#answer process

One fact has been true across every stretching atom of paradox space since the Genesis Frog's gestation: it is, fundamentally, impossible to argue with pretty girls.

She's known for years, undoubtedly since before all existence in some weird ectobiological time loop way. It may even be down to her genes; Dad was similarly afflicted by devious broads in black lipstick! Possibly, if what Rose said about their parents was true… But he didn't have a big stupid mouth popping open to say really uncool stuff like: "Hey!" and "It's fine, guys!"

As for the matter at hand, at four hands, it's— a lot to get into. Thinking back to the inciting event just makes her brain gooey. Thoughts fizzle out further when Rose pinches her chubby cheek gently to force June's attention, any available complaint slipping away faster than her stained underwear. …Oh. Fuck! Kanaya pulled them off while she was distracted!

The way her legs pin together is instinctive, an attempt at obscuring… everything? Anything at all. But: her gut spills out in soft plush rolls, her legs pushing up until they crease at each joint. She can hear both of them inhale very slowly, tinged with shaky hunger. June averts her gaze, teeth digging into her overworked lower lip, trying to find something to focus on besides her imminent demise. Not that it makes a difference. They are watching, observing, picking apart her attributes in analytically horny ways.

Kanaya speaks first, every partial exhale pooling over June's knees, icy hands pulling her ankles gently until both legs relax. "These little marks," indicated by a questing finger, tracing over the visible cellulite in fractal sprawl over her thighs. "They are begging to be nibbled, don't you think?"

They've been spending way too many dates on artsy-fartsy films full of erotic prose, because that makes her tummy go liquid with dismaying arousal.

"Uh—" A thick swallow does nothing to combat her dry mouth, or frustratingly heavy tongue. "It's really embarrassing with— when you… look at that. Seriously! I'm serious. With a serious face."

"Mm. In that case," Rose counters, conspiratorial as her jewel-bright eyes flutter closed. "I'm certain we can avoid looking altogether."

Her chipped black nails trace from shoulder to collarbone, down to the red line of tension bisecting June's belly where the new fat folds in. Then the pads of her fingers, hot-soft, pushing underneath every incremental inch of sagging belly.

It tingles in a shivery way, makes her feet curl right into Kanaya's chilled fingers gingerly picking sock debris from between her toes. Why is that hot? Why do the little tugs to each feel so good, a luxurious wiggle radiating heat all the way to the back of her head? It's almost as good as the thumbs pushing into the meat of her heel and working out tension June didn't even know was there to begin with.

This kind of thing is typically Dave's idea. A suggestion he makes when they're sat down to dinner, while Bro's hands are otherwise engaged. But somewhere between this morning and this evening, he's been convinced to facilitate... this. Red silk stretches taut between fists, keeping the worst of his confusion at bay. This was Bro's idea. That part is really sinking in, contradicting a natural order of things, an aversion to relinquishing control.

Maybe it's ironic; the biggest fucking bit of the century, localized entirely to his messily-made four-poster, originating from the hottest motherfucker to grace the sexy spectrum. Fuck, he's getting ahead of himself. Dave should be preparing for a masterful dunk, but those abs are— distracting. Everything about this is taking him for a goddamn spin, caught in piercing citrine and the idle curves those heavy hands make above Bro's head.

They've been staring at each other for a fucking minute, assessing, or just internally panicking. How much time has passed escapes the younger Strider, shelved as a tertiary priority in the face of Bro's chest visibly shivering between breaths. Nervousness, maybe, but anticipation is more likely. They both feel it. The blood pounding in Dave's throat makes it hard to swallow.

Communication. Should be checking in here. Fuck, right. Left hand upright, forefinger hooking the air towards his palm, face scrunched to ask: "Are you sure?" He offers out the blindfold, still quizzical, "About this."

Out of his depth, but in a good way. His trust in Bro's ability to whoop ass and take prisoners overrides the weirdness behind being Mister Daddy for once. Side-lines the awkward until all that's left is the boner soaking right the fuck through his briefs. It's embarrassing to be this excited for silent stares, lax posture, lips curved slightly in amusement. Vague, but arousing as hell. The audacity on this dude.

One nod, simple. It's a head jerk, a come-hither too firm to be polite. "C'mon, Dave," he's urging wordlessly, "—wrap me up like a present."

No time to waste, lose, otherwise squander. His dick's an impossible-to-ignore reality, seeping pre onto his bare thighs as he leans forward. Crimson silk smooths over a crooked bridge, high cheekbones, blond-going-silver sideburns. Bro lifts his head, downright gentlemanly of him, to let the blindfold be secured. That acceptance is... doing something.

Moreso than the rest of this anticipation, being given control by— him feels out-of-touch with reality. Good, but strange. Hot, but with an anxious desire to over-perform. A white hot knife twists in Dave's gut, arousal and want and need at the sight of Bro. Restricted. Unable to see the hand wafting in front of his face slowly; he doesn't even twitch. The realization pulses in his cock, somehow going thicker despite not feeding into that unsuspecting mouth yet.

Fuck, he wants plow Bro's face.

Shuddering out the impulses, one palm gently connects with taut skin just below his ribcage. Every fucking muscle in his body goes tense, strong hands balling into tight fists. White-knuckling with the exertion of— not interfering. Letting Dave take the reins and slip his touch down to his aching cock, groaning outright when he squeezes. The younger hunches forward to press wanting kisses against the thudding pulse beating a tattoo in Bro's throat.

Whispering. Yearning. "You're doing all of this for me?"

Thank you much.

Fully agree that it's a wholesome ship. Prospitcest gets put aside for Dersecest pretty often, despite being a solid relationship to examine. Gender stuff, the semi-complete isolation of the Prospitian Cruiser, and a couple gals getting it on. Hard to beat that, you know?

Though it'd be nice to explore trans masc John x Jade too. Hmm.

Back to June x Jade. Maximum appeal: June is put in positions of realization by OP Space Player Powers. We've all seen the tit-embiggening trope, but consider the dick shrinkage. Something Jade did for a joke. Surprise: it scratched the euphoria itch. Now June's eagerly palming at soft little tits, borrowing her sister's bras, and trying on her panties without that uncomfortable cramped feeling.

Open legs, pert ass pressed to wrinkled sheets, her hands stroking both with something in cahoots with glee. Underneath and over, Rose's hands on a soft belly, worshipping Kanaya's subtle paunch, and the crooks of her arms are weighed by pliant thighs. Jade flesh undulates before her, barely three inches, desperate to twine with Rose's tongue as it teases the slick creases around a plump sheathe.

Adorable.

Chattering Alternian gives way to soft moans, perfectly pitched voice going reedy with want. "Rose... Oh, please..." Kanaya beseeches her lover, reaching. Long fingers tangle in blonde hair, brush against flushed ears. When heat envelopes the tip of her bulge, her eyes slipped fully closed. Something like bliss, undercut with starvation.

Eagerness doesn't even begin to describe what bubbles up in Rose, driving an urge to fit the whole of Kanaya's bulge into her mouth. There it stretches, seeking her throat, curling just over the back of her tongue. Shuddering with sensations, she presses close until the first dribbles of pure salty-sweet— not errant lubricant seeping from the shaft— can't be tasted.

"Close— Ohh, Rose, I'm so—" is her only warning. Beautiful legs cross behind her head, interlock to keep Rose snugly in place when the first pulse comes. Amusement scrunches her expression, throat contracting with each timed swallow, delighted to help her beloved through an orgasm.

Except it—

keeps coming?

Flex after flex after flex of the pretty tendril; she's lost the rhythm. Cheeks bulge slightly between desperate attempts to suck air down, gulps of slurry. Startled, every breath huffed the moment tight lungs can spare the oxygen. Obliviously, Kanaya humps down against her face intermittently. Clearly ecstatic and thrashing with arousal and—

"I can't sleep." Muttered, softly, from the doorway with one hand still gripping the doorknob. Yellow pools from the hall, shadowing and highlighting the occupied bed.

Looking into the room, decked as it is in equal measure with puppets and wizards, he feels a sense of comfort. Most people would call it creepy as shit, maybe feel watched. Dave isn’t a little bitch— about that, at least —and ignores the lurking peanut gallery in favor of being acknowledged.

Predictably, Bro sits up first. The lightest sleeper known to man blinks, focuses, puffs mussed blond hair out of his heavy eyes. One hand comes up, the other still planted on the bed. Beckoning, quiet, confident that Dave will nearly trip over the threshold to get closer. Which, yeah. Of course he does, of course he moves as quickly as he can, until that sleep-warm palm cups the side of his face.

On the other side of the bed, Mom slowly rises onto one elbow. She’s rubbing the heel of her palm into her eyes until Dave registers. Immediately, her face crinkles into a smile that makes his heart fucking soar. He can’t climb over Bro fast enough, nearly falling into the cleavage her cheesy nightgown creates. Actually, he does, planting his face between her tits with a soft groan. 

Mom asks him, sweet and soft, “Do you need to talk?” A shake of his head, a turn of his face, Dave snuffles against one breast until his eyes stop fucking watering. “Just need some snuggles with Mommy?” Does she even need to ask, he wonders, before throwing one leg over the swell of her hip. Bro smirks, obvious in the low huff-laugh that washes over Dave’s nape. It’s too fucking hot. Their bodies press together, bracketing him between soft and firm, hips to hips to hips.

“There you go, baby.” She cups his head, holding it against her chest, and God does his mouth water. Mom smells clean, almost powdery. She smells like her favorite discount body lotion. The blankets are pulled high, Bro’s fingers slipping down to push past the waistband of Dave’s sleep shorts. “Just let Daddy take care of everything, okay? You can snuggle all you want.”

To the left and just behind, a voice sits in his ear. She says hush, quelling the low grunt in his throat. Stroking through his hair, lilac painted nails match the very loose fist slowly lubricating his shaft. Coaxing. Gentle. His head bows to watch, nostrils flaring when the pace jumps— His hips are jostling for more: more touch, more voice.

Enamored as he is the mindless pleasure, the jerk of intervention doesn't quite register until his chin pulls up. Padded leather digs into his face, a halter snug enough to make Dave rear back. Hands come free of the stall bar he's meant to steady himself with, reaching for straps he's just barely too addled to undo, uselessly scrapping nails at metal buckles.

"Easy now. Keep him still." A smooth, rough drawl. Familiar like fingerless gloves brushing his warm flank. Admonishing.

She bites in, annoyance ruling that perfect voice, "I've got it." But the halter doesn't go slack. A balance of power not yet admitted. "I know what I'm doing, Bro. You're more than welcome to mind him when I've finished. You're not building any confidence when you intervene the instant he misbehaves." A huff— it might be a laugh— and the halter goes slack. Dave's head falls forward, looking down at his slick shaft again.

At first, he is still. As still as he can be, watching himself pulse in that pretty grip. Leaking now, more precum than lubricant, and wet in the mouth with his tongue hung out eagerly. The next jostle shuffles hay around... and no tension comes to the halter. Instead, two fingers slip past slack lips, fishhooking him into looking over one shoulder—

At her. Rose, dressed down to dark overalls with a pretty bandana keeping her hair neat, fills his vision. "Hush," said sweetly, all lipstick and teeth and smiling, "—you'll have a pretty cow to breed soon. Behave."

Hands flex thoughtfully at the promise, lax beside sweaty thighs. He can't nod, so he obeys. Fumbling, reaching out, regripping that bar across the back of his stall, legs widening their stance. Inhale through the nose, exhale wet and animal through the mouth. Rose withdraws, letting his head hang low all over again.