it.

"You," he breathed, a slow, tired smile spreading across his face. 

A soft, triumphant laugh echoed from under the desk.

The silence in the office was a living thing. It wasn't empty; it was full. Full of the echoes of Ryan's voice, of the stunned silence of the executives, of the frantic, desperate beat of Michael's own heart. He was slumped in his chair, a boneless, blissed-out wreck, his body still humming with the aftershocks of the most intense, dangerous orgasm of his life.

He heard the soft click of his desk drawer opening, then closing. A moment later, she emerged from under the desk, her movements as fluid and graceful as they had been when she went down. Her blouse was still slightly rumpled, her lips were swollen and glistening, and her eyes were dark with a satisfaction that was both a little terrifying and incredibly sexy.

She didn't say a word. She just walked to the door, her hips swaying with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a silent, triumphant strut. She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and looked back at him, a slow, wicked smile playing on her lips.

"Mr. Jordan," she said, her voice a low, teasing purr. "Your 11:00 is in ten minutes. I suggest you try to look a little less… fucked."

Then she was gone, the soft click of the door sealing him in his own private, post-orgasmic haze. He just sat there, a slow, stupid grin spreading across his face. He was going to have to buy her something. Something expensive. Something very, very expensive.

His phone buzzed again, a low, insistent vibration against the polished wood of his desk. He glanced down, expecting to see a follow-up text from Riley, a picture of her new shoes, or maybe just a single, triumphant emoji.

But it was Ryan.

Again.

The grin faded from Michael's face, replaced by a sudden, nervous knot in his stomach. He answered, his voice still a little rough. "Hey, Ry. Thanks again for that. You saved my ass."

"I know I did," Ryan's voice came through the speaker, calm and measured, but with an undercurrent of something that made Michael's stomach clench. "Which is why I'm calling back. To find out why the hell our assistant had to text me in the middle of a meeting to save your ass from a couple of studio suits."

Michael swallowed hard. He knew this was coming. Ryan was the calm, reserved one, the anchor that kept their chaotic little world from spinning off its axis. But when he was pushed, when he felt like things were getting out of control, he could be colder than ice.

"Look, man, it was nothing," Michael started, trying to sound casual, trying to downplay the sheer insanity of the situation. "They were just… being suits. You know how they get."

"Michael," Ryan said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "Don't bullshit me. I know you. And I know her. She doesn't panic. She doesn't call me for help unless it's a real emergency. So I'm going to ask you one more time. What the hell was so important that she had me interrupt a meeting with the heads of the studio?"

Michael knew he was cornered. There was no way out of this. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the fallout.

"Okay," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, you want to know what happened? I'll tell you what happened."

He paused, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "She was under my desk, Ry."

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. Michael could almost hear Ryan's mind working, processing the information, connecting the dots.

"She was under my desk," Michael continued, his voice dropping even lower, "with my dick in her mouth."

Another silence, longer this time, heavier. Michael could feel the weight of it, the unspoken judgment, the quiet disapproval.

"I forgot they were coming," he admitted, his voice a little sheepish. "It was a last-minute appointment. I was… distracted."

"Distracted," Ryan repeated, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You were getting your dick sucked by our girl while you were supposed to be negotiating a multi-million dollar budget, and you call it 'distracted'?"

"I… yeah," Michael said, a little defensively. "It was a pretty good distraction."

He could hear a soft, almost imperceptible sound on the other end of the line. It took him a second to realize what it was.

Ryan was laughing.

It wasn't a loud, boisterous laugh. It was a low, quiet, deeply amused chuckle, a sound that was both a relief and a little terrifying.

"Only you, Mike," Ryan said, his voice still laced with that low, rumbling laughter. "Only you would turn a budget meeting into a goddamn porno."

"So… you're not mad?" Michael asked, a little tentatively.

"Mad?" Ryan said, and Michael could hear the smile in his voice. "Why would I be mad? She's resourceful. She knows how to handle you."

He paused, a thoughtful silence hanging between them. "Tell me something," Ryan said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. "Was she wearing that charcoal skirt?"

Michael grinned, a slow, triumphant grin. "She took that off before she came into my office"

Ryan's laughter echoed through the phone, a low, rich sound that was full of pride, and a deep, abiding affection for the reckless, charismatic playboy he called his partner, and the brilliant, resourceful, and insatiable woman they both called theirs.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist

[ravikboots]

one of the many things why I love my poly relationship is that even if I'm running out of energy they're still have each other and!!!! they're enjoying each other

[ravikboots]

in honor of pride wanna share more pics with my beauties :p love them sm😭💗

[ravikboots]

«love is the main luxury»

me and my loved ones 💗

[givemethatkookie]

why have one if you can have two?

(Bed-time routine with your two sexy boyfriends 🤤)

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ​ 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * ───

⊹ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : park jimin x reader x jeon jungkook (poly relationship)

⊹ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : heavy smut, absolute sensory overload, possessive/greedy bf hours

⊹ 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 : sharing you, impatient boyfriends, bratty/jealous jungkook, boy x boy kissings

⊹ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit language, rough making out, needy groaning, grinding under silk sheets, overstimulation, jimin and jungkook kissing right in front of you, absolute unadulterated praise, high-key exhibitionism.

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ​ 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * ───

▷ 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬

After a long day ​you crawl onto the mattress, your bones aching with exhaustion as you pull the heavy duvet up to your chest.

​Jimin is already lying down, propped up against a mountain of black pillows. He’s completely shirtless, his smooth skin gleaming under the purple light, his thick silver rings catching the faint glow every time his hand moves. His messy, platinum-blonde hair falls softly over his forehead, his hooded eyes following your every movement with a dangerous, cat-like hunger.

​"Ugh, I'm so tired," you groan softly, letting your head sink back into the mattress, your eyelids fluttering shut. "My whole body feels like lead."

​Jimin lets out a chuckle. He doesn't say a word. Instead, his smooth body slides across the sheets, his warm weight instantly bracketing you as he hovers over your frame. His hands slide up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones before his plump, glistening lips drop down onto yours.

​The kiss is sweet at first, a comforting pressure that aims to soothe your exhaustion. But within seconds, his grip on your face tightens, his tongue sliding past your lips with a heavy stroke that makes your breath catch.

​From the open en-suite bathroom across the room, the faint hum of an electric toothbrush suddenly cuts off.

​A loud, wet spit echoes against the porcelain sink, followed by the hurried clatter of a toothbrush hitting the holder. Jungkook stands in the doorway. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, his tatted arms crossing over his bare, sculpted chest. His dark eyes are narrowed, a thick scowl settling on his handsome face as he watches Jimin completely devour your mouth under the violet lights.

​"Hey! Are you serious right now?" Jungkook huffs with jealousy. He takes a heavy step into the bedroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his tatted hand. "You guys started without me? "

​A muffled giggle escapes your lips against Jimin’s mouth, your hands reaching up to grip Jimin’s bare shoulders.

​Jimin breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his lips slick and shining as he glances over his shoulder at the younger boy. A mischievous smirk dances on Jimin’s face. "Then hurry up, Jungkookie. You're too slow."

​Without waiting another second, Jimin drops his head back down, his mouth crashing into yours with even more urgency. His hands slide down your neck, his fingers twisting into the collar of your oversized shirt, hauling your body flush against his chest. You let out a soft, helpless moan into his throat, your hips instinctively arching up as his thumb rubs a punishing circle right over your hip bone.

​Suddenly, the mattress dips violently. ​Jungkook crawls over the sheets like a predator, his large, veiny hands grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs apart so he can wedge his body right between them. He crowds into your space, his face flushed and his breath smelling faintly of mint as he stares down at you with dark pupils.

​"My turn," Jungkook growls.

​He leans down, his mouth aggressively capturing yours the exact moment Jimin pulls back to give him room. Jungkook’s kiss is entirely different. It's dominant, demanding, and thick with a desperate need to catch up. His wet tongue plunges deep into your throatm At the same time, Jimin doesn't leave your side; his plump lips trail down your jawline, his teeth biting down sharply on the skin right beneath your ear, making you whine out loud from the dual assault on your senses.

​You are completely pinned beneath them, your hands desperately gripping Jungkook’s biceps while Jimin’s soft fingers tangle in your hair.

​Jungkook breaks the kiss for a split second, but instead of diving back down to you, Jungkook’s dark eyes flick up to look at Jimin, who is still kissing his way down your collarbone.

​"Hyung," Jungkook rasps, his breath hitching.

​Jimin stops, lifting his head. His hooded, dark eyes lock onto Jungkook’s face. There is a silent, heavy understanding that passes between them in the purple dusk of the bedroom—a shared, possessive greed over the person lying beneath them.

​Right before your eyes, Jimin shifts his weight, his hand reaching up to grip the back of Jungkook’s neck, his silver rings burying into the dark curls at the nape of the younger boy's head. Jungkook doesn't hesitate for a single fraction of a second. He leans forward, and their lips smash together right above your chest.

​Your breath completely hitches in your throat, a violent, blinding rush of liquid heat pooling between your thighs at the view.

​Seeing your two gorgeous boyfriends aggressively making out right in front of your face is an absolute sensory overload. Jungkook’s jaw works roughly as he tilts his head, his plump lips molding against Jimin’s with a messy ferocity. Jimin lets out a soft, high-pitched whimper into the kiss, his eyes closing completely as Jungkook’s large hand slides up to grip Jimin’s throat, anchoring him into the kiss. wet sound of their tongues sliding together echoes loudly in the quiet room, a thin trail of spit running down Jungkook’s chin as he dominates his hyung’s mouth.

​You stare up at them, completely turned on, your chest rising and falling in rapid pants as you watch the muscles in Jungkook’s back ripple, his tattoos shifting under the neon glow while Jimin’s fingers dig desperately into Jungkook’s bare shoulders.

​"Ah... fuck," you whimper out loud, your fingers digging into the silk sheets as a heavy, throb cuts through your core just from watching them.

​Jungkook breaks the kiss with a loud, wet smack, both of them breathing heavily, their lips slick and glistening under the purple lights. He looks down at you, a wicked, completely crazed smirk spreading across his face as he notices your flushed, ruined expression.

​"Look at how turned on she is just from watching us, hyung," Jungkook whispers hoarsely, his hand sliding down from Jimin’s throat to grip your thigh, squeezing the flesh with a bruising intensity.

​Jimin looks down at you too, his cheeks flushed pink, his lips parted as he lets out a breathy, dark chuckle. "So bad, love. Wanting both of us at the same time."

​Jimin slides back down, his mouth finding your left ear while Jungkook hovers directly over your mouth, his hard length pressing heavily against your core through his gray sweatpants.

​"You're not going to sleep for a long time, angel," Jungkook promises against your lips, his tongue sliding out to lick your lower lip before plunging back inside.

You are entirely trapped under the crushing, beautiful weight of them, your skin tingling everywhere their bare skin rubs against yours under the dark violet glow.

​Jungkook’s tongue continues to ruthlessly dominate your mouth, his large hand sliding up your inner thigh, dragging the hem of your shirt all the way past your hips. You let out a muffled whimper against his lips as his rough, tatted fingers touch the lace of your underwear, finding you completely soaked, dripping straight through the thin fabric.

​"Look at how wet you are," Jungkook growls, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second just to stare down at your ruined face. His dark eyes are entirely blown out, dark and ravenous. "Just from watching your boys kiss. You're such a little exhibitionist, aren't you, angel?"

​"Please, Kook-ah—" you gasp, your hips instinctively twitching upward, begging for the friction, but he holds you down effortlessly with his body weight.

​Before you can even breathe, Jimin’s hands slide underneath your lower back, his smaller, ring-clad fingers digging firmly into your flesh as he lifts your hips off the mattress with surprising strength. He crowds himself beneath your legs, his swollen, slick lips pressing burning kisses along the inside of your thigh, moving closer and closer to your aching core.

​"Let me taste how bad you want us," Jimin murmurs against your skin, his hot breath making your entire body shiver. With a smooth, practiced movement, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, sliding the lace down your legs and tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

​You let out a loud, uninhibited cry as Jimin’s tongue instantly makes contact with your wet slit, lapping up your sweet release with long, heavy strokes. The sensory overload is paralyzing—Jungkook is hovering directly over your chest, his large hands anchoring your wrists against the black pillows, while Jimin is entirely buried between your thighs, devouring you with an agonizing, expert rhythm.

​"Ah! Jimin, oh my god," you sob, your head rolling back as your back arches completely off the bed. Your walls are pulsing violently, already hovering right on the edge of a massive climax.

​"Don't close your eyes," Jungkook commands, his voice dropping into a rough, authoritative baritone that leaves absolutely no room for disobedience. He leans down, his sharp jawline brushing against your cheek as his lips press right against your ear. "Keep your eyes open, angel. Look at me while hyung makes you come."

​You force your heavy eyelids open, your vision completely blurred with tears of pure pleasure. Jungkook is staring right down into your soul, a dark, possessive smirk curling his lips as he watches your face completely unravel. He reaches one tatted hand down, his long fingers finding his own waistband and pulling his thick, rock-hard erection free from his gray sweatpants. He doesn't slide inside you yet; instead, he rests the heavy, twitching head of his length right against your lower belly, rubbing it against your skin, completely branding you with his heat.

​Between your legs, Jimin increases the pace, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing it with a heavy, crushing pressure while his tongue continues to lick you clean. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against your skin echo loudly in the quiet bedroom, mixing with your breathless, high-pitched whimpers.

​"I'm gonna come—I'm coming," you wail, your fingers clawing desperately at the sheets as the tension in your lower stomach tightens into a knot.

​"Take it, love. Come all over his tongue," Jungkook whispers hoarsely, his mouth crashing back down onto yours to catch your loud scream as your body finally breaks.

​A violent, wall-shaking orgasm rips through your frame. Your inner muscles clamp down in tight, frantic pulses, your release pouring out over Jimin’s mouth. You squirm wildly under the heavy duvet, but Jungkook holds you completely still, his tongue deep in your mouth, drinking in your breathless moans until your hips finally stop shaking.

​Jimin slowly pulls away, panting heavily as he sits up on his knees. His lips are glistening, completely drenched in your slick fluids under the neon light. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a lazy, incredibly satisfied smile dimpling his cheeks as he looks up at Jungkook.

​"She's so tight tonight, Kook," Jimin pants, his voice a dark, breathy purr. "So ready for you."

​Jungkook lets out a low, ragged growl, his patience completely evaporating. He releases your wrists, his large hands immediately grabbing your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you against the mattress. He lines himself up with your dripping center, his dark eyes locking onto yours one last time.

​"My turn to ruin you, angel," he promises softly.

​With one heavy, brutal shove, Jungkook buries his entire, thick length inside you in one deep stroke.Your head cracks back into the plush pillows, a broken, high-pitched wail ripping from your throat as Jungkook's full length stretches you open. He stays completely still for a few agonizing seconds, buried as deep as he can possibly go, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as his chest heaves against yours. His tatted fingers are white-knuckled where they're dug into your hips, anchoring you to the mattress while your overwrought muscles spasm frantically around him, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him.

​"F-fuck," Jungkook groans into your neck, a raw, ragged sound that vibrates straight through your bones. His skin is slick with sweat now, burning hot everywhere it presses against you. "You're so tight, angel. Squeezing me so fucking hard."

​Before your brain can even process the fullness of him, Jimin moves. He crawls back up the bed, his smooth body sliding along your left side like a warm velvet shadow. He doesn't let you rest for even a second. His silver rings click together as his hand grips your jaw, tilting your head to the side so he can crash his mouth over yours, sucking your tongue deep into his mouth to catch your breathless, sobbing gasps.

​Jimin's tongue is thick and wet, tasting faintly of you and his own heavy lust. He devours your mouth with a lazy, possessive rhythm that completely distracts you from the lower half of your body—until Jungkook suddenly pulls back to his tips and rams right back inside you.

​A muffled scream gets lost inside Jimin’s throat.

​Jungkook starts moving in earnest now, his pace brutal, heavy, and completely unyielding. The loud, wet slap of his bare thighs crashing against your bottom echoes sharply under the neon lights, a rhythmic, dirty soundtrack to the way they’re systematically taking you apart. He’s driving up into you at a devastating angle, hitting your sweet spot with every single piston-like thrust until your vision goes entirely fuzzy, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

​"Mmh, look at her," Jimin pants, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second to swipe his thumb across your wet, swollen lower lip. His hooded eyes are completely dark, tracking the way your head rolls from side to side in pure overstimulation. "She's losing her mind, Jungkookie. Look at how pretty she looks when she's completely ruined."

​Jungkook lets out a dark, breathless chuckle, never slowing down his frantic pace. He reaches one massive, tattooed hand up, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair to pull your head back, forcing you to look up at him through your tear-filled eyes.

​"I see her, hyung," Jungkook rasps, a bead of sweat dripping from his sharp jawline straight onto your collarbone. He pushes deeper, his hips grinding hard against yours, burying himself so far inside that your breath catches completely. "She's ours. Every single drop of her."

​The dual friction of Jungkook’s heavy, driving thrusts and Jimin’s soft, ringed fingers relentlessly pinching and rubbing your swollen clit is too much. You are caught in a lethal crossfire of absolute pleasure, your hands clawing blindly at Jungkook's muscled back, your fingernails leaving light red scratches across his tatted shoulders.

​"J-Jungkook—Jimin, please, I can't," you sob out, your voice cracking as your inner walls clamp down around Jungkook like a vice, signaling that you're right on the precipice of your second climax. "I'm gonna break, it's too much—"

​"Don't you dare close your eyes," Jungkook growls, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly dominant, low register that commands absolute obedience. He delivers three quick, deep, punishing thrusts that have you crying out loud. "Look at your boyfriends. Come for us, angel."

​You look up, your chest heaving in shallow, frantic pants, and right above you, Jimin leans in to capture Jungkook’s lips once more.

​Watching them share another wet, messy kiss while Jungkook is literally bottoming out inside your core is the final, devastating trigger. Your body completely gives out. A massive, white-hot orgasm rips through your entire frame, your inner muscles convulsing violently, clamping around Jungkook's length in tight, rhythmic, crushing waves. You wail into the empty room, your head tossing back as your release floods between your thighs.

​The sensation of your slick walls squeezing him through your climax pushes Jungkook completely over his own edge.

​He lets out a loud, feral groan into Jimin’s mouth, breaking the kiss as he delivers one final, deep, desperate ram. He freezes, burying himself to the absolute hilt inside you as his own body goes rigid, his tatted shoulders tensing as he pumps his warm, thick release deep inside your womb, filling you completely.

​The bedroom falls into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of three pairs of lungs gasping for air under the hazy violet glow.

​Slowly, Jungkook collapses his heavy weight onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, shaky sigh. Jimin slides down right beside you, his warm arm draping over your waist as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your wet cheek, his fingers gently smoothing your tangled hair away from your forehead.

​"Good girl," Jimin whispers hoarsely, his voice filled with an overwhelming, soft fondness as he pulls the heavy silk duvet over all three of your tangled, sweat-slicked bodies. "Go to sleep now, love. We've got you."

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ​ 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * ───

⊹ 𝐚/𝐧 : OMG CHILLSSS literally had a dream bout them last night n it was EXACTLY like this jdshfkshf i am so OBSESSED w them both kissing right in front of y/n face likeee excuse me pls let me wake up in that bed tomorrow morning.

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * 🕊️ :･ﾟ​ 🕊️ :･ﾟ 🧴 ･ﾟ: * ───

[figs-and-cigs]

Finding 5 minutes to kiss and hold each other in between meetings, before he leaves town again.

Not sure if that's my most of least favorite part of my relationship with my comet. God, I'm a lucky girl.