#multiamorymarch

Having two boyfriends is sometimes hard.

Having two boyfriends who are as complicated, needy, and filthy as Cam and Dirk is an entirely different level of problem.

Which is exactly what the scene waiting in your living room seems determined to prove the second you walk through the door.

You haven’t even managed to get your keys into the bowl by the stairs before Cam says, "Just sayin’, man, if she gets home and finds you sniffing her laundry again, that’s less date night and more cry for help."

From somewhere near the sofa, Dirk snaps back, "Yeah, well, one stolen bag of jelly snakes doesn’t make you some kind of fucking romantic lead."

You stop in the doorway, work bag still hanging from your shoulder, and stare.

After a nine-hour day, this is exactly the sort of bullshit you were too tired to referee.

Two sets of footwear are kicked into a sloppy grave beside the couch, the television is on (some action film you vaguely remember putting on your watchlist months ago, but neither of them is paying attention) and, in the middle of it all, an argument that is ninety percent performative and ten percent very real pettiness.

Cam is sprawled along one end of the sofa as if he pays rent here, one arm thrown over the back cushions, bucket hat tipped back. He’s in long, black shorts, a mesh shirt under his open jacket, jaw stubbled and smug with one eyebrow permanently poised for sarcasm. Dirk is perched at the other end in a grey hoodie which belonged to you, once upon a time. They’re both aiming their best sulk at each other like it’s a sport.

"You literally said it was my night," Dirk says, voice all mock-offended. "You said—y’know—Thursdays."

"Right," Cam snaps, reaching for something orange and deeply suspicious-looking from a bowl on the table and throwing it in his mouth. "You can keep Thursdays. Tonight’s the one that doesn’t suck."

You offer a tired smirk. "Fucking hell, guys. I could hear the testosterone hitting the drywall from the driveway. Calm down. There’s plenty of me to go around."

Both heads snap toward you, and their faces change. Cam’s smug edge stays, because it always does, but it’s joined by that sharp, bright-eyed look he gets when he sees something he wants. "Shit, about time."

Dirk’s irritation drops so fast it would be funny if it wasn’t so familiar. "Finally," he says, as if he hasn’t just been arguing over access to you like a man disputing visiting hours.

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and thump against the doorframe. "Jesus Christ. I leave this house for nine hours and come back to a custody battle."

Cam sits up at once. "Not a custody battle."

Dirk folds his arms. "Scheduling dispute."

"Wow," you say flatly. "So much better."

Cam stands first, crossing the space between you in three lazy strides that still somehow seem impatient. He smells like diesel, and cheap tobacco, and the sort of snack no one sensible buys on purpose. He hooks a thumb into your belt loop, before he kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth when you turn your head to complain. "Long day?"

You get as far as, "Cam, just let me—" before Dirk is there too, fingers curling around your wrist just enough to pull you sideways so he can press a kiss to your other cheek to even things up.

"You look tired," he mutters, which, from Dirk, is basically a sonnet.

"Yeah," you say, glancing between them. "I am. And then I walked into... whatever this is."

Cam’s mouth twitches. "He says it’s his night."

"This is not—I mean—" Dirk mutters under his breath. "Can we not do this? I have a whole thing planned, and the hoodie you wore last week smells exactly like you and if I don’t get it, I will cry for twelve hours."

Cam snorts. "Cry harder. You can take a sock." He points at Dirk without taking his hand off your waist. "He had Tuesday."

"I had Tuesday afternoon."

"That counts."

"No, it doesn’t."

"Guys..." you say.

Neither of them stops.

Cam leans closer to you, stage-whispering, "He’s getting weirdly serious about this. Kinda doing it for me, honestly."

Dirk gives him a look that could strip paint. "You do realise I can hear you."

"Then hear this," Cam says cheerfully. "You’re being a drama queen."

"You climbed through the kitchen window last week because you said the back door felt too formal."

Cam shrugs. "Worked, didn’t it?"

You rub your forehead. The house still smells faintly of fabric softener from the load you put on this morning, mixed now with Cam’s cigarette smoke and whatever sweet, stale thing he’s been eating from that bowl. There’s something almost ridiculous about standing in the middle of your own ordinary living room, coat half off, being looked at like the final course by the embodiment of a trash can and a very defensive heap of dirty laundry.

Then again, this is your life now. At some point, you stopped being surprised by it.

"Okay," you say, raising your voice a little. "Plan: movie. All of us. Then Dirk first. He’s made plans—" Dirk gives you a look that actually looks affectionate for once. "—technically. Cam, you can be—" you wave toward the couch, "—disappointed for ninety minutes."

Cam glares, clearly a little bit offended.

"Do not start," you warn, pointing at both of them. "I mean it. I’ve had fluorescent lights in my eyes all day, and two long phone calls that should have been emails. You two do not get to make me referee before I’ve even sat down."

Cam immediately reaches for your coat. "Get this off."

Dirk is already pushing the blanket aside with one hand. "Yeah, sit down, babe, before you fall over."

You narrow your eyes. "See, you can be sweet."

Cam steals your bag and drops it onto the armchair. "Movie," he says. "We already picked one."

"You mean it was on, and neither of you watched a second of it."

You should know better. You do know better. The problem is that your sofa is warm, and the two of them are looking at you in that hopeful, badly disguised way that always gets under your skin. So you let them herd you toward the couch.

It goes exactly as badly as expected.

You end up in the middle under the blanket. On the screen, a man in a leather jacket is jumping out of a muscle car and off the side of a bridge. On your left, Dirk’s hand settles on your knee. On your right, Cam waits all of thirty seconds before draping an arm along the back of the sofa behind you.

You try to watch the film. You really do. It’s a lost cause within five minutes.

Dirk’s thumb starts moving against your knee, his head rests on your shoulder as he inhales the scent of your neck. Then Cam’s hand drops from the back cushion to the top of your arm, then your side, then the curve of your hip, like he’s working through a checklist.

You turn your head slowly. "Cam."

"What?"

"You are touching me."

He looks genuinely puzzled. "Babe, it’s a movie. It’s not surgery."

On the other side, Dirk makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh or a hint of light jealousy. His hand has travelled halfway up your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin with quiet intensity.

You look at him, too. "Oh, you’re no better."

"I’m not pretending to be," he says, with a little smile.

The man on the television is in sunglasses, saying something urgent. You have no idea what.

Cam’s other hand is halfway up your skirt, his thumb tracing the lace of your underwear. Dirk’s hand tightens on your thigh, then eases, then shifts towards your panties too, as though he’s talking himself out of it and then losing the argument on principle. You can feel the heat from both of them through the blanket; Cam crowding you with shameless interest, Dirk going very still in the way he gets when he’s trying not to be too eager but still doing a terrible job of it.

You last another minute. Then you grab the remote and pause the film.

Cam groans. "Hey."

Dirk glances at the frozen screen. "That guy was about to die."

"Good for him," you say. "Clearly this isn’t working."

Cam lifts his hands. "I don’t see the issue."

"The issue," you say, "is that technically this is Dirk’s night."

Dirk sits up a fraction, trying and failing to school the satisfaction out of his face.

Cam flops back against the cushions, scowling. "Technicality."

"Still counts," Dirk says, smug now.

Cam points at him. "Don’t get smug while you’re wearing her hoodie. That’s my least favourite version of you."

You bite back a laugh. Under the blanket, Cam is very obviously hard and making absolutely no effort to hide it. He catches you noticing and tips his chin, like, yeah, and what about it? And then grins, because he knows exactly what he’s doing. As if being hard on your sofa in those stupid little shorts isn’t punishment enough.

You reach across him and tap the centre of his chest. "I’m going upstairs with Dirk first."

His mouth twists. "Brutal."

"You’ll survive."

Cam’s eyes narrow slightly. He’s already working the angle. "Depends what state you come back in."

You lean down, close enough that Dirk can definitely hear you, but not quite close enough to make it a secret. "I’ll come back down after, Cam. I promise. I’ll jump in the shower, then I’ll come find you."

Cam’s eyes suddenly flash.

He was already interested. Now there’s that particular gleam in his face that always means you’ve just handed him an idea that he likes far too much. His tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek. "Nah," he says, low and lazy. "Don’t."

You laugh despite yourself. "You are so disgusting."

"And yet," he says, glancing pointedly at the stairs. "You keep dating me."

Dirk gets to his feet and tugs once on your hand. "Come on before he starts narrating."

You let Dirk lead you out of the room. Behind you, Cam calls after you, dripping sarcasm. "Take your time!"

The bedroom door sticks on the frame the way it always does when the weather turns colder. You shoulder it open and stop dead.

"Dirk..."

He pauses halfway in, already knowing from your tone what you’ve seen. "What?"

The bedroom is a disaster. Dirk has clearly been doing what you affectionately call nesting, and your room looks like a laundry basket has exploded in it.

He’s sifted through the laundry to find the ones that smell most like you, creating a dishevelled mountain of clothes on the mattress. T-shirts are draped over the end of the bed, one of your bras is looped over the bedknob, there’s a trail of socks leading to the wardrobe, where Dirk has clearly been digging with both hands and no shame.

He shoves his hands into the hoodie pocket. "Okay, it looks worse than it is though."

You bend, pluck one of your tops off the bed, and hold it up. "Did you go through my dirty washing trying to find something that smells like me?"

Dirk glances away. His ears have gone pink. "You say that like it’s weird."

"It is weird."

"A little," he mutters. "You’re dating Cam. I assumed the household standard had dropped."

You laugh because you can’t help it. "Oh my god."

He folds further into himself for a second, then looks at you through his hair, defensive and shy at the same time. "I had a plan."

"Did the plan involve wrecking my room?"

He makes a face as though you’re being unfair. "I was looking for the black hoodie. The old one. The one you wear when you don’t feel well."

You know exactly which one he means. It’s soft from too many washes and hangs off you in a way he’s been suspiciously interested in for weeks. "And?"

"And I couldn’t find it," he says. "So then I just needed to feel like you were here before you actually were."

You drop the shirt back onto the bed and step toward him. The room smells of slightly damp clothes and your perfume lingering in the air from this morning, but underneath that, Dirk himself: warm skin, fabric softener, the faint dry scent that clings to him no matter how untidy he gets. Up close, he looks a little rumpled from his day on the sofa, hair bent awkwardly where he’s been leaning against the cushions, baggy sleeves pulled down over the top of his hands. He’s trying to act put-upon, but there’s that tell-tale twitch at the corner of his mouth again, that always gives him away.

You slide your arms around his neck. "You could’ve just asked."

He lets out a breath through his nose and puts his hands carefully on your waist. "Yeah. Well." His thumbs move once against your sides. "I like finding things."

You smile and kiss him. Dirk kisses you back with that same guarded hunger he does everything else with, trying not to give too much away and doing an awful job of it. His mouth is warm and a little cautious for all of half a second, then he gives up pretending. His lips part against yours, tongue brushing in slow and testing, before he settles into it properly and pulls you closer with a quiet, needy little exhale through his nose. His hand comes up to the side of your face. His body eases into yours all at once, and there he is: the real Dirk, all the dry remarks gone quiet because he’s busy wanting.

When you pull back, his forehead stays pressed against yours. "You’re still ok with all this?" you ask softly.

He doesn’t pretend not to understand. His gaze slips off to the side, toward the pile of shirts on the bed. "Yeah. Mostly."

"You don’t find it hard?"

"No." His fingers press into your waist. "Cam’s all right. Loud. Gross. Weirdly decent. I can work with that."

You laugh under your breath. "That is almost a compliment."

"Don’t tell him. He’ll be unbearable."

You stroke your thumb along his jaw. "Then what’s up?"

Dirk’s mouth flattens, thoughtful. There’s a whole history there; you know enough pieces of it by now to recognise when he’s picking through old feelings and trying not to get cut on them. "I’m not used to this being easy," he says finally. "Or…" He corrects himself. "Not easy. Just not shit."

He huffs a laugh that has no humour in it. "You know what I mean. Nothing with Harper was ever just a thing. Everything had a score attached. Everything turned into proof of something. With you it’s…" He glances down. "Different."

"Because I make a spreadsheet first?"

That gets a real laugh out of him. "Honestly, that would help." Then his expression softens again. "You never make me feel like I’m losing just because somebody else gets a turn."

You kiss him again before he can decide he’s said too much. This time, he makes a low, surprised sound and walks you backwards until the back of your knees hit the side of the bed. Dirk stands between your knees and looks down at you.

"I dunno if I’m good at this," he admits softly.

"At what?"

He glances away. "This. Sharing. Not making it weird. I’ve—with Harper, sharing wasn’t a thing. Made me… kinda clingy, I guess."

"You’re overthinking," you tell him. "I’m here, aren’t I?"

He nods once.

"And it is your night."

Dirk does not surrender full smiles cheaply, but he gives you something close enough that you feel it all the way down. "Yeah," he says quietly. "It is."

You grab his hips and pull him down on top of you. "You being you is all I need," you tell him. "Cam’s Cam. You don’t have to compete with him."

He kisses you again before you can say anything else, and this time, there’s less hesitation in it. Dirk is attentive in a way that would surprise anybody who didn’t know him well. He notices every reaction. He learns your body like he’s reading it. His hands slide under your shirt, warm from being tucked into his hoodie sleeves. He’s not rough about it. Just intent. He pushes your shirt up, mouth following the skin he uncovers, kissing along your stomach, your ribs, the soft dip at your waist as if he has all evening to map you properly.

The heap of washing behind you collapses when you shift further back on the bed. It should feel ridiculous. It does, a little. But it also feels like Dirk all over—messy, earnest, trying hard not to show how much this matters to him and showing it anyway in every little thing he does.

He kneels between your knees, hair still sticking up where you’ve already dragged your fingers through it. His fingers hook into the lace of your panties and ease them aside. Dirk’s face changes the second he gets a proper look at you; mouth parting, colour climbing into his cheeks, breath catching hard enough that you feel it against your skin. For a moment, he just stares, all blush and want and quiet disbelief.

Then he drops between your thighs and puts his mouth on you, and your head falls back into the pile of laundry behind you. He likes taking care of you. That becomes obvious almost immediately.

There’s a difference between being wanted and being paid attention to. Dirk does the second one without even thinking about it. His tongue works between your folds, circling your clit, pressing into you with a precision that feels devastating. He keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, clocking every change in your breathing and adjusting in tiny, clever ways that make your thoughts slide apart and your hand tangle in his hair.

The room gets warmer by the minute. Dirk’s hoodie hangs half off one shoulder before he finally yanks it over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him with much less care than he would show to anything else. Without it, he looks even more like himself: a bit rumpled, dark hair falling into his eyes, tattoo catching your eye when he moves. There’s nothing polished about him. That’s part of it. He looks like somebody who’s been unmade a little by wanting.

And god, he wants.

He wants in that quiet, clinging way he’d hate admitting to. He wants with his cheek pressed to your thigh for a second while he catches his breath. With his hands steady on your hips, with the little rough exhale he lets out when you drag his mouth back to you, with the care he takes over you before ever letting himself have anything back.

By the time you’re flushed and shaking a bit, your hand still knotted in his hair, Dirk has that look on his face that always ruins you—smug, yes, but soft under it, pleased because you feel good. Because he did it. Because whenever you’re together, the only thing that matters is how quickly he can get you to make that sound again.

"There," he murmurs against you, pressing another kiss to your throbbing clit. "Knew we could do better than that damn movie."

"Dirk," you moan, still breathless.

You pull him up by the front of his shirt and kiss him hard, still tasting yourself on his lips. "Happy now?" You murmur into his mouth.

His mouth curls. "Immensely." Then you kiss him again before he can get too smug about it.

You can feel the shape of his need pressed against you now, solid and twitching, and when you reach down between you, he makes a low, wrecked sound that goes straight through your spine.

"Oh, now you’re needy," you grin.

He shuts his eyes for a second and gives a strained laugh. "You say that like you didn’t just make me this way."

You make him wait a little longer anyway, while you work off his many layers of clothing. Mostly because the way he falls apart in increments is one of your favourite things about him. He doesn’t get loud immediately. It starts in the smallest ways—the way his mouth goes slack, the way he presses kisses anywhere he can reach because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself, the little involuntary bucks of his hips when your hand squeezes just right. Then the sounds start creeping in despite his best efforts to stay composed.

Then you put your mouth on him, and that composure goes straight out the window.

Dirk’s hand lands against the headboard with a hard thud. His other one catches in your hair, not forcing you deeper, just holding there because he needs something to anchor him. When you look up at him, he’s already looking down, biting his lip, his cheeks flushed bright pink.

"Shit," he mutters, voice unsteady. "You’re—"

You lift your eyebrows and keep going.

Your mouth slides over him, nice and slow, letting him feel every inch of it. He twitches on your tongue, breath catching enough to make his chest hitch. One of your hands settles at the base of him, stroking where your mouth can’t quite reach, keeping the rhythm smooth while your tongue works at him in wet, deliberate passes.

Dirk makes a sound like he’s trying to swallow it and can’t.

That alone is enough to make you press a little deeper, stretching your lips around him, tongue dragging underneath in a way that has his fingers tightening in your hair.

His head tips back. "Fuck," he groans. "Fuck. If you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna have to—"

You hum around him. It cuts him off completely.

He pulls back from your mouth and crowds you onto the soft mess of laundry, too impatient now to do anything but line himself up and push inside you. The sound you make is embarrassingly unpretty. He’s already left you so sensitive with his mouth that the sensation of him filling you makes your eyes clamp shut for a moment while his hips kick forward into you. By the time you open them again, his hair is hanging in his eyes, and his expression has gone wonderfully blank in the way it only ever does when he’s this far gone.

After that, he doesn’t last nearly as long as he probably intended. He tries—you can feel him trying, every muscle tense and shuddering with restraint—but you’ve already worked him past the point where that careful, attentive version of Dirk can hold.

He comes with a choked, bitten-off sound against your neck, his body trembling as warmth floods you in deep, heavy pulses. The two of you are left panting and sweat-slick, tangled in hoodie sleeves and mismatched socks.

He stays on top of you, breathing hard, one hand spread over your stomach under your shirt. His hair has flopped forward.

You push it back, needing to see his eyes. "That was intense. You okay?"

"Mm." He presses his face into your shoulder and plants a tiny kiss there. "Ask me again when I try to stand up."

You laugh softly and let your hand drift down his back. Calling Dirk clingy, even gently, would go down badly—which is funny, considering he’d all but confessed to it before you got him out of that hoodie. Still, he lingers. He always lingers a little when he’s happy.

When he finally gets up, he does it with a kind of battered dignity, peeling himself out of the laundry heap in a way that would almost be graceful if one of your socks wasn’t stuck to his thigh. The movement pulls the muscles in his stomach and arms taut. He’s slim through the waist, broad enough through the shoulders to be distracting, and the tattoo on his neck and the care symbols down his arms flash into view as he stretches.

You sit up on your elbows, admiring the view. "Need anything?"

He rummages through the clothes on the bed until his hand lands on the black hoodie, and the grin that jumps across his face is so quick and boyish it almost catches you off guard.

"No," he says, then hesitates. "Actually. Water."

"See? Needy."

"Fuck off."

You follow him downstairs a couple of minutes later, hair finger-combed into something less suspicious, skirt back on (because it’s just polite), shirt pulled straight, your inner thighs still carrying a faint ache. The landing creaks. The house seems quieter than before.

Cam is still on the sofa. He is still very obviously hard.

He sits up as you come down, eyes hungry and unapologetic. The movie has frozen itself into the sleep menu, and he’s been snacking on something grotesque-looking from a bowl (you don’t ask).

You stop at the doorway. "Cam, for fucks sake."

The bowl lands on the coffee table with a plastic clack. "You did his thing?" He asks, voice low and half-pleading. "Came on him? In you?" He doesn’t sound jealous so much as thrilled at the idea. The tiniest animal sound, a hungry little growl, escapes him.

You fold your arms, deciding not to bite. "Whatever you’re eating is a crime."

Cam shrugs. "It’s sweet and salty."

He pounces. Not clumsily, but with that precise, mean little focus Cam only ever seems to find when he plans to really indulge himself. His hands are everywhere—on your ass, diving up your shirt, squeezing at your breasts—and he inhales and kisses at your neck frantically, as though he’s trying to taste the whole story on your skin.

"You smell like him. You smell like laundry and... him." The sound he makes is so pleased it borders on obscene.

You put a hand on his chest. "Cam."

"Mm?" He kisses the side of your throat, then lower, biting gently at the soft curve of your chest, then back up under your jaw. His mouth is warm, and the short bristle of his stubble drags over your skin wherever it passes.

"Hang on."

His hands are everywhere. "No."

You’re already laughing, a little helplessly, because this is exactly what you knew would happen. "You don’t even know what I was going to say."

His teeth scrape lightly over your neck in a way that makes your knees feel less reliable. "Bet I do."

"Do you?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bright, fixed, and far too interested. "You were gonna ask if I wanted you to wash first."

You give him a look.

He grins. "Still no."

Your voice drops. "Dirk... We had sex. You know I don’t use protection with you guys... he—"

Cam goes very still for all of half a second, then his expression opens into delighted disbelief. It’s the look of a man who just found a winning lottery ticket in a gutter. "Babe," he says, reverent and filthy at once. "Fuck—you can’t say that and expect me not to come in my pants right now."

"You are impossible."

He nuzzles into your neck again, shameless now, one hand sliding down your back to grasp greedily at your ass. "I’m inspired. Fuck, you smell good."

He crashes his mouth against yours and kisses you messily until your protest turns into a laugh against his mouth, then into something softer when his hands start to get serious about your clothes. Cam wants first and thinks later; he has never met a line between eager and impatient that he couldn’t trip over on purpose.

By the time he gets you back to the sofa, he is muttering to himself, to you, to the general concept of luck. His shorts are no help at all. There’s a damp patch darkening the front already, and when you glance down at it, he catches you and huffs a laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t shame me. Been a difficult evening."

"You’ve been sitting on my sofa eating bin trail mix." You laugh and tip your chin up, giving him more room as he nips at your neck.

"Waiting nobly," he murmurs against your skin.

He drops to his knees between yours with that fierce, unembarrassed focus that belongs to him and nobody else. There’s no point pretending you don’t know what he wants. He’s been thinking about it since you left the room. Maybe since before.

There’s no hesitation. His fingers hook into either side of your panties and drag them down your bare legs in one clean pull. Your thighs press together on instinct.

You look down at him. "You are way too happy about this."

He tilts his head against your thigh and looks up. His hair is a mess. His mouth is already pink from kissing you. "Are you kidding?" He grins. "This is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me."

You laugh so hard you have to push him away. "That is bleak."

Cam has never been subtle, but this feels different from his usual filthy little jokes. It’s not about competition. It’s not even really about Dirk. It’s the fact that you came back to him exactly as you were—didn’t disappear upstairs to scrub yourself clean first, didn’t try to neaten any of it up for his sake, didn’t split one part of your life off from the other before handing it to him. For Cam, who used to be the thing people threw their unwanted shit into and forgot about, that lands deeper than he’d ever say out loud. It doesn’t make him possessive in the ugly sense. It makes him incandescent. Wanted, wanting, included in a way that lights him up from the inside.

And it shows. He’s delighted, obviously. Revoltingly smug, as ever. But there’s something softer under all that mouth on him tonight, something a little needier and more open, something he’d absolutely deny if confronted. He keeps touching you like he’s still checking this is real, kissing your skin between dirty jokes, making those tiny, involuntary sounds whenever you react. Like being trusted with this is turning him on nearly as much as anything else.

By the time he finally gets what he’s been so obviously waiting for, he looks half-crazed with gratitude. He goes mad; fingers pressing, tongue sweeping, lips sucking in expert, greedy motions. Then, when he tastes the thick, salty liquid that Dirk left behind, the guttural groans he makes vibrate right through you.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice full of dark amusement. "You taste fucking delicious."

You never mind his madness in moments like this; if anything, it feels like the purest version of him—reckless, hungry, unashamed of what he wants. He looks ruined by it. The more you react, the worse he gets. He drops back between your thighs and licks into you again, tongue sliding through your folds before pressing deeper, collecting what’s still inside you with slow, deliberate passes that have you clutching at his hair and arching hard against the sofa arm. It’s messy, intimate, exactly what he wanted: Dirk’s spend mixed with you, turned into something he can taste and keep in one obscene little act of devotion.

Cam’s mouth works miracles. You come again with your face pressed into the blanket and your whole body jumping with it, and he just keeps going, dragging every last tremor out of you, determined to taste everything he can. He’s greedy, shameless, half-drunk on it.

When you’re twitching and dizzy and can barely think, he pulls up, smears his face with the back of his hand, and grins that filthy, delighted grin like an absolute menace.

"Gonna need a mop," he announces, as though that’s somehow romantic.

You laugh, fingers still curled into his hair. "You insane pig," you pant, which he very obviously decides counts as affectionate. He purrs approval, then tugs you down so you’re straddling him, hips meeting for a lazy, messy roll.

You kiss him hard, and he meets you with the same enthusiasm, mouth hot and smug and far too pleased with itself. It turns messy almost immediately; his tongue sliding against yours, pressing deep enough to make your breath hitch, the kiss wet and open and filthy in a way that only gets worse the longer it goes on. You can taste yourself and Dirk and cigarettes and whatever disgusting thing he was eating before you came downstairs. His cock is straining against his shorts beneath you, and he makes a desperate little groan when you reach down to pull him free.

"Oh, thank god." He mutters into your mouth.

"You are so dramatic." You grin.

"Says the woman with two boyfriends."

You roll your eyes and kiss him again. For all his confidence, he’s hanging by a thread now. It’s there, clear as day, in the way his mouth keeps parting on short, helpless noises, in the way his cock is twitching against your inner thigh every time you move.

You press two fingers into his mouth, partly to shut him up, partly because you know what it does to him. His eyes flutter closed. There’s no pretence to it. No cool act. There’s always something absurd about how much he likes it, and something deeply endearing too. He sucks on your fingers with a soft, grateful sound that nearly undoes you on the spot. His hands tighten on your hips.

"You like that?"

A quick nod.

"Yeah?"

Another one, more desperate now.

He doesn’t even have the language left for whatever is happening to him.

This version of Cam is a disaster for your self-control—all sharp cheekbones and soft mouth and complete lack of dignity, sitting there under you like he would happily let you make a toy of him as long as you keep touching him. He doesn’t even try to be cool anymore. He just holds onto you and lets every reaction show.

When you finally stop teasing and sink down onto his cock, his eyes go cloudy on the spot. He splutters, gasps, and then, within seconds, he’s spilling inside you in shaky pants and helpless little sighs. When you press your fingers deeper into his mouth, he makes this wrecked, needy sound, clamping down and coming even harder, head tipping back as though you’ve pushed him straight past the point of shame.

There was never really any chance for him, poor guy. He’s been wound tight since you left him under that blanket. When it’s over, he blinks up at you, dazed and delighted. His hands loosen on your hips, thumbs rubbing gently. Then he drops his forehead against your shoulder, breathing hard, still trembling from the aftershocks of it.

You brush the damp hair off his forehead. "Still alive?"

"Debatable," he says.

Then, from the hallway, Dirk’s voice drifts in. "Yo. You two finished?"

You turn your head. Dirk is leaning against the doorway in the black hoodie, hair still a mess, looking not remotely scandalised, only mildly impatient. He takes in the scene on the floor, Cam’s expression, the state of both your clothes, and then nods towards the television.

"I kind of want to see how that film ends," he says. "And I’m hungry."

Cam lets out a laugh from somewhere under you. "Romance is dead."

You climb off Cam with as much dignity as available, which is not much. Cam sits up and rakes a hand through his hair. "Order pizza. From the place with the garlic knots."

"You only like that place because the delivery guy called you ‘boss’ once."

"Dude saw something in me."

"Whatever," Dirk smirks, pushing off the doorframe and heading for the kitchen to find his phone. "If you want any, get your asses off the floor."

You snort and straighten your shirt (again). Cam reaches for your hand the second you’re upright, just to squeeze it once before letting go. "I’m not putting my pants back on. Tell Dirk to deal with it." He mutters.

Somehow, standing there with your pulse still uneven and the boys already arguing again about toppings, you feel so stupidly content you could cry.

Maybe having two boyfriends is hard.

Having Cam and Dirk is worse in all the ways that matter. Louder. Messier. Needier. A constant exercise in house management and emotional diplomacy and pretending not to notice when one of them steals your clothes and the other tries to smuggle random wildlife inside.

It is also, annoyingly, pretty great.

By the time the pizza arrives, Cam is still half-naked as promised and draped across one end of the sofa, Dirk has stolen the blanket back, and you are tucked in the middle with a plate balanced on your knee while the film restarts for the third time today. The house is warm. The living room is a tip. The movie is ridiculous. Cam keeps reaching over to steal your crusts. Dirk complains every time he does it and then steals a bite of your garlic knot himself.

Neither of them shuts up. You don’t mind.