Work Text:
The distant slamming of the front door was the first red flag of the night. Impulse couldn’t turn down the volume on the TV fast enough to see one out of his two boyfriends storm past with the second hot on his heels.
“Grian, please, I’m so, so sorry -- at least, hey, at least take off your shoes,” Skizz is apologizing. It’s the first set of words he’s managed to catch while he’s stormed into the apartment. Grian’s face is flushed red in the way that it does when he talks too much and forgets to breathe in between words. Skizz is chewing him out for his tennis shoes on the carpet, but Skizz is still unlacing his loafers as he chews him out.
“No, I--” Grian sees Impulse, and his face falls apart. “Impulse!” In a manner of seconds, a shoe-cladden Grian starts to climb over the couch and make his way onto Impulse’s lap. “You won’t believe this jerk.”
“You poor thang,” Impulse coos, enjoying the sudden lapful of Grian. His skin is warm from the tennis courts. He smells like outside and the afternoon sun and all things golden, and he thinks if he spent the rest of his life with his nose pressed up against his neck, it still wouldn’t give him his fix.
Grian doesn’t stop wiggling until his back is facing Skizz, who is stuck with the task of locking up the apartment door before making his way to the recliner. There is enough room for him on the couch, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to sit right next to Grian after upsetting him enough to cause his sudden rampage.
“What did this meanie do to you, huh?” Impulse purrs, scratching at Grian’s scalp. He’s putty in his hands and melts under the soft touch and soaks up all the warmth he has to offer. As he scratches his messy hair, Impulse slips off his tennis shoes before Skizz can get riled up more about it.
“He said he didn’t love me,” Grian grumbles.
Impulse cradles him close and gasps while Skizz scrambles to defend himself.
“No, I -- Grian! ” Skizz is pacing around the recliner. “I went to go pick him up--”
“As that’s all I sent you to do,” Impulse agrees. He’d only left half an hour ago. As to what he could’ve done within that half hour…
“There was a bug.”
Grian whimpers at the memory.
“A bug,” Impulse parrots dryly.
“It was gross! Dipple dot, it had six legs and little wriggly-- ick!” Skizz’s face is turning greener by the second. “So I did the natural thing to protect our light of our lives.” Grian scoffs, grumbles something under his breath, and further turns away from Skizz. “I squashed it.”
There’s a silence filling the room. Impulse isn’t tracking.
“Can you believe him?” Grian huffs.
“I was protecting you!” Skizz insists, but Grian won’t hear it. Is Impulse even hearing correctly?
To be safe, he keeps his mouth shut and his hand active against the back of Grian’s head.
“Sic him, Impulse,” Grian orders. Impulse wraps him up until he’s sure he’s pinned to his chest and picks him up. Grian’s legs tighten around him on reflex until he’s sat comfortably. He settles in like second nature, as if this is his second home. With how often he finds himself here, pinned between his lovers’ bodies, it might as well be.
“I’m gonna squash you like a bug,” Impulse declares in a silly voice. Skizz hides a laugh somehow and faces him, matching his expression. “Seems fair, don’t it?”
“Nothing seems fair when I’m away from you, Dipple Dot,” Skizz says. Impulse rolls his eyes, looking away from him as warmth blossoms inside of his chest. Classic Skizz, coming up with the most embarrassing things to say just so he can stop him in his tracks.
“What’s unfair is some ruffled feathers.” At the mention, Grian’s wings try and spread out, but Skizz steps closer, pinning him in between them. He turns to look at him finally when Skizz’s hand grazes the tips of his wings before they fold neatly against his back. “Since you upset him so.”
“I don’t know how I upset you, G-spot, but lemme make it up to you?” Skizz asks.
“You can stop by not calling me ‘G-Spot’,” Grian grumbles, but the fight leaves him when Skizz presses a chaste kiss to the nape of his neck. Grian shivers, and Skizz barrels out an ecstatic laugh.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby. Want me to make you feel good until you forget why you were mad?”
Impulse makes the move to lower him. Reluctantly, Grian’s legs untangle from where they were tightly wrapped around him. His feet hit the ground, and he finally contorts enough to grab ahold of the work tie Skizz is still wearing. He tugs it loose until he’s lifting it up to his face, holding it near enough he can scent it.
“I’m still gonna be mad,” Grian says. He lets the tie go. “You can still grovel.”
So that’s how it’s going to be, Impulse thinks to himself, turning off the TV as Grian leads them both to the bedroom.
He slips his tennis skort off first. He doesn’t bother with the crop top form fitted to his skin. If one of the others want it off of him, they’ll be the ones to take it.
“How do you want it?” Impulse asks sweetly. Grian has just finished tugging his boxers off when Impulse’s hand pushes against the small of his back, and he falls stomach-down against the bed. He recovers quickly, making a show of moving up on the mattress and throwing a sulky look over his shoulder.
“You can fuck me,” Grian tells him matter-of-factly. “I want Skizz’s mouth.”
Impulse doesn’t pity his place, and he’d almost feel bad for him, if he didn’t know just how much Skizz enjoyed being teased when Grian was in a cruel mood. One can hardly call it cruel with the special attention Grian pays to both of them. If they play his game how he wants, there’s no losing for any of them.
Impulse wets his hands with lube but not too much to where Grian can’t properly feel the friction. Most nights Grian asks to skip the penetration, but their session this morning must’ve left him achy. Impulse had to go in early, and Grian had a late night. They made up for it with a quick, unfinished round somewhere in between their shifts. Grian hadn’t gotten to come, but he had gotten Impulse off before leaving to brush his teeth in time for work.
“Wanna come first?” Impulse’s finger is gentle against his cockhead, barely brushing, only teasing. Grian squirms with his kneecaps against the bed and pushes back for his fingers. His skin is flushed with sweat - some from the tennis courts and some from his lovers working up his nerves without even trying.
“No,” Grian says. “Skizz’ll take care of that.”
“Damn right I will,” Skizz growls, pushing his chest against Impulse’s back. “Can I prepare you, sweetheart?”
Impulse tells him his quiet admission. Skizz decides to take his time unzipping his jeans, moving with him as Impulse clambors over Grian. He puts his legs on either side, and his thighs are already beginning to shiver.
“Go too hard at the courts?” Impulse asks, noticing the intense tremor in his thighs. Grian huffs and reaches his hands up towards Impulse’s hair.
“Had to find something to distract me.” Grian’s hands tighten in the little hair he has and brings him down close until Grian’s able to plant a kiss against his lips. Impulse moves, but Grian is chasing him to the best of his ability until his tongue is prying against his mouth.
“Oh?” Skizz says as the heel of his palm grinds at Impulse through his boxers. His hand’s flat against him, grounding him, and Impulse melts into it. His hand’s gotten him off enough times he’s been trained to know what it means, even when it lays flat like a chastity belt. “Was something distracting you?”
What ever defiant response was budding on Grian’s lips is cut off when Impulse starts thumbing at his hole. He steers clear of his cockhead, not wanting to give it any more attention than he has already what with how overused it will be by the end of the evening. Grian is happy to relax into it as Impulse uses his other hand to gentle massage the quivering muscle of his thigh.
“You know what,” Grian spits, and it leads Impulse to wonder if they had their own fun before he left for work. “And - no, Impulse, he didn’t let me cum. So he’s making up for that now.”
“I thought I was making up for killing that bug?” Impulse can’t shush Skizz before the damage has been done.
“One at a time,” he says. Then he looks at Impulse. “Not you. I can handle some more.”
Impulse almost says, “You got it, boss,” before deciding against it. Grian enraptured his whole focus, taking his careful time of stretching him open quickly enough to keep him from getting too impatient and slowly enough to not cause him discomfort. It isn’t often Grian requests for something in his hole, so Impulse wants to make sure he’ll deliver.
Skizz is careful with his preparations and tries not to get in his way. He tugs his jeans down where the boxers aren’t far behind. Skizz must decide he needs a warm-up because his tongue swipes against him, his stubble scratching the inners of his thighs.
Impulse’s head fills with a familiar fuzz. He likes the term “service top,” but he hardly feels like one with his fingers curling up inside of Grian and Skizz’s warm breath pooling against his cockhead. His job - especially on nights like these - is to get Grian off first, serve them until both of them are happy, but now Grian’s trying to steal the breath from his mouth and Skizz’s trying to steal something like life out of his hole. He’d let them too, if it was up to him. The choice, somehow, might not be his own to make.
“Okay, ‘m ready.” When he withdraws his fingers, he starts to reach for a handtowel, the one he keeps on the bedside table. Skizz finds his wrist first, tugging it towards his mouth so he can lick stripes up from his palm down to the fingertips.
“You’ll get your fill tonight,” Impulse promises, his gut clenching at the heavy glint taking up Skizz’s eyes. It’s hard not to lose himself in those eyes and how they tear him apart like he’s something good to eat. He manages somehow. He manages long enough for it to be Skizz’s turn to guide him towards the bed and fluff up the pillows by the headboard.
Impulse makes Grian comfortable in his lap. There’s enough pillows for Impulse to lean back against, and he gently hooks Grian’s legs over his thighs, keeping them spread apart enough to give Skizz room but not overexert Grian’s thighs.
“I have a long day at work, and I don’t wanna be thinking about you at all,” Grian says, acting bored as Impulse lazily traces the skin above his hip. Grian wriggles in place and waits for Skizz to come back with their toy chest gently set on the bed. “So make it count.”
“That mean you wanna pick what cock I use tonight?” Impulse asks, peppering kisses behind his ear. “Or can I pick my favorite? Hm? See if I can make-up for Skizz.”
Grian shivers. “U-uh, yeah,” he says, losing his resolve for just a moment. “You can pick.”
Impulse picks a smaller one, big enough to fill Grian up nicely but not large enough to cause an ache. He has a feeling Skizz will be causing that enough.
“Alright, baby, lift up for me.” Grian’s legs are more tired than he’s letting on because he struggles to hold himself up. Skizz helps him and holds him steady long enough for it to pop past his muscle. He fucks it into him just enough that it settles, then he grinds it until Grian’s leg squeezes against his, trying to clamp onto him to keep himself steady, and Impulse knows he has it. He guides him down gently, trying to keep his wrist from getting squashed in the process, and lets Grian try and fail to get comfortable around his cock.
“You ready for me?” Skizz asks. “I’ll make it good for you, if you’ll let me, sweet bird. Can I? Will you let me?”
Grian’s fist wearily balls at his mouth as Skizz begs. Begs for not even his forgiveness, for atonement. It’s sin from an angel’s mouth, begging Grian like he’s a god. And, well, Grian’s something between watcher, avian, and man, but now, but here, he’s putty in this angel and this demon’s hands. He’s nothing. He’s everything.
He’s theirs.
“Okay,” Grian says. “You may.”
“Thank you.” Skizz is ernest, similar to a man whose life has been spared, similar to a peasant gifted some scraps from a King. Perhaps in a way he was, as he nudges Impulse’s legs apart, and henceforth Grian’s, and dives in like his lips were destined to be against Grian’s cockhead.
Impulse doesn’t see it when Skizz takes him, but he sure as hell feels the violent jolt. Impulse has been in his place too many times to know how he switches from hard to fast, to everything to nothing, and how crazy he likes to drive his partners up the wall. It spurs Impulse on, not out of jealousy, but of something more primal, something… competitive.
He wants that from Grian, too.
His wrist twirls, pulling out the toy in the littlest of a movement to press into him. He isn’t violent with it, not wanting to overwhelm him, and Grian’s thankful for it - if his little, shaky exhales are anything to go off of.
Impulse risks a peek over Grian’s shoulder. His chin digs into his collarbone hard enough to pin him, looking down at the absolute mess he’s creating. His stubble’s causing a burn already against Grian’s thighs. He’s a man somewhere between thick and wirey. They’re all pretty active, and it shows on them in different ways. Grian may go hard on his exercise at the tennis courts, but his legs are still small and lithe when sandwiched in between the two of them. Skizz is tall, Impulse is big, both of them capturing in ways he can’t compare.
Grian’s legs are trying their best to clamp against Impulse’s, trying not to buck away like his body wants. He’s determined to sit and get what he deserves, even grinding back against Impulse’s cock in a steady roll of his hips until he’s making little noises, airy exhales that tell them both where he’s headed.
Skizz slows down, of all cruel things, and Grian gasps out a pained whine. One hand is thrown back, grabbing at the sides of Impulse’s cheek and pinching him with all his weak little might, and the other tangles itself on Skizz’s head and tries to guide him back down. He’s there, alright, pressing little kitten kisses against the area his beard burned. Grian wriggles, fucking himself onto Impulse and then raises himself back to try and entice Skizz to get back onto him.
Skizz gives in after a little, watching him twist himself around, and finally gives his cockhead a steady mouthful. Grian knows what’s coming the second his tongue retreats. His feet are incessantly moving, pressing against the bed in anticipation until Skizz is finally tightening the ring he’s made and he sucks like he’s drawing in air for the very first time.
Grian keens loudly, and Skizz doesn’t stop the steady pressure. He doesn’t quicken, slow down, he keeps pace until Grian’s gradually stolen over the edge. He cries as he comes, Impulse mirroring his pace.
“Mhm - wa-wait,” Grian’s stammering as his heart beats loud enough Impulse can hear it. His hand lazily traces over his crop tank and thumbs at his pec, squeezing at his nipple and the soft skin of his chest. He avoids the scar underneath, letting that stay covered in favor of playing with the skin above. “Wa-- Skizz! ”
“Aw.” Skizz has the audacity to look deprived, as if his chin isn’t soaked with Grian’s slick. “I thought you wanted me to make you feel good, baby. Where’d all that talk go? Am I not making it up to you?” Skizz presses an apologetic kiss, a chaste peck, against Grian’s hole, then another against his cockhead. Grian squirms, hands moving to push against his chest, but he doesn’t say a safe word, doesn’t tell him any sort of color.
“Color?” Impulse asks anyways because he wants to hear Grian say, “Green,” as he pretends like he doesn’t want Skizz to drive him mad.
“Green,” Grian replies, as expected, sounding near tears when he admits it. Oh but Impulse loves when he gets like this, loves it more when it’s he and Skizz’s team efforts that got him here.
“That’s right, you’ll let me make it up to you, sweet pea,” Skizz coos. “I just wanna make you squirt yourself silly, okay? Can I have that?”
“And - and I want you to shut up,” Grian grumbles somehow, face warm to the touch when Impulse kisses his cheek. Grian nuzzles him back, desperate for the contact.
“Hey,” Impulse chastises gently. “I think you’re being a little unfair to him.” Grian isn’t happy with him now, taking Skizz’s side, but he knows soon enough Grian won’t be mad at either them with something else stealing his thoughts away. His hands ghost down, resting against the skin of his hip, his stomach, kneading his skin until his hand can clamp against the bottom of the toy and the untouched button to flick it to life.
Grian’s hand clamps around Impulse’s wrist. He chuckles. So he’s caught on, knows what his bratty attitude gets him.
“This is - unfair,” Grian seethes weakly. “He was being mean.”
“Aw, baby,” Impulse coos as Grian is already writing, waiting for the toy to get turned on. His hand is shaking around Impulse’s wrist. Skizz captures Grian’s foot, pulls it towards himself and plays with his ticklish sole to try and distract him from squeezing at Impulse’s wrist.
It’s a little cute, a little pathetic, with how Grian’s hand isn’t strong enough to halt his wrist. He makes a show of trying to stop him, but Skizz can bet there isn’t even an ounce of effort behind it.
He likes to let Impulse have his way, even if he likes to pretend he doesn’t.
“You can call it unfair, but what I think is unfair is how much you lie, ” Impulse coos, hand hovering over the button. Grian’s chest rises and falls quickly, panting. He’s a live wire, catching his breath after his first orgasm and trying to prepare himself before he’s thrown into another. “You like it when we’re a little mean, don’t you?”
Grian hears the subtle click before he feels the toy get bumped up to the smallest level. Grian whimpers, but the sound isn’t alone for long before Skizz finds refuge against his reddened from attention cockhead.
“Please,” Grian starts weakly but doesn’t make it far when Impulse drives it into him, holds him steady against him. Skizz has to follow when he bucks away. Between the two of them, he doesn’t manage to get very far. In a last ditch attempt to keep him pinned steady, Skizz grabs at his knees and pins them against to the bed. He drags him in close as if fighting to keep him captured between himself and Impulse and licks at him fervently.
“Am I making amends? You still mad?” Skizz asks with his hot breath pooling against him, and Grian all but wails when Impulse ups the toy and grinds it against him in small circles until Impulse is really having to hold him steady because his legs are violently quivering as familiar waves take over and threaten to carry him over. “There you go, there, so fucking gorgeous. That’s all you can do, yeah? Give it up for me.”
He waits until his head is tipping back to flip up the damned toy again. Impulse’s arm snakes over him to give him enough leverage to drive the toy into he’s squirting against Skizz, gasping weakly as he gets just what he asked of them.
When Skizz’s finger glides over his cockhead, Grian rasps out a strangled, “yellow” and Skizz leaves it be in favor of kissing his other cheek, the one not occupied by Impulse’s kisses.
“Had your fill?” Skizz purrs. Grian nods eagerly, weakly pulling himself up to entangle Skizz in a tight-mouthed kiss. Impulse switches the vibe off and sets it to the side and tries not to gasp when Grian lets go of Skizz’s mouth in favor of burying himself against Impulse.
Skizz doesn’t touch himself, not against Grian’s orders, and waits until Impulse has his chance of grinding into Grian’s mouth, using his fingers to carry over his stone top.
“Please,” Grian begs, and all he has to do is ask for him until he too is catching his release.
“Does Skizz get to come too?” Impulse asks so sweetly as he nurses Grian’s ear, nibbling against the shell as Grian tries to recover, still panting as Skizz tries to clamber over the both of them.
“F-fine,” Grian huffs, turning his head to the side. “Only in me.”
“Really?” Skizz asks gently. “You’re not too sore?”
“Don’t touch my dick, and we’re good,” Grian says, twisting away, lets Skizz and Impulse hold him steady and move him onto his stomach, sprawled over Impulse’s lap as Skizz gently, gently pushes into him. He doesn’t need much - the sights for him tonight have carried him far more than what he needed. He was perfectly fine with not coming tonight, had come to terms with it. But when the opportunity presented itself, who was he to deny the chance?
Skizz’s chest collides into his backside with every thrust, the warmth of his lover better than any fuck he could ever get. Grian whines loudly, not totally uncomfortable, not pushing a limit, but he’s for sure going to bitch about it, especially when he knows it’s going to spur on Skizz even faster.
It doesn’t take him long with Grian wailing and squeezing around him, Impulse helping with gentle kisses against his neck, using his teeth even when necessary, and then there’s warmth - warmth filling him up all inside of him and it’s just enough to let him forget a silly argument that he was never mad about in the first place.
“So,” Skizz pants against his backside. “We good now?”
“Shower,” Grian pants. “And then we’re good.”
For a little apartment, the shower is somehow big enough to fit the three of them. Grian getting pressed against the shower wall, nosed at until Impulse has to ask the impossible question.
“What uh… what was up with the bug thing, anyhow?”
Skizz shakes his head off, grumbles a, “ Don’t get that started again.”
“I’m just saying, Skizz said he’d love me if I was a bug. I could have been that bug--”
“Oh, hush, you jerk,” Skizz huffs, but there’s no heat, and Skizz chases that lasting grimace away with peppered kisses. Impulse rolls his eyes and drops a glob of shampoo on his head.
“I’m sure we’ll find some ways to make up for it,” Impulse offers and gets a very pleased hum, Grian’s head always turning its gears while thinking what next can he do to milk something out of them. Whatever it is, it’ll wait until morning.