rivers_bend

Title: It's About This
Fandom/Pairing: Married to Bandom Boys; Jamia/Lindsey/Alicia
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1300
The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names and/or public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply any of this ever happened or ever would.
A/N: My writing goal for 2012 was to write more femslash. This is me starting as I mean to go on.
Summary: …this isn’t about being wives or mothers or any of that. It’s about sex and affection and orgasms and laughter…



It’s the worst kind of Letters to Penthouse cliché if she thinks too much about it, and Jamia hates that, she does, but this is just them, it’s just this, and she loves them, and this, so she can’t care all that much about what it would look like to the outside world. The outside world isn’t here. Plus, it feels really fucking good, and sometimes you have to do what feels good. The guys are at the venue―setting up, sound check, meet-and-greet, interviews―and the three of them will go see them later, watch the show from back stage and be proud as fucking anything, proud to be married to Frankie and Gerard and Mikey, but this isn’t about being wives or mothers or any of that. It’s about sex and affection and orgasms and laughter and how what happens on tour stays on tour, even when the tour isn’t yours. Even when you’re just visiting.

It’s about Lindsey sitting behind her, legs splayed wide either side of Jamia’s hips, wide enough for Jamia’s legs to fit between them, splayed around Alicia’s shoulders. It’s about Jamia’s hands gripping tight to Lindsey’s thighs, holding on because Lindsey put them there and told her not to move. About Alicia’s teeth sinking into Jamia’s flesh, sharp and hard and steady until Jamia’s whimpering with the intensity, tears quivering on her lashes. It’s about Lindsey’s voice in her ear, soft and warm, just loud enough for the three of them, saying, “So good, you’re so good, baby, look at you. Look how good you are.” About Alicia smiling as she licks the marks she’s left, dents that will welt and then bruise, that Frank will play with later, lick for himself and fondle as he tells her how hot she is, how much he’s missed her, how good it is to see her again. It’s about how much she loves that her husband won’t ask which marks are Alicia’s, which marks are Lindsey’s, because the guys don’t begrudge paying for a room that’s just for an afternoon, just theirs, sometimes will even ask the hotel for champagne and flowers, and they don’t think that makes it their right to hear all about it, like this is some kind of show their wives dreamed up to spice up married life. It’s not about the guys.

It’s about Lindsey’s fingers slow and teasing on Jamia’s clit while Alicia moves to the other thigh and closes her teeth on it, about Lindsey’s other hand cupping Jamia’s breasts, caressing, rubbing, pinching. It’s about Alicia’s fingers holding Jamia’s cunt open while she bites again, high on Jamia’s thigh, where the skin’s so tender it feels like she’ll sink right through to the tendons, end up with a mouth full of blood. It’s the way that thought makes Jamia squirm and moan, makes her clit throb and her cunt so slippery Alicia has to adjust her grip. It’s about the empty feeling being held open gives her, the way it makes her beg, “Please, please, Leish, Lynz, please,” until she’s squirming so bad she can’t draw a whole breath and Lindsey has to shush her, remind her to keep her hands where they are, let them take care of her.

It’s Alicia’s fingers finally sinking inside, three at once, then four, deep and hard and perfect, twisting to let Jamia feel the stretch of her cunt around Alicia’s knuckles, and Lindsey’s finger barely a whisper right on the tip of her clit, the pair of them winding her up tighter and tighter until she’s a string about to snap, a quivering mess, gonna maybe die if they don’t let her come. It’s the way they know when she can’t take another second, even if she’s good and doesn’t get demanding, the way Alicia knows just how fast and hard to start fucking, and Lindsey knows just how much pressure to use rubbing hard and fast at the base of Jamia’s clit. It’s Lindsey’s teeth sinking in to the muscle where Jamia’s neck curves into shoulder, just as Alicia’s sink one last time into the slick-wet flesh of her thigh.

It’s the way they grin like their faces might split as they pet her when the endorphins give her giggle fits she can never stop. The way Alicia tastes when she kisses her, face covered in Jamia’s juices, the way Lindsey’s arm stays tight around her and Alicia keeps a hand on her shoulder when Jamia leans sideways to get far enough away to watch while they kiss each other with her trapped between them. It’s the way coming with them makes her feel sapped and limp and sated, but eager to roll them over, make them come as hard as she did.

It’s Lindsey flat on her back, head propped on two pillows to give her the best angle to get her tongue in Alicia’s cunt, the noises she makes muffled but clear enough encouragement as Jamia sucks hard on her clit. It’s the sharp jut of her hipbone under Jamia’s palm and the way her cunt takes Jamia’s whole hand and holds it in a tightslickhot grip, getting wetter and wetter and wetter as Jamia licks and slurps and sucks and bites, as she rocks her knuckles against the ridges and folds, feels the rough of Lindsey’s g-spot and the slick of her cervix. It’s the gasps and little cries Alicia makes, not muffled at all, low and soft at first, getting sharper and more desperate as Lindsey licks her closer and closer to coming.

It’s the way the tattoo on Lindsey’s thigh tastes like the ones on Frank’s belly, and the ones on Alicia’s arm just taste like her. It’s the way they lie in a heap, limbs tangled together when they’ve all come once, and sometimes they start fondling again and go for round two, and sometimes they start talking about their kids or their pets or the hot attendant on the flight over or how weird winter in LA is, and either way it feels right.

It’s reminiscing about the times when touring meant filthy vans while they luxuriate in a giant hotel suite shower, soaping each other’s skin while they laugh helplessly at Jamia’s story about trying to bathe three dogs at once in the downstairs bathtub at home. It’s the angle of Alicia’s shoulder blade over the top of her fluffy towel and the curve of Lindsey’s collar bone, and the sharp, bright ink on their skin. It’s trying Lindsey’s new lipstick even though Jamia can’t usually be bothered with lipstick, and letting Alicia put eye makeup on her because she likes the way Alicia’s concentrating face looks so much like Mikey’s. It’s pulling a hoodie on over her naked tits for the walk back to the room she’s sharing with Frank where she’ll get dressed for dinner and the show, the way Alicia’s ass looks in her jeans, the way Lindsey’s dress drapes as she drops it over her head. It’s sloppy making out against the door one last time before they go, and the formal three-way kiss they always give each other, even though half the time they’re laughing too hard for much lip contact because they can’t help but find it funny how noses always get in the way.

It’s about how she’s the wife of a fucking rock star, and the mother of his children, and a woman and a best friend and a sister, and you have the families you’re born into and the families that you find, and Jamia’s the fucking luckiest woman on earth except maybe these two right here with her. It’s about them. It’s about love.