Work Text:
“Let me fuck you,” Eugenides murmurs against her mouth, and Irene cannot catch her breath. He kisses her, clever tongue delving into her mouth, and every time she thinks she’s caught his rhythm he changes it, until she is aching for something more.
“If you want to fuck me,” Attolia says, heat in her cheeks at his vulgar language— it suits him as it does not suit her, and his face is hungry watching her lips move around the word— “you’ll have to stop teasing me.”
He gasps, offended.
“Or,” Attolia considers, pushing him back, “you let me fuck you.”