cream crackered tbh love

You had a problem on your hands.

You'd grown used to fixing problems. You were good at fixing problems. It was what you'd built your entire career on.

This problem, though, was seemingly unfixable.

The issue? Grace had run out of candy.

Stratt had ensured the ship was well stocked. There were enough Twizzlers and sour Skittles and gummy worms to last a normal person half a year.

Unfortunately, Ryland Grace was not a normal person when it came to candy. The rate at which he consumed sweets was unprecedented. Truly, you weren't sure if Stratt could have ever properly accounted for his insatiable sugar cravings. He'd eaten a lot on the Vat, but it seemed his consumption rate had doubled since waking up on the Hail Mary. If you had to guess, it was fueled by anxiety and the need for something recognizable. There was nothing normal about waking up in space and looking inward only to find yawning black chasms where memories once lived in vivid color. Anyone would want something familiar to hold onto.

You had been familiar to him once, in the sense that you had occupied similar spaces and had addressed one another at meetings, but at the time he didn't remember and you didn't push.

Ultimately, you hadn't considered how it might effect him when he ran out. Thankfully, weeks of mental recalibration and long nights spent talking under the dim artificial light of the ship had made him more even-keeled than he had been those first few days. You could tell he was on edge, though. He'd eaten the last of his supply two days ago and had been fidgeting at a near constant rate ever since.

It didn't help that the three of you - Grace, yourself, and Rocky - were currently playing a very long and very boring game of hurry up and wait. Wait for the Taumoeba to breed. Wait for the data to align. Wait to go home.

Now, in the absence of any reasonable outlet, Grace had taken to chewing pen caps. You knew he hated it - he'd bemoaned the practice on more than one occasion as he recalled stories of his students and how he'd find himself cleaning up the half-chewed pencils they left behind after class. But he couldn't seem to stop.

You figured, as far as habits went, it wasn't the worst one he could have, so you let him be.

Today, the pair of you sat in companionable silence in the lab while Rocky slept nearby. Grace scribbled some notes on a pad of paper while you sat hunched over a tablet, reading some corny romantasy book. From your periphery you saw Grace yank the pen he was gnawing on from his mouth and toss it down with a huff.

"You good?" you asked, glancing up at him. He looked genuinely distraught, his eyes fixed on the half-chewed pen that laid in front of him.

"No, I'm going to be chewing pen caps for the rest of my life," he lamented. He set his glasses down and folded his arms across the table, burying his head in the crook of his elbow.

You snorted and rolled your eyes.

"No you won't. You'll be drowning in candy when we get back home." All the manufacturers would be clamoring to get his endorsements plastered across their social media accounts. You could see it now: an Instagram post of Grace in a not-so-candid shot, eating sour Skittles, with some ridiculous PR line about how Skittles was the favorite candy of every interstellar traveler.

(Conveniently forgetting the fact that your favorite candy was most decidedly not sour Skittles.)

Grace heaved a dramatic sigh into the cradle of his arms.

Then, just because you could - because you wanted to see Grace blush - you tacked on (in a far too casual tone), "Till then, maybe you should find something else to keep your mouth busy."

You knew exactly how the words would sound as they were sliding from your tongue. You knew the kind of response they'd elicit from Grace. You weren't worried about how they would be received, because the two of you had crossed that line from friends to lovers weeks ago. Since then you'd taken to flirting with him without reservation, without questioning whether you were misreading the signs. And every time you did he would blush the prettiest shade of pink and cobble together a response that made your knees feel like jelly.

It worked. You watched the tips of his ears turn red even as Grace snickered into the sleeve of his jumpsuit. He lifted his head just enough to peek at you, fixing you with a look that said, 'Really? That's the line you chose to use?' But you could tell from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that he was smiling. There was no real judgment behind his glare, just exasperated amusement.

You smirked back at him and turned your attention back to the tablet in front of you, the moment passing.

Soon Grace was fidgeting again. His glasses found their way back to his face and he exchanged his pen and paper for a whiteboard and dry erase marker. You periodically glanced up from your e-book to watch him scribble down some equation or another, your attention snagging on the soft crease between his brows and the set of his mouth and the way his glasses sat haphazardly upon his nose. You allowed yourself to openly admire his peony-pink pout and the lake blue of his eyes and the skew of his blond hair. Your eyes lingered on the mole on his left cheek, the same spot you had pressed your lips to the last time you'd stolen a moment together while Rocky slumbered.

You dipped your gaze lower, to his neck where a pale hickey was peeking over the collar of his shirt, fading as the vessels beneath his skin stitched themselves back together. By now you'd forgotten all about your book and the battle-hardened heroine who was doing her best not to fall in love with the faerie prince who'd whisked her away to his realm.

Grace, oblivious to your ogling, continued to stare at the whiteboard, twirling the marker between his fingers.

Then you saw it: the subtle twitch of Grace's wrist, the slight flex of his forearm as he began to raise the marker towards his mouth. The marker whose cap was currently tucked into Grace's palm, whose writing end was heading somewhere it should definitely not be. You knew, before it even happened, what was about to unfold.

With lightning speed you dropped your tablet and leaned across the table to snatch the marker from where his hand was suspended halfway to his mouth. Grace jumped, startled by your sudden flurry of movement.

"Jesus, Ryland! I know you're going crazy without candy but please do not be sticking Expo markers in your mouth." You wiggled the pen in his face for emphasis. Then, without bothering to replace the cap, you tossed it somewhere behind you. It landed with a clatter and rolled away somewhere. Whatever. You'd find it later.

"Oh fudge- I'm sorry! It's habit at this point, okay? I'm trying my best here."

You could hear the pout in his voice even though his face was obscured from your view from where it was buried in his hands, his fingers slotted under his glasses. You were aware he was distraught at the appearance of this new - and (in his words) disgusting habit - but the way in which he looked at you, all big blue eyes and perfect pouty lips, had you feeling something that was definitely not sympathy. Maybe sympathy's distantly related cousin. You chose not to acknowledge it for what it was just yet.

You clicked your tongue at him, head shaking. You put on your best impression of his disappointed teacher voice and asked, "What am I gonna do with you?"

Your words from earlier replayed in your mind. Maybe there was truth to your statement. Maybe he really should find other things to keep his oral fixation in check. And if those other things happened to involve the liberal application of his tongue to your cunt, well, who were you to say no to that? It would be good for him to blow off some of the pent-up energy that's buzzing beneath his skin and rattling around inside his mind. You'd just be getting the fringe benefits.

That's what you told yourself as you got up and circled around the table towards him. He watched you the entire time, his expression somewhere between caution and curiosity. Like he thought you might genuinely be upset at him, but he was eager to discover what punishment you planned to dole out.

Grace swiveled to face you as you approached, leaning your hip against the edge of the table for extra support because the way he was gazing up at you from over the edge of his glasses was already making your knees weak. You were trying to make a move here - the last thing you needed was to fall on him and send the both of you toppling to the floor.

"You look like you might have an idea," Grace murmured. The low pitch of his voice and the sensation of his fingers finding your waist sent a sliver of heat slicing through your core.

You made a thoughtful noise in the back of your throat and reached up to cup his face, his stubble prickling against your palm. Grace tilted his head up, clearly expecting you to kiss him. Instead, you curled your fingers under his chin and traced your thumb along the plush curve of his lower lip. There was a rush of air against the pad of your finger as he sucked in a shaky breath.

You repeated the motion once, twice, and then on the third pass you settled your thumb against the center of his lip, applying the slightest hint of pressure. Just enough that you could rest your finger against the sharp edge of his incisors.

Grace's body rushed to meet your unspoken demands even as his mind reeled to catch up to the fact that you were not, in fact, going to kiss him. His mouth fell open, allowing you to slip your thumb inside and press the pad of it against the slick surface of his tongue.

You met his gaze, your breath catching in your throat as you sank into the black pools of his pupils and the thin ring of cerulean that encircled them.

"This okay?" You managed to whisper, searching for his consent. Grace nodded all too eagerly, the motion setting his teeth to scraping at your skin. You suppressed a shiver and smiled down at him.

"Good. Suck."

For several long, agonizing seconds Grace just sat there, mouth agape with your finger halfway to his throat. Then he blinked and - having seemingly come back to himself - closed his lips around the digit, obeying your command.

Your breath hitched, barely audible beneath the steady hum of the ship. Grace's eyes fluttered closed as he leaned towards you, taking your finger further into his mouth. You were legitimately worried he might gag. He had gotten in the habit of proving you wrong, though, and this scenario was no exception: he just applied more pressure around your finger and moaned when you pressed the digit more firmly against his tongue. You could feel the vibration of it travel through your fingers and down your wrist. It rattled across your ribcage and settled directly in your core.

The hand that was occupying your waist squeezed tighter, fingers digging in against the fabric of your jumpsuit. His other hand rose to wrap around your wrist, his ring finger curled against the pulse point there. You were sure he could feel the way it fluttered under his touch at a hummingbird's pace.

Heat was quickly gathering between your legs. You shifted your weight, trying to ease the ache, but succeeded only in rubbing the seam of your jumpsuit against your clit. Your stance faltered as pleasure spiked through your thighs and up your spine and settled at the base of your skull, a subtle shiver wracking your body.

Grace, ever the observationalist, took note of your trembling. In one smooth motion he shoved the whiteboard to the side and maneuvered you into a sitting position perched at the edge of the table, his hands gripping at your hips.

Your thumb disconnected from his mouth with a soft, wet pop. You cupped his jaw and ran your thumb along the edge of his lips, smearing his skin with saliva.

Grace sat, now nestled between your spread legs, with his mouth agape and his breath fanning hotly against your palm, staring up at you through his lashes. His lips were wet and pink and his skin was searing where it laid against yours and you couldn't stop yourself from leaning down to press your mouth to his.

He returned your kiss with fervor, licking into your mouth like he might find the sweetness he so desperately craved there. The moan that you swallowed as his tongue swiped across your teeth told you he must've found something damn close to it.

Over the course of the next several minutes Grace deftly stripped you of your jumpsuit, your t-shirt, and your bra. Goosebumps rose across your skin, put there in combination by the cool, recycled air of the ship that circulated around you and the heat of Grace's gaze on your body. Every time he had you naked under him he looked at you like this might be the last time he saw you like this. For all he knew, it could be. There was no assurance of continued safety on a mission like this.

But the knowledge that you were going home - that you would see Earth again, would live beyond the meager handful of months Stratt (and the entire world) had consigned to you - had caused something to shift. Grace took the opportunity to really look. He was not drinking you in, in the rapid way a man dying of thirst might, but rather with the slow savor of someone sipping a vintage wine, who knew they had time to truly appreciate everything it had to offer.

Grace took his time laving attention on your breasts. Your fingers found purchase in his hair as your back arched, pushing yourself more firmly against him. Grace groaned, low and needy, around your nipple, the vibrations traveling through your stomach and to your aching cunt. You wriggled against the table but the smooth metal yielded little in the way of friction. You could only manage to be mildly embarrassed at the slickness you felt against your thighs as you tried futilely to find reprieve from the throbbing between your legs.

You remembered, distantly, that you were supposed to be the one in control here. You were supposed to be making him melt under your touch. But he had flipped the script on you quicker than you could realize and now you just couldn't bring yourself to care that you'd been reduced to a writhing mess atop the sterile lab table as he kissed and licked his way from your chest to the hem of your underwear.

The groan that ground its way up from deep in his chest as he dropped his gaze to your soaked panties was the most erotic sound you'd ever heard him make. It was the sound of a man who was completely and utterly wrecked at the mere sight of you, laid out before him and desperate for his touch.

Grace leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your clothed clit, the firm point of his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud. Your arms were no longer effective tools in keeping you upright and you collapsed against the table with a thud, a low moan pulling its way from between your lips.

"Lift up," he demanded quietly as his fingers grasped and pulled at the edge of your panties. You heeded his command and lifted up just enough for him to slip the soaked garment off your legs.

Grace, you'd learned, could be quite efficient when he wanted to be. You could tell from eager gleam in his eyes and the firmness of his grip as he pushed your legs apart that this was one of those times. He discarded his glasses to the side and wasted not a second more diving into you. His tongue licked a long, hot stripe up the seam of your pussy before he latched his mouth onto your swollen clit.

Over the course of your short sexual relationship, Grace had been quick to memorize what you did and didn't like. He knew how to take you apart in record time and then put you back together, only to unravel you again minutes later. He was keenly aware of how you liked his fingers curled when they were inside you and the way in which your moans pitched upwards when he applied just the right amount of pressure with his tongue.

He was using all those tricks against you now, beckoning forth your orgasm at breakneck speed. Before he had savored you, but now he was devouring you with a single-minded focus that made you feel like you were being flayed to the nerve. And you liked it, gasping and squirming as two of his fingers found your entrance and pushed in. It was a smooth glide, your body hungrily taking him in to where you needed him most.

A few expert curls of his fingers and a languorous suck at your clit had the taut string of pleasure twined around your spine snapping, your back arching and your thighs clamping around his head. Your hands gripped at his hair, caught between pulling him closer or pushing him away. It was too much and too little and not enough and just right all at the same time and you felt like you were exploding and imploding simultaneously.

Ken is smiling when he pokes his head around the door. He’s always smiling when he’s looking at you. Sometimes you’ll walk into the kitchen after he’s already been awake for an hour and find him looking sadly at the TV. The moment you make yourself known he always breaks into a grin which won’t leave his face for the rest of the day.

“Hey! I was hoping we could do boyfriend-partner stuff today,” he says, flopping chest-first onto the mattress next to you and immediately kicking his legs in the air. You’ve explained multiple times over that it can just be partner-partner stuff, or even just partner stuff, but he seems to be attached to the word boyfriend. Wears it like a badge of honour: yeah, he’s YOUR boyfriend, and everyone should know!

“I’d love that, baby, but we gotta go easy today. I’m a bit tender.”

“Oh.” He cocks his head to the side. “Did I massage you too hard last night?”

“It isn’t that. If anything, you can massage me harder, if you want.”

"Ooo," he says, excitedly, then his brow furrows again. “Then what is it? Tell me! If it’s a guy I’ll fight him for you.”

You’re pretty certain Ken has never been in a fight in his life, or at least one which didn’t contain contemporary dance. 

“I’m on my period.”

A beat.

“We talked about this, yeah? I’m menstruating, Ken.”

He nods, slowly, the meaning of the word coming back to him.

“Well, why be ‘menstruating, Ken’ when you could be… Kenstruating men?” 

He looks at you and wiggles his eyebrows as if he’s just said the smoothest pickup line anyone’s ever thought of. You burst into laughter. It’s total nonsense, but when he says that kinda stuff with so much sincerity it’s so charming. 

"What did you have in mind?" you relent.

"Well, you said orgasms can make your cramps better, right? I remember, I'm a good listener."

"You sure are," you agree. He traces ever so lightly over your stomach, tiny little hearts from his fingertips into your skin.

"What if I helped you come?"

He wants to help you come about every problem. Nothing worth watching on TV? No worries, he can help you come. Didn't find pants in the size you wanted? It's okay, he can help you come about it. Pizza's gonna arrive five minutes later than expected? Well, do you know what he can do in those five minutes...?

This time, though, he might have a point. Yet you still find yourself hesitating.

"Are you sure, Ken? None of my previous partners have been... super enthusiastic about that idea at this time of the month." Not even the couple of girls you've dated, which had been a bitter pill to swallow, as you were happy to help them when the scenario was reversed.

Ken looks at you with total sincerity when he says, "every partner you've ever had has been a coward."

Can't argue with that. When he tugs hopefully at your comfy sweatpants, you lift your hips so he can slide them down along with your big, unflattering period undies. With any other person, you'd feel self-conscious. Not with Ken. Never with Ken.

It's not a pleasant sight, you can't imagine, but he drops a kiss to your navel as he gently pulls your lips apart. He inspects the blood which gathers on his fingertips before slowly sliding between your folds, tenderly beginning to rub your clit.

"Oh, shit," you groan, getting lost in the combination of pleasure and aching. The former soon overtakes the latter as his thumb swipes over and over where you need it to, gentle waves of ecstasy rolling across your body. Ken has his chin propped up on one hand and looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Inside?" he begs, eyes huge and full of reverence. You nod, and he slowly eases a finger into your sore cunt. It makes you suck a breath in through your teeth but he works you slow, pumping and crooking exactly how you like it until he feels like you can take another without issue. When the second slips in to join the first, you're sure his hand must be coated in blood. He doesn't care.

"My menstruating darling baby angel..." he hums, and you laugh a bit before it turns into a moan. "Can I use my mouth?"

"It might not taste good," you manage, as he hits the exact spot you need him to, buried in your tender walls.

"You always taste good," he states, as if it's so simple, as if it's a fact, and you're pretty sure you gush over his fingers. You groan and tangle your hand in his hair before shoving his mouth to your cunt.

He eats you out as if every time might be his last. The crimson mess of your pussy doesn't phase him at all, instead he buries himself against you and begins to fuck you with his tongue. It makes you gasp, every little movement magnitised by the sensitivity of your period, and when you automatically try to wriggle away he gently holds your hand to keep you still. Not an instruction, not an order, just a request. So you stay put and allow him to loop that arm around your thigh in order to keep you flush to him.

His fingers rejoin his tongue and he's fucking you so beautifully, every little movement in tandem, and when you look down he's coated in slick and blood -

Yeah, you come.

It blooms over you and a physical ache is relieved, like Ken is the orgasm fairy of period comfort. You flop back into the bed and he peppers your thighs with wet kisses.

"Good?" he asks. You shoot him a wobbly thumbs-up.

"Five stars."

“Out of…?”

“Five, baby.”

"Yippee...!"

“Should we call an ambulance or something?” you ask.

“Hm? Nah, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re in the apartment next to mine, right?” he says, and says your name. You nod, shakily. “Right. Uh. I’m Healy.” You nod, because you’d seen his name on his mailbox. You’ve passed him once or twice, with polite nods of the head. “You got your keys? You should really be careful coming home at night, you know. All kinds of crazies out here.”

“Yeah,” you say, and without touching you, he leads you away from your whimpering assailant and up towards your apartments. You fumble for your keys and drop them, and he gently pushes you back, picks up your keys, and unlocks your door for you. His own hands are steady.

“Here,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him.

“No, you’re not, you’re shaking,” he says, and he opens the door and brings you in. He puts his hand on your back again, guiding you gently into your apartment.

You are surprised to find that his hand is steady and warm through your shirt. You realize abruptly that you are shaking.

“Come on,” he says, and gets you sitting down in your armchair, and goes to your sink, getting down a glass. “Sure the guy didn’t hurt you before I got there?”

“No, he didn’t,” you promise. “He was just being an asshole. I’m not even sure you needed to, uh, intervene.”

He shrugs a little, and brings you a glass of water. “People don’t intervene enough,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta. I only broke one hand anyway. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him.”

You take the glass from him, and take a drink. “I can’t believe you broke a guy’s hand. And you don’t even want anything for it?”

He looks down at you then. He’s a big man—not just fat, but solid. Well, you know how strong he is. You’d felt his hand on your back. You’d seen how he’d hit that guy on the stairway before crumbling his fingers like dried kindling. That had been powerful. And for a moment, you put it together—all that power, and surprisingly gentle blue eyes, his brows knit into a little frown.

“I never said that,” he says, and his voice is a low, rough grumble.

And that’s when you think of what else all that power could do. You lower your glass of water and look back at him. He’d just rescued you, you think. The least you could do is show him some gratitude—or pretend it’s gratitude, and not just a sudden desire to have all that power against you, moving into you—

“I have these fish,” he says then.

You blink at him a moment, jarred out of your fantasies. “What?”

“I have a fish tank,” he repeats. “I’m going to be gone for a week. Could you come by Tuesday and Thursday and feed ‘em?”

It takes you a long, long moment to process that. “That’s it?” you say.

“That’s it,” he says. “If you feed them every day the tank gets dirtier, and I won’t be there to clean it. They’ll be okay. Can you?”

“I…” You look at him again, your eyes on his soft, stubbled jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. “I mean. Sure. Yeah, of course I can.”

“Great,” he said. “You a little less shaky? You could come over now, I could show you where I keep the fish food and all that.”

“Sure,” you say, and set down your glass of water, rising to your feet.

When you go out of your apartment, you don’t look down to see if the guy’s still on the stairs. But you do look around his place when he unlocks it and lets you in. The fish tank is the brightest thing in the room, well-lit and colorful. He gestures you over, shows off his fish, and opens the cabinet for the fish flakes.

“Just a pinch,” he says. “That’s all they need. It’ll be fine. I just hate leaving them all week with nothin’, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Okay, then,” he says, and gets down a spare key for you. “Tuesday and Thursday. Try not to forget.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “Your fish are in safe hands.”

A poor choice of words, bringing up hands. You think of the mangled fingers on the stairwell again and swallow hard.

But he nods, smiling a little, and you also think of his hand on your back, his hands carrying a glass of water to you. Maybe it’s not that poor a choice of words.

He brings you the key, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his again. You look down at both of your hands, and then you take a breath.

“Y’know,” you say. “When you said you wanted a favor from—from that, I wasn’t expecting it to be, y’know. Aquarium-related.”

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think about it,” he says, his voice low, and you look up at him. “Well, I did. But I didn’t want to ask you for that. Not this time.”

“Why not?” you ask. “I’d have been…”

“Because,” he said, “you were scared.” And then he takes his hands and thrusts them into his pockets, looking a little apologetic for having noticed.

“I wasn’t that scared,” you say.

“You were shaking,” he reminds you. “I’m not gonna ask a terrified stranger to have sex. Come on. I’d have to break my own hand for that.”

You let out a little laugh, but then your laughter fades a little. “Look. You know. I wasn’t scared of you,” you say, assuring him. “You’re a good guy.”

The smile he gives you is rueful. “Not all the time,” he says.

“Maybe enough,” you say.

You both stand there for a moment in silence, in his tiny apartment, a twin of your own. You can hear the fish tank filter, and somewhere a clock is ticking. And then you approach him.

“You were a good guy when I needed a good guy,” you say.

You put your hand on his soft, broad shoulder for leverage, stretch up a little, and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the stubble rough under your lips, the softness of his skin underneath.

And then he turns, and his mouth finds yours, his hands curling onto your shoulders. And yes, you can feel the strength there, that same power. But you can also feel his restraint, a gentleness that does not surprise you, not after the things he’s said, not after the things he hasn’t said. And you kiss him back, pressing into it, pressing yourself against him, assuring him that he is not making any demands—any requests—that are more than what you’re willing to give.

When he breaks the kiss there’s a flush to his cheeks, and he reaches up to cup your face, his eyes serious for a moment. “I still need you to feed my fish next week, though,” he says, his eyes searching.

You bite back a giggle, and just nod. “I promise.”

“All right, then,” he says. “So. Where were we?”

And he spends the rest of the night proving to you that his hands can do a lot more than break fingers.

"Wish you could be back here with me right now huh, boys?" You pout as your fingers slip past the hem of your shorts, fingers now slipping through your folds and your slick covering your hand as you pace circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Jackson- " you moaned softly as you slip a finger in and begin pumping. The noises that filled the backseat would make even the toughest of men blush. And that, it did.

Healy adjusts himself in his seat, his face growing redder by the second as his cock strained against his jeans and hands white knuckle grip the steering wheel. He can barely keep his eyes on the road as they dart back and fourth between the rearview mirror trying to catch a glimpse of you.

You insert another finger with your attention now focused on Holland, head careening against the headrest looking at him with half lidded eyes and a devious smirk on your lips.

"mmmf- fuck March- look how wet I am for you-"

"Jesus, fuck- sugar I'm lookin'-" He twisted around in the passenger seat to face you, palming himself through his slacks when he reached back to run a hand up your thigh. Clicking your tongue, you quickly swat him away and a groan leaves his lips.

"Ah... No touching, Hol-" Healy hit a pothole and your fingers curled reaching that plushy spot just right, simultaneously cutting off your own attempt to tease Holland. Muttered filth escaped through gritted teeth as you arched your back, bucking into your hand.

"I'm gonna- woah oh shit-"

Healy quickly turned the car into the next alley he saw and your butt flew back down into the seat. You quickly grip on to the oh shit handle giggling as you brace yourself from sliding across the seat at how quick he suddenly whipped the car.

"Aw Jackson-" you coo'd at him, pitch teasingly higher as you say his name-"you're that desperate for me?"

"Yeah, well-" Healy throws it in park and turns to you, both of their eyes now met with the shit-eating grin on your face, "you're making it hard not to be with that show you're puttin' on back there, pretty lady."

You couldn't help but laugh at how fast the two of them left the car.

The door clicks open and the cool night time air made its way quickly down south sending shivers across your body as your fingers leave your soaked cunt.

Healy extends a hand and you graceously accept- a small thank you leaving your lips as he lifted you up and out with his other hand at the small of your back.

He lifts your hand to his lips and places a tender kiss on top. "Oh such a gentleman-" Red flushed across your cheeks as he began moving his lips along the back of your hand, peppering kisses, gruff beard scratching and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Anything for you, sweetheart-" He replied in a low growl and your knees felt weak.

He pecked at the tips of your fingers before inserting them into his mouth, humming, tongue swirling around your digits as he cleaned off the slick on your fingers. Holland could only watch speechless, stroking his cock as he watched his partner clean you up.

"Good boy, Jack."

If looks could kill, you'd be guilty with multiple charges the way you flashed a baiting smile at the two.

Next thing you knew your shorts were pooled around your ankles and Healy was behind you one hand on your shoulder; fucking into you so relentlessly your eyes rolled back as your body washed over with euphoria, mind halfway gone to the stars.

Holland cupped a hand under your chin and his thumb wiped away any tears that escaped past your lashes as you ran a stripe along the vein underneath his cock.

"F-fuck- you're such a good girl for us, babydoll-"

You hum as you wrapped your lips around his cock, hollowed your cheeks and begin bobbing your head with Healys rhythm.