#AND i always forget its at the angle its at. towards the back end

[lesbiten]

in my brute forcing my fear of the ocean by playing subnautica and simply telling myself im not scared era

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

It goes without saying that Karina’s reputation is flawless. 

Irene’s is remarkably not.

You're not even staunchly a romantic or anything. You just can’t be assed to manage the distinction between desire and distance. So when the dust settles, the best case scenario is the three of you going around telling people, "all of this is actually a true story by the way."

-

You don't need the extra helping of moody and foreboding, but the wind picks up enough to chill you to the spot.

It blows some of the longer, darker strands of Irene's hair into her eyes and she shivers, too, against the cold as she tucks it behind her ears. You’ve got both hands balled into your coat pockets, watching her pretend like she isn't about to say something you absolutely do not want to hear. Then, a sigh - the length of which is probably unwarranted. You can feel the frost on the air burning through your teeth as you face back out toward the taxi stand. 

It’s gotten late and you're still waiting on an empty cab - you’re realizing there was never a conversation to be had in the first place.

“For what it’s worth,” Irene says, and there’s an indecent proposal just in the way she glances at you. “I had my eyes on her first.”

It’s all on account of some sort of moral quandary, or whatever nonsense Irene pretends to believe every time it comes up. A gross power imbalance; an issue of innocence and entitlement; a threat of abuse. Something, another thing, patriarchal expectations, blah, blah - she fudges around the details, but never ever cares who gets hurt. Not really.

And it’s doubtful Irene believes what she says, not to mention she’s skeptical anyone is even capable of zipping their way down Karina’s denim, working a pair of hands up the contour of her long legs, and making her pant and gasp hard enough that she forgets to breathe.

Well, supposedly - that is anyone, save the two of you. Nevermind the fact she’s always, always been off-limits.

The bottom line is she's a whole decade younger than either of you. This just for starters - only legal for alcohol by some narrow margin. Because between you and your fiancée there are all these rules: no coworkers, no labelmates, no close mutual friends, no personal assistants, no jealous ex-lovers, and absolutely none of her juniors. It’s in poor taste, among other things.

Also, just as straightforward: crossing any number of those lines has its own kind of appeal.

"Okay,” you say, “then maybe you should be the one to tell her we’re taking her home."

Irene's arching her eyebrows at you like a silent rebuttal. She smiles after a laugh, quick and easy, because it's what she's good at. It's what she knows. “Like you weren’t hoping she’d be here, too."

The ash Irene taps off the end of her cigarette falls to the ground like snow. Hitting the pavement as if it might punctuate the thought. That's a rare first mistake from someone like you, and then a second one from her: she thinks she’ll need to defend herself with an explanation, like she’d ever need to justify anything to you.

“Besides, she’s not waiting for me to ask.” There’s a curl to her mouth - and then, she adds, for your benefit, "she'd follow you anywhere."

The twisted irony is that the two of you could pick up any woman, anyone at all.

"I think it’s a discussion for another day," you tell her, serious. She laughs out loud.

"Which one? Who Karina wants, or that you're aching every bit as much as I am to spread her out on our bed and fuck her? Because I'm pretty sure we can both agree that at this point-"

Your palm curls around the nape of her neck with a touch of on-your-feet-thinking: one of these moments that lets Irene sit with the knowledge of how small she really is against you, her head against the collar of your coat, chin angled just so to look up at your face. And there's only a beat that passes between your fingers in her hair, tugging gently as her hand releases to your waist, her teeth clipping against the press of your lips, before a cab pulls up right next to you. You kiss her hard. It probably looks cinematic.

If for nothing other than to give Karina one less thing to overhear when she comes back outside to join you.

"Really not the time," you whisper right into the subtle twist of her grin. Her cigarette's gone out in the snowy mess, but Irene smirks deeper in response before throwing it onto the wet concrete. She grinds it beneath her boot like a reminder, her hand still firm on your hip.

"What, you don't think it’d make her day? Don’t think she'd want to hear all those kinds of thoughts running together through our heads?"

You pull Irene in closer. “She’s not you.”

-

For context - only so you’re aware how it all starts - it wasn’t actually New Year’s Eve, even though everyone had been drinking like it were.

Also for context, it’s not something you were strictly invited to either. Irene’s company holds this holiday party at the end of every year where all of their employees show up (read: idols; Irene likes to argue about work sometimes - to which you have never contested the value of her labor - but your brain tends to fuzz out in the middle, and instead you mostly just watch her pretty mouth in motion). All of the high-up executives and department heads bring their uptight wives and girlfriends to some restaurant ballroom for a cocktail reception that only really functions for name dropping, or influencing the media, or placing side bets on who is sleeping with the CFO - or whose mistress might show up unexpectedly and meet someone's wife face-to-face for the very first time.

It happens to someone Irene knows, once. You pray every year it will happen again.

Be that as it may, there are a plethora of other terrible ways to spend an evening and a half, but it’s all laid bare in Irene's contract - attendance being mandatory; enjoyment excessively optional.

And sure, it’s taken time, but you have gotten used to it: the industry, all of its excess, the inevitable display, the million and one things required of Irene that you, on the other hand, will simply never be able to relate to.

The machine’s so fine-tuned and tightly wound, like clockwork.

"Yeah, whatever," she had said, leaning her hip against your bathroom sink earlier in the day. Her dress laid out neatly across your bed, already pressed, set with her heels and jewelry, everything set on schedule to the point of absurdity.

And so it goes.

You can hear her brushing her teeth through the open door - and see her profile through the hand-swiped-fog on the mirror. She drags the toothbrush to the corner of her mouth: "And before you even ask, yes, you have to come. That's the deal. That's always been the deal - bored, or busy, or trapped talking to some social climbing board member who’s realized the liquor flows fast and free - I don’t wanna hear about it. You’ll be there."

"Uh-huh," you say, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror.

"Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she adds, spits, and lets the faucet run, “but this one’s shaping up to be a really long night.” 

You watch the meticulous effort to pull her dark hair back into a low, neat bun as she turns and comes back into the bedroom, tossing her hair clip onto the bed to reclaim later. 

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

"Ever the salesman, Irene," you say, facetious.

"Um, saleswoman, thank you." Her words are slightly muffled by a silk tank top pulled on over her head, then down the flat length of her body until it hits the tops of her thighs. 

It’s not a matter of opinion that she'll look gorgeous in the stilettos, the dress - those earrings that catch light wherever it dares touch her. She'll smile her practiced grin. It'll probably taste sour after the hundredth person asks how long it's been and she tells them she can't remember. But then look - Irene here, still perfectly disheveled: her damp-darkened hair sticking to the porcelain skin of her neck, skin washed free of makeup. She’s beautiful. In a plain and simple way, simple-but-good. Even with the tight little scowl she shoots your direction. It’s a look she has to know could launch a thousand ships; could start a real, actual war; though you're far too charming to know how to fight - you’ve never seen the appeal.

Irene's teeth tug at the corner of her lip like she knows you'd probably end up dying in it. She puts forward this unassuming, nonchalant, “hey.”

She muses it right into a laugh. Covers her genuine smile with her fingers.

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

You’re noticing, now, the strap of her top has fallen just down the petite slope of her shoulder. You want to get your fingers beneath it. Maybe get her back in the shower. You’re never too picky.

And here: an unspoken demand, the thing that always gets you about her - while Irene stands in front of you, her finger looped between the top buttons of your shirt to draw you close. The bow of her lip perked ever-so-slightly, this soft pucker - all pretty in pink. "Before I slip into this dress, you’re going to push me against something sturdy and kiss me until I'm dizzy," she instructs, calm and methodical.

"A lot," you continue for her. You nod seriously, for a moment. "Dizzying."

She closes her eyes and leans in, and you lean into her, too. "Yeah, exactly," she ends up murmuring under a hot breath. "So, get to it.”

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

As a matter of fact, they all do: four shots together - or one old-fashioned, or two vodka seltzers, or three of these mystery concoctions that come in a tall-stemmed glass you didn’t actually catch the name of, and jesus, it fucking reeks of prosecco. You pace yourself, within reason. You really do.

Irene gets elusive under the surface, which is to say, she doesn't change at all - not even at the edges.

And though everyone is here to be seen, only a few actually do any of the talking. Irene has it covered - you do your time.

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

She tastes like everything sweet, strong on her heels and sharper on her tongue - and sometimes, it’s not the best mix, given all you can manage is the touch and scent of Irene without actually getting at the insides of her thighs or that tempting stretch of skin under her ear, her neck, down to her chest.

This much, and she has no complaint - hardly seems surprised or inconvenienced - to you stepping her into the wall like it's a matter of instinct.

She just sighs, a short huff. "Don't miss these kinds of parties," she then confesses, right into your mouth, her warm exhale filling you whole. The sounds of people laughing and champagne glasses clicking nearby, a new song starting up, it's all an unnecessary backdrop, and Irene isn't distracted by a single bit of it.

Character, setting, scene; it’s all rather textbook, no? 

You know what the sounds mean, the soft hums, the lingering touches, the firm press of your palm into the dip of her waist or the slender line of her back. She knows where all the cameras are because she knows everything that anyone could possibly ever want to know, such as the fact that this empty stairwell is a perfect place to start, that there isn't a real plan as to where this might go - or when it should end.

And you should know where not to press - or bite or grab or leave a mark - not in some liminal space, nor some vacant practice-room, not beneath a desk, not behind a curtain. No, not here, cloaked in shadow and secrecy, another scandal in the making. Not that the knowledge stops you from testing out the lines, from drawing little patterns up Irene's waist, slipping one hand along the barest skin where her dress has hitched up along her thigh. To a boundary, the low pitch of her voice, some suggestion like, "not here, are you serious?" mumbled across your lips like it really doesn't matter what gets said or does not.

She’s pinned so properly, so precisely, that the discord between her gentle coaxing, and your hard, bruising edge - that sheer incongruity between what you should do and what you should not - can make the adrenaline spike.

She kisses you harder - and harder, and harder. She catches the small sigh you let out. She kisses you breathless.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’re wasting an opportunity, given that you’re both dressed to the nines and are usually more homebody than anything else. Isn’t that the irony of fame? You sign up for an escape, and spend your life running away.

Irene eventually sinks back into the soles of her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, and she smiles so easy. She tugs at the cuffs of your jacket, sets your collar flat and proper.

"I'm thinking," you hear her say, taking stock for herself, the flush high in her cheeks, the tousled sort-of-curls now bared, "in half an hour, if you feel like leaving early, we could, oh, I don't know - escape?"

Escape to a bed with a door that locks, you assume she means. Irene wants; you deliver - however she'd like.

“Sounds tempting,” you tell her. She laughs against your shoulder. "Are you waiting on someone else to sweep you off your feet, maybe? Another offer?"

"Uh, always," she scoffs. It's the little things, confidence, and certainty, the honest-in-practice; how her palms sit soft and secure, cupping the angle of your jaw, one hand, now, toying with the knot of your tie like she's contemplating just how it might fall off of you later. Irene shrugs, leaning her weight back against the wall.

She taps a finger to her lips. Ends up saying, very solemn: "Thirty minutes."

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

Irene holds true to her word - she catches you on the second to last pass around the banquet room. Some executive with a slack mouth is just launching into what sounds to be a spiel about a merger - it's unimportant, not well-versed, so Irene sidles up to you, and immediately steals your attention. It doesn't bother you in the least. She curls her finger into the cuff of your jacket sleeve, and without really being prompted or asked - and only, probably, due to the clear discomfort she has being there with anyone else - she begins dragging you out of the room; you, her ticket out of hell.

"I'm so sorry," Irene dons the industry smile and is probably charming. It's difficult for you to tell. You follow her blindly. "So sorry," she tells someone else as you exit, just before you both disappear entirely, "We're leaving. But, we'll see you next year, promise!"

A real celebrity.

The two of you suddenly a duo - and for everyone’s safety, the way it should probably always ought to be - here’s how it’s all supposed to go:

You, standing almost amidst a bank of snow gathered at the curb, your coat fanned out around Irene, shivers racking up her slight frame. All hidden just enough that if anyone were to notice where your hand ends up arriving at the narrow of her waist, they might think: 'it's not really any of my business,' and look away.

Her, curled beneath your touch - even the single press of your fingers over the small of her back as a stranger pulls a car up to the curb; or, the pull of you that ensures the driver can't actually see what you're both up to, what you're hiding; the little reach she makes into your pocket for a lighter, smiling appreciatively as she presses her cold face to the crook of your arm, your jaw, the juncture of your neck; a safe space.

“So.” Irene will look up at you, pale moonlight gathered in her lashes. She’ll make another face: this thousand kilowatt grin or her brow raising - sharp, quick, there-then-gone. She'll turn the lighter over in her hand once, twice, and say, “how long has it been since we’ve done anything social?”

You’ll know it’s not what she means, but you’ll offer her the out anyway: "could go downtown - there's a place you've probably never been to. Might even play your style of music, if you're really lucky."

Irene will arch her eyebrow as she raises the cigarette to her mouth, lit up before you know it.

"Is that right?" she'll say, dismissive, a smoky tendril curling up over city neon and catching starlight.

You're no stranger to what’s actually being suggested - an unspoken sort of arrangement. All because Irene sees herself as being above, hiding her intentions in euphemism, tact; in long, slow drags; in lilting lashes - while she's fully and shamelessly aware there's nothing virtuous about it.

Who the hell else could make it sound dignified, pretty even: ménage à trois.

Then, you’ll do your part. You’ll help interpret: another girl, gorgeous and probably unclothed, another bad decision, or two, the three of you finding yourselves back in your apartment where Irene will not hesitate to run her tongue up the side of a sweat-glistened neck, to tilt her head and whisper out a mantra of, honey, sweetie, anybody ever tell you how good you look between a woman’s legs? Or, fuck, let’s get you out of those jeans, let me take you all in, how the fuck have we not gotten our hands on you before?

Which means the question you really ought to be asking sounds more like, “maybe we can invite someone over?”

You’ll meet her eyes as they flick up - a lazy expression, easy to read. "Bingo," she’ll say, blowing smoke and even more caution to the wind.

Almost to a fault, everything she does draws attention. Every fool with a blog and a camera posted outside of an event will have her labeled on-sight. You can already see the headline - because the only thing worse than everyone thinking you're the antagonist is looking the part. The imagery, red carpet, sexy evening dress, sultry, regal. The caption, Bae Joohyun - they use her government name like they really know her - sulking in smoke, or thirty flirty and thriving? below a thumbnail of her holding the cigarette, with your suit jacket draped over her shoulders. She's a total tabloid darling. Irene the temptress, or Irene, ice in her veins, or Irene - "How does she look so fucking gorgeous without makeup?!" or "Do I wanna hate her, or wanna be her? @RedFlavor_ROYAL," or "In every shot I feel like Irene has me staring into her soul."

Add that to the fact the girl’s utterly shrouded in myth.

Everyone running amuck with speculation; she's the girl-next-door, she’s the fantasy-in-real-life, she's someone everyone could see themselves fucking - she’s the heroine they say, the villain, the perfect wife, the one-that-got-away. They never do decide.

Though there’s only one opinion she’ll concern herself with, and only on occasion: yours.

Her fingers will come in the dark to trail feather-light from your collarbone, between the rise and fall of your shirt buttons, before pressing open palmed to your chest to still right there, and she's such a pretty thing in the plain black dress, all yours and very much in the mood - which you'll already have reason to know, in part from having felt your way around her no more than a hour prior, but also just the way Irene's been looking at you from beneath her dark lashes all evening, that subtle predatory gleam in her eyes.

You’ll hold her close. Irene will have the audacity to comment, “love you,” in this delicate little whisper, quiet like it could go either way - affection or gratitude. Maybe a touch of both.

A car will shortly arrive, pulling up to the curb with snow melting under its tires, headlights in your eyes, and then finally, in no particular order, your heart hammering: the click of the lighter, the falling ash, the sweet easy laugh, the crunch of ice under foot as she steps down beside you, the soft sweep of your arm.

You have no complaints about the proposal. A lack of argument or dispute is basically the same thing as consent, isn't it? For all intents and purposes, as a whole, it's really kind of a win-win:

Irene needs variety, which you're well aware of. It's only natural for someone who can have anything they want. And, sure, you happen to be a willing participant when it comes to satisfying the occasional whim.

So - the conversation will follow you right into the backseat of the cab, simply to iron out the details. 

“Tall. Beautiful. Soft, soft, soft - like cashmere, a luxury brand," Irene will have one heel off and her knee braced up into the back seat while the other leg extends across your thighs, fingers running along your coat collar to make idle circles against the exposed skin there. "Or, at the very least, someone with a little more bend to their character - you know how those prim and proper types always get a bit lost in you.”

"And wouldn’t you know."

It’ll sound smooth, probably. Irene will roll her eyes.

“So, okay,” you'll return to her, right after instructing the cabbie how to get to Irene's place. None of the implications here are lost on you. “You have anyone particular in mind?”

"Hm, I’m thinking."

You can picture it, roughly: Irene's whole body sunk into the dark corner of the seat - one leg idling over the other. Her foot bouncing at your thigh. She has her heels in one hand, earrings in the other.

She’ll look wistfully out the window; the intermittent flashes of city lights casting her face in different hues. The curve of her jaw; the stately line of her nose; her thick black lashes - composition and subject. It's this kind of attention to detail that the cameras scramble to pick up. It’d be better if they got it for the right reasons.

You’ll pull out your phone. Start the usual scroll from the top of your contacts. The girls you know, the girls you don't, the ones who might be awake or who definitely are, regardless of time of day or night.

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

Someone cute, she might say, only because she'd rather not admit, someone like me. There's limits to her vanity insofar as her taste - in all sorts of things.

But she does like the idea of it. Someone young and pretty and impressionable; someone naive, or tiny and helpless; it's never difficult to find the girl who will fawn over her - all wide-eyed and doe-faced the instant Irene floats her fingers across her collarbone, smirking - when she starts at the zipper at the back of her neckline and says, "we’re going to see how wet I can get you," without missing a beat. Someone who will eventually say please when Irene gets a little stern and tells her, "ask me what I'm gonna do to you," in a rasp so smoky that it would make the cigarette seem blasé.

But that, you suppose, is the nature of Irene. A touch domineering. A little more than just a pretty face.

She always takes, but she takes gently - a push here, a pull there, she knows people will give her anything.

It will be more obvious when there's a small voice trembling between the two of you, twisted up in your sheets and simpering with the gentle sort of affection that Irene deals so expertly: two fingers sliding up, pressing down. Curling, beckoning. Slow and tender, without giving up that she's looking for any soft spot; a weak point. Some vulnerability to exploit.

It'll be right after whichever plaything of the hour pulls her lips off yours, off the length of your fingers - or when she unfastens her mouth from the hard shape of your cock with an obnoxiously loud pop: "do you guys do this kind of thing often?"

And Irene, without even an ounce of hesitation, will rip right into the sheer of her stockings, letting out an aggressively casual laugh. She’ll plant a kiss somewhere deep. Say, "oh, honey," as she nuzzles into the crease of her thigh. "We're pretty new to this too."

Everyone, just - believes her. For the same reason you suppose they believe she's perfect. She’s good, really good at all this.

In the taxi, Irene's foot will continue to tap against your leg, until you're stopping her by covering her knee with your hand. As for now, the evening will remain all but written in stone. You'll run a hand through your hair, you’ll lean an elbow against the window - the whole while, ignoring the sudden itch between your shoulder blades at the thought of something else. At the thought of all the other girls who'll take an instant liking to her. Who wouldn't. 

The light will change. The intersection will empty. The radio will turn to static.

You'll eventually offer up a name like, "Jennie Kim," among others. Moving alphabetically down your contacts list. Taking you a long while to make it through the 'K's.

"Hm." Irene's soft hum of disapproval, non-committal. "Are you asking, or telling?"

The difference won't matter. "I'm suggesting," you'll say.

You’ll watch how Irene turns the name over in her mouth a few times before smiling - how she knows, there's the smallest part of you that has her held in a certain light. "Maybe," she'll say, tapping her phone against her cheek in the contemplation of whether or not this is a tentative no or a provisional yes - when really what she'll avoid an answer with is, "aren’t we a little tired of Jen?"

Tough to say.

Good, sweet, and just naive enough to get twisted up between you, in her case. Oh, Jennie’s the type of girl - you'll stuff your cock in her pretty little cunt while leaning into her, taking her arms and pinning them to the base of her spine, so she can't reach and can't claw and can't make an utter fucking wreck of herself. The two of you have known Jennie for too long, is what will strike you then. And a moment later, the idea of sinking into her ass from behind with your palm flat and warm against her hip and your voice husky and deep in the way she likes, and saying, god, fuck, Jen, you’d let me do anything wouldn’t you, you’d let me cum in here too.

And - she would, really.

She wouldn't even complain. Her face would be pressed so firmly against Irene's thighs, and she would whimper, not beg. Even though you know it’s what Irene might prefer; how it makes her look real cute - cheeks stained crimson as the syllables roll around her tongue before being forced out into the open.

"I think she's great," you might say out loud, lowkey.

And in a voice that is louder than strictly necessary, Irene will cut in: "she lets you finish in her ass, and then not even three minutes later she'll say it was the best lay of her life, of course you do."

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

Irene will frown, thoughtful, but not conceding anything - perhaps she means hold onto that thought for now. If nothing else sounds particularly enticing, we'll call it a maybe. "I’m saying: Jennie is. I don't know."

You can hear the end of her sentence: not quite good enough. Not this time around, but someday, sure, someday soon.

"And for the record," Irene will follow, casual, with a dismissive hand wave. "Just because you got to her first doesn't mean she's ever liked you more."

The few that fall afterwards will never make the cut. Irene will turn them all down. Jisoo - no, sorry, look, she's so, so pretty, Irene will be trying to explain, gesturing in a way that's hard to interpret. "But a little too stuck up for my tastes."

You've been speaking in code for years. She means: way, way, way too straight.

"The blonde though," Irene will try right after that. “Daisy, or Lily, oh god something or another, what was her name-”

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

“Yeah.” Irene will sink back into the leather, sipping down a memory or two and shifting her skirt up the top of her thighs.

You'll consider the angle. Your options: Rosé on her knees right inside the foyer of your apartment, Irene's hands wrapped tightly in her hair, controlling the rhythm. The way she gets her fingers spread under Irene's knees and draws her forward, pushing up with her eager, prying mouth - licks and licks, nosing against the heat of Irene's pussy until she’s gasping and locking her hands around the younger girl's head to steady the jerk of her hips.

Then, you'll laugh out loud. Because you know, Rosie isn’t anywhere close to straight enough. 

And the back-and-forth of what-ifs and could-bes will follow. An endless string, a laundry list. Where Irene makes a face for every name, every suggestion: too messy, or too innocent, or too sweet, or too boring, or not nearly shy or gullible enough, or whatever other bizarre caveat she finds to slot between all of her impassioned criticisms. The cabbie will be shaking his head at some point too, because the question hangs over the taxi at large: 

What exact criteria could possibly be good enough for the distinguished tastes and sensibilities of Bae Irene?

-

(The truth is: it doesn’t go like that at all.)

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

The run-in starts there, downstairs, out standing in a pool of warm, yellow light. The snow flurrying about in the glow of a street lamp - melting into where her smoothed curtain of jet-black hair spills over her shoulder and trickles down her sleeve. She looks a little cold, but not noticeably shivering. There's a red flush to the exposed length of her legs, between a pair of knee-high boots and the short hem of the coat itself. The stockings underneath offer little in the way of wintery protection - nor do the little bows that rest at the the bands of elastic around her soft, pale thighs - though it's obvious to anyone who's looking why she'd choose to wear them.

An assay into form over function. She's never cared for pragmatism.

But the lines around her are pristine, a clean-cut of shadow and substance; you take a step onto the curb, feeling yourself fall right into the foreground.

Look: you know Karina. You both do. Enough to recognize where it’s calmest before a storm.

Irene eventually calls out her name into the silence, and there is a split-second where her fingers reflexively wrap around the crook of your elbow. Almost possessive.

A car rushes by. Karina turns with her ungloved hand holding her cellphone to her ear and she's fucking gorgeous as can be, always pinning you with these big, unapologetic eyes - strikingly and somewhat deceptively innocent beneath her sharp brows. A breathy huff in response; she's otherwise unaffected.

Her shoulders shrug in easy dismissal; a quirk of the corners of her mouth. She slips her phone back in the pocket of her pea-coat. "Oh, how we all doing?"

Not for long, the question lingers.

"Fine," Irene finally replies, though her voice doesn't rise above a disinterested murmur.

"Easier, right? To fight for breath down here than it is up there," she says, pointing her gaze up high into the rafters of the building, and in a lot of ways, you realize, she's just like Irene - sweet, charming, this uncanny ability to make you think she's close, when she isn't actually looking to share anything. When she hasn't exactly decided that she likes you or anything at all.

You squint slightly. Take in where her silhouette appears darker against the backdrop of city lights, blending with the velvety black, bleeding into the ink-smudged night sky.

"There's certainly something to be said for flying under the radar at these things," she continues, taking one step closer towards you as if for comfort. Or privacy - to guard against anyone who might walk by.

"You've still got it easy," Irene says, "that, and everyone thinks you're too pretty to go after. No one even seems to consider the idea, it’s insufferable."

"Jealous?" Her tone is playful. There’s a smirk she’s suppressing - until she can’t hold it in: an unexpected, stunning smile, dimple and all. This incongruously kind face.

Oh, and listen, no one gets it better than Irene.

"No," Irene exhales, hot. “Not at all.” You can see where the thin plume of her breath hangs over her like a cloud for a moment, thinking, before dissipating against the harshness of a frigid December breeze.

"Really." She smiles at you again. Makes a sound that could be a laugh, you don’t know, the wind takes it, far away.

"Are you out here waiting for someone?" you have to ask. 

"Loaded question." Karina purses her lips for a moment. Her long eyelashes blink once, twice. "Because, I dunno, aren't we all?"

"Some of us more than others." Irene speaks quietly, moreso to herself than anyone else - but somehow her voice carries.

"Cheeky," Karina says, and this time she does laugh. "No. I'm waiting for a cab. I've had one hell of a night, and no interest in spending the rest of it in some rising socialite's bed, doubters excluded, because - look, I'm happy for you guys, I guess? You're gonna get married," she claps slowly, slow and mocking, slow enough that Irene rolls her eyes, "-or, the two of you will make a statement saying that you are - either way it sounds fucking exhausting - congratulations to you both. But seriously, congrats."

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

Faintly-hinted secrets, flirty half-truths. Her love life is an utter wreck, but that’s not something you’re supposed to know. So that's all she gives, which is more or less how everyone knows her. It's the only way to survive, probably, in a world of glitter and glamour, when everyone's vying to look, to feel, to take, and take, and take. Irene knows how suffocating it can be - she doesn’t lie about it, not to you, which is the only reason you're so well-versed.

Point being, no one wants to admit to any cracks in the fantasy; the gold too shiny, the surface too slick, the mirror too smooth for that illusion to slip.

"So go grab a guy with a half-decent smile and get him to buy you a drink about it," Irene suggests, derisive, "arch your back, push your tits out, get creative. I doubt it'll be much trouble at all."

Karina looks down, back up - with a slight chew of her lip, saying, "you just have me beat in all the important ways, I suppose. You got it in the bag, no real competition."

Irene is smiling, but her expression is unimpressed; it doesn’t mean much, really, to be her friend, her colleague, or worse, her opponent. Irene is calm like an evening in July, a low, cool, languid feeling. "I don't mean to be a prick, but, aren't you a little young to be so jaded?"

"Gosh," Karina’s grin doesn’t change, but does turn a touch wicked, like she's biting back. "I'd hate to be around when you do mean to be a prick, but maybe we'll find out - you know, down the line, someday.”

Irene tuts softly. It sounds patronizing. "Please, you'll have to forgive me - for mistaking you for someone more aware of how the rest of us work."

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

"Right." The way the word rolls off Irene's tongue, slow, thick, bitter, like molasses; like the coffee she has when she's tired, like the cigarette she swears left and right she’s cutting out and the vodka she needs you to reach for in the upper cabinets, like the person she is after midnight when you've let her keep drinking to find the limits to her inhibition. You understand Irene too well. And no matter what anyone says, you will not have the facts wrong.

There's no kindness to the way she laughs. None.

She tilts her head to you, grinning: an honest grin, her favorite thing - inimitable, unique, and hers alone; her version of cruelty is what will always have them doubting. You hold her gaze as she adds, "of all things, right now - wouldn’t you just love to set her straight?"

-

Depending on who you ask, you’ll get different results.

Irene insists you kissed Karina first, probably out there in the snow - god knows how cliche would that be.

She also insists that it was you who suggested that “there’s a lot more sense in splitting a cab,” and then minutes later, “please, it'd be no trouble, just let us pay. Our place is five blocks that way," and Irene - being Irene - mentioning it's actually quite a bit further, but hey, it isn’t worth splitting hairs over. And it's not worth explaining - she shuts you up with another kiss, pressing her weight hard up against you, the arm she slings around your neck.

Then in a sort of mythologized version of the timeline, it's you who makes the proposition - invites Karina upstairs, with the charm that Irene knows is usually reserved for her benefit alone: that slight tick of the brow, the delicate slant of your mouth, the confidence you seem to have in thinking no one will ever say no, no matter how brusque the invitation-

"You two are unbelievable. Is this really your standard procedure?" Karina asks, once you're through the door, or maybe during a bout of smalltalk in the kitchen. Something flirtatious; and suggestive, and maybe a little offhand. A pointed glance downwards, back up. All it really will take. "You get some girl into your home and they're just so overwhelmed and dazzled and in love, they can't even make eye contact for longer than a second? Because that's quite a line," a soft huff, the exhale that seems to carry the faintest note of a sigh. You could call it wistful. Just this side of romantic; very attractive.

“That’s more or less the gist of it,” you offer.

“You’d be surprised.” Irene is lingering on it, back against the counter beside you, laughing. "Some people are more than happy to be swept off their feet."

"Imagine that. If that's how this is meant to go, then tell me," and Karina lifts her chin, a breath drawn slow and deliberate, "what exactly do prince and princess charming do next?"

Consider that Karina’s interpretation of events is closer to reality: no pretense. She is not drunk, and in this story, she never will be.

But it's the slow-burn thing, the rivals-to-lovers thing, the sexual-tension-through-conflict thing, the white-hot-blistering-rage matter gone awry. Not a series of happy accidents, but a result of intentional circumstance - this slow arc of descent. She knows exactly how Irene is tightly wound, and which thread to pull to make everything start to unravel. She'd flirt with you right under her nose - say things in this obnoxiously girlish tone, pout a lot, lean into so much innuendo it becomes impossible to miss the meaning, or the sincerity behind it.

If you had to guess - Karina’s been pining since forever, since Irene accidentally etched her DNA into the girl upon saying, carelessly, that she’d always seen some part of herself in Karina. Probably around the time Irene wrapped a palm over an expanse of bare thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt, telling her, you're getting way too pretty for your own good.

Doesn’t matter who you are, that’ll fuck you up for real.

And it's not just how she looks at Irene when she thinks no one is watching either; swings and roundabouts, Karina probably can’t keep the thought of you sprawled out over Irene’s petite little frame, or Irene kissing you hard while wrapped around you tight. Your hand, her hand, intertwined and picturesque, sliding down Irene's stomach. Together - and so very without her - fingertips stroking lightly over Irene’s clit, gently dipping inside her.

Irene is not stupid. She picks up on everything, and there's a lot to unpack:

"Can you believe it? Minjeong just asked me if I've ever kissed a girl before," Karina had said to you once, ages ago, between a workout or dance practice, something or another - she was wearing a loose-fit tank top and very intent on showing off. She seemed then to be taking mental note of the face Irene put on, the look of someone trying to hold in an aneurysm.

“Well,” you played along, because you’re not really without blame here either. "Have you?"

"Oh my god." Karina knew what she awas doing, the playful slap to the chest, the lingering touches she’d have on you every chance she could get - total fucking coquette - anything to get a rise out of you, your fiancée. She hushed her voice down to this strategic whisper that Irene could just overhear: "of course not."

You better believe Irene broke her composure not soon afterwards, after Karina made her exit. 

"Do not fuck her," she demanded, firm, "I don't care how good you think she might be in bed, or what she would probably let you get away with."

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

You’re sighing, profoundly. The memory - not to mention its shocking clarity - has put a smug sort of satisfaction into your bones, indulging. The nip to Karina's jaw, a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. A hand tracing down the curve of her hips, under the guise of helping her settle between the cushions of the couch. You feel like you catch the color flooding her cheeks. Then, Irene, her pretty little shadow: the steady presence over her other shoulder.

"What." Karina sounds defensive when Irene pulls her lips away, but the hand she has buried in Irene's hair doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. "Are we going to pretend for a minute I don't see the way you're both looking at me right now?"

"Don't be stupid, darling, of course not." Irene leans up close again. Kisses up her neck, behind her ear, and coos, "the two of us, you just seemed like you were needing someone, that's all," and then whispers the words, barely audible: "I mean look, who wouldn't want the three of us right now?"

Karina hums. "Ah, so - you think I deserve to have a little fun."

"Maybe," she draws it out a little longer.

Your hands dip below her knees, running over the silk-slick surface, tugging at the frills lining her thighs - feeling up over the outline of where her body curves under her dress. Over the dark pattern printed across the front.

Karina swallows visibly, her head dropping back against the armrest, the couch cushion; by the way she shudders slightly and starts breathing, you realize that it's probably been a while since she's had much experience being in a position this helpless. You draw your fingers lightly across the bareness of her skin, right as Irene finds that sensitive spot just where her neck slopes to her collarbone. You trace along the fabric until you have her squirming beneath you both.

She sucks in a breath as Irene drags a touch right over the obvious seam, across the expanse of her hip, and despite your fiancée being a tad forward -

"Both of you should know I'm not that type of girl. Who puts out so easily-"

"Likewise," Irene practically sneers, not missing a beat and threading her fingers beneath her jaw, feeling her pulse against the pad of her thumb.

"Yeah, well. If this isn't a setup, then, what-"

“A setup.” Irene breathes the word out, contemptuous, which is almost as if she says yes, you figured it out, and she starts to lean in closer - the distance between the two of them now negligible as her mouth tightens with her derision. "That is awfully conceited of you."

"Ha."

You choose right there to run your palm between her thighs and cup at the front of her pussy through the skirt of her dress, squeezing tightly. There has to be an element of good cop, bad cop to this whole routine, and you'd be remiss not to participate in the former. Irene's glare is starting to become pretty intimidating.

"The way I see it," you begin, and it's so gentle. Easy to slip through, but easy enough to grip - no threat, or indication that she should stop rocking forward to the motion of your fingers, toying idly. "There's no catch. Only: Irene calls the shots. If you end up with a crush, or worse, think you're in love," a light squeeze to illustrate the point, the dig of nails, not too rough, but definitely drawing attention. "You've gotta walk it off.”

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

“No strings attached, no special treatment. Or anything."

"Oh." Karina is looking straight at you, dazed - as your fingers work harder, picking up where her hips started rolling a second before. She licks her lips. "You're telling me that I'm going to get fucked so thoroughly here, that it's gonna be a problem."

"Actually," you pull away, pushing her dress up so you can touch up ever higher this time. Rooting between her soft thighs. "I can't make any guarantees. You'll need to convince us first."

There's a laugh, from a spot inside her diaphragm - and yeah, there's no denying the reality here. She's nervous; or excited; or nervous-excited. Karina just lets it pass, an exaggerated sound in her throat, before gasping on an exhale of breath: "convince you to fuck me?"

"Between us, we've kissed our fair share of pretty girls in the heat of the moment," Irene supplies.

Karina laughs. Starts saying, "in that case, can I start by confessing that this whole exchange has left me pretty fucking wet-" 

You slip one finger down the rise of her panties, this lacy little number she probably picked out with sordid fantasy in mind. 

"Oh god," she says, voice drowned in her throat, husky, and sultry - it’s really hard not to appreciate the girl, like this - and then she closes her eyes, saying it again, "oh, yeah, like - like that. Okay, thank you."

Irene puts a hot kiss into her lips, and a subjugating silence stills over the living room, softening around her small voice, her breathing. Everything comes together so seamlessly, so effortlessly: 

The click of Irene’s heels against hardwood, these soft sounds of wet tongues twisting and bodies grinding, Karina's face, buried somewhere under Irene's chin, letting out the cutest moan. Irene's helping the rest of the dress up over Karina's ass, then up past her waist, pulling down the scalloped elastic of her stockings. She grabs hold of her hips, feeling the draw of her curves there - you watch how your other half does the thing she does best, the thing where she strips a girl down to nothing like she's doing them a favor.

"Pretty," Irene appraises her naked body - not her face, not her mind, not her ambition or the strength of her determination, or god forbid, something banal like her personality, but, "fuck, look at you, look at this figure," her palm skates along the plane of her stomach, "so pretty."

It could be the insinuation: Irene is ready to reduce the girl down to a heap of jumbled nerves; to tears, probably - given half the chance. Like she's telling her a body as flawless and well-manicured and sweetly receptive to being toyed with as hers needs to get absolutely wrecked, among other things.

(Fucked so deeply, and to the point of utter exhaustion - the point is that she forgets her own name.) 

Irene knows just by looking, her eyes tracing down each and every one of Karina’s curves like they’re taking inventory. It could be as simple as a handprint seared into her ass, a stinging red stain etched into her soft, creamy white skin, marking the insides of her thighs, her beautiful fucking tits - oh, the things the two of you could do.

"How do you want it, exactly?" Irene's eyes are dancing around her face, in her stare, darting down, then back up. "How, baby."

Karina smiles against Irene’s lips like she knows the answer, the perfect one. She must already have the script prepared. It's no stretch of the imagination: "anything, as long as it means you both keep looking at me."

Because maybe it's down to the pure physicality of it all. Something Karina's been waiting to feel, desperate to have, for some time - as you set into action, dismantling any pretense that you weren’t about to devour the heat of her aching cunt, from running touches all over her slick pussy. It’s a strong theory, you figure, from the visceral response you get when you get start to fuck her, when you slide a finger inside: tight and snug, and so unbelievably wet. 

“Oh,” she breathes out, and it sounds sated and needy all at once.

You make sure to glance at her face before pressing another into her. All the way past the knuckles. She looks lost to the feeling, the pleasure; her expression gone hazy-eyed as you start fucking into her with a few steady pumps of your wrist - slow and then faster, then faster again - fucking into her with increasing urgency.

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

"God," Irene kisses softly into her mouth. Her hand tangled in Karina's hair, twisting strands between her fingers and tugging just shy of something painful, "you're really sensitive, aren't you?"

Karina nods, slightly. It’s all she can manage.

You have a soft spot for girls who will spread themselves open like they can't wait, but still end up flustered over how your lips ghost across aching flesh. Who can't even form the words - asking for this, and that, and a million little things; and look at Karina - blushing, her eyes fluttering closed, and digging her nails into the couch the moment you finally put your hot mouth on her. Her entire body is drawn taut like a live wire.

"Relax," you coax, speaking more to the muscle - her legs tensed, and knees pulled tightly together. You know just where to place your lips to make her go to pieces, but it's worth suspending pleasure - your own, and Irene's, who won't admit that this sorta turns her on too - so Karina's face might open up, so the tilt of her brow can slack, and the twist of her expression can soften. Like it's the only chance she'll ever get.

When you place your palm across Karina's stomach to steady her and look up, Irene has started peeling off her own clothes, down to nothing but the little panties underneath. That garter-belt thing that makes her ass look like she was sculpted straight out of clay - a reminder she's always worth your time, no matter what mood she's in, or whether or not she'll eventually let you take the lead. She's lifting herself on the couch to throw off the little slip of a dress, the high heels. “Baby," she purrs, teasing, maybe to distract from how she’s gone from dragging circles with her fingernails across Karina’s collarbones to kneading roughly at her tits. And she might even insert something she's never actually had a chance to confess out loud, or even consider much, like: she's been dying to know what Karina's face will scrunch up into, or what her eyes will look like, tears stained across her lashes while you fuck her within an inch of her life. The image you’ll find when you find all those spots that drive a girl wild.

Your mouth drags over the slick, her lips, her clit, and down again - as if to illustrate the point.

"That feels - so," she starts, and bites off the rest of the words.

Irene grabs hold of Karina's hands. Presses their mouths back together, and bites Karina's bottom lip. Kissing the words out of her, the sentences that start in half measures and stifled gasps:

"- so, good, oh. Do - ah, fuck. Oh, god-"

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

"-oh, do that again. Oh my god. There. Just - lick- please, keep fucking, exactly that-"

And pay close attention, because here now is how she slips: from the image she maintains for the cameras, the audiences, her admirers, her competition, her detractors, the ones who mean it, the ones who don't mean a damn thing; the girl who shies away from anything overtly sexual, or sensual, or remotely hedonistic; and doesn't act as though she too, just as much as anyone else, needs someone to fuck her stupid - as if it's an eventuality of her own humanity, instead of a concept she's learned to scorn.

Irene picks up on the distinction, all too familiar with the look filling out across Karina’s angelic features.

She ghosts her thumbnail across Karina’s nipple. Tries out: "why don't you make her cum, baby, right here, on the couch.” A look at you, a quick tilt of the chin. Then, her tongue peeking from behind her teeth, and her voice dropping, "just so you can tell Minjeong, or whoever ends up asking - 'you have no idea how good they fuck.'"

And just like that - with Karina’s body laid out beneath Irene’s hands, your mouth - you simply fucking ruin her. 

You both do. 

Until it's only a mess of whines and shuddering limbs and that lovely look: pure agony. So helpless. So utterly exposed.

Karina hiccups something incoherent - you’re doubling down. You’re working your touches through the torrid mess between her legs. Her pussy is shimmering wet and hot and every bit as pretty as she is. Then, the motion of your tongue, the slow, heavy flick back and forth, relentless and constant - dragging back and forth, keeping her right up, riding the wave. Back and forth, back and forth. 

"Oh my fucking god." Karina can only gasp, jaw-slacked open. 

Overwhelmed and blissed-out and suddenly awash in this searing and wondrous sensation that the only real way she's able to make sense of is by twisting her hands in your hair and pulling you flush against her cunt while she cums on your lips.

"Ah - you're fucking kidding me. Please, don't stop, please don't-" Karina has her head turned. Voice pitched right into Irene's shoulder. You fuck her on two fingers until she’s got the heel of her palm pressed firm into her forehead, and she’s starting to jerk her hips into your face. Stutter her breathing, her words: “I, I, I- fucking - what the fuck, you’re making me - jesus fucking christ."

Like some delicate and intricate piece of her had just been irreparably snapped. Broken. You hear her expletive-laden screams - and think, better her, than either of you.

And all the way through every last part of it, cresting, waning, quivering, the tremble of her thighs snapped shut against your ears, the grind of her teeth, and each little choked out gasp-

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

Karina spends the entirety of her first orgasm between the two of you, heaving.

The look on her face alone, just from what parts you can see, has your lower gut clenched - it goes from anguished pleasure, mouth pulled wide and brows wound high and tight, all the way to calm and cathartic, the pretty bow of her lips settling into something manic. Eyes softening with a luster, half-closed. A mask, the afterglow: blissed-out and smiling dreamily.

How anyone could say no to a picture like this, you're unsure. Though not particularly willing to test the theory, naturally.

"That was mean," Karina finally huffs, letting a moment pass to even out her breaths. "Both of you, so mean."

"You said to," is all Irene says, amused. 

Karina looks down; lifts her head just slightly - as you bring your own mouth off her, catching her glance. Not even your palm and your fingers covered with the evidence - it's her lips that give her away, the swollen, pouting, bright pink lips of her pussy, still radiant with her climax.

She breathes, "god. Irene."

It sounds an awful lot like she's begging for mercy.

Irene hums softly. Leans in for a kiss, with her slender hands cupping Karina's face. Manages to say: "you just look so fucking hot when you're struggling. Can’t fault us for that." She reaches down, and digs her fingernail into the line of Karina's cheek - near the center, just short of the outer curve where her dimple naturally settles. She works her lips to a very soft, "ow."

"Listen," Irene says, "is there anywhere else you've been considering going? Because in the event you're looking to stay for the night-"

Karina replies, "only everywhere I still haven't gone."

Her smile looks honest. Her cunt seeping and slick - there's abundant honesty there, too. And you manage to catch the wicked glint in Irene's eye, like she's a bit obsessed with all that glisten, and what it means - that Karina hasn't felt a real, good dicking in ages. Maybe, probably, never. That she's slept with everyone and filled her quota of playing pretend: of someone just going through the motions, dragging their mouth or tongue or cunt along the most obvious, conventional routes.

It’s written all over her face: the girl between you needs to be touched everywhere, and by someone who knows how. Needs it deeper, more. Has to feel the pressure everywhere all over.

Irene asks her, plainly, “how might we get you moaning like that again, hm? We're both dying to know."

She puts her hand under Karina’s chin, tilts her face towards hers, and kisses her long and deep. Until the both of them are having trouble catching any breath. Until they have to break, only so one can take another in: inhale, exhale, and back in her mouth.

"Maybe." Karina lets go of Irene's lower lip. She sounds almost bashful, "you'll need to let me get my hands on that cock of his. Let me get it inside, want it real fucking deep inside. Tell you if I'm just, you know. Really fucking horny. Or maybe I have some hangups about sex I've never told anyone - and we have to work past that," she takes Irene's mouth into her own again.

It's the short consideration of sure, mm, why not? until the next suggestion is: "he should be on his knees, in bed, those hands around my waist, behind the small of my back and pulling me into every stroke."

“Oh,” Irene agrees, “I love that. Should I play with myself while I watch him fuck you senseless? So hard and rough - you'll start seeing stars. I wanna see him completely railing into your dripping pussy from behind, fucking you so goddamn well until you're screaming so loud it’ll wake the neighbors."

Karina sighs. “Well I’d hate to get all the way here and half-ass it.”

You barely catch it, but there's a lovely note in Karina's voice. It’s saying, and don't you dare treat me like glass, like I’m fragile.

All in all, a filthy, filthy way for a girl with virtually no ill-reputation or ill-gotten gains - no record whatsoever - to describe how she wants you to fuck her, until she’s biting down on the consonants in your name, moaning loud and unmistakably clear, and-

“-sorry, whose cock?” Irene has no intention of letting her off easy.

You draw away from the meat of her thigh, licking your lips clean, and insert mid-conversation with a husky-voiced, "hmm?"

Karina just shoots you a sharp-eyed look. "You heard."

"Only," you play dumb. You run a hand between her legs, using your palm as you go, so you can pull more sound out of her throat; the pleased sighs, a hum. Another. "The part where you want it 'real fucking deep inside,' I think I heard."

"I mean, wouldn't you?" Karina looks satisfied with that. Lets out an easy laugh and turns to Irene. "Besides, I need to know if it’s more than just pretty eyes and a handsome smile that you’ve gotten yourself so hung up on."

The tilt of your fiancée’s brow above her is noticeable and apparent. Not a twinge of surprise; more like recognition. It's Irene looking haughty - beyond the usual - wrapped up in the afterglow. It's the confidence, and not at all humbled by the reality that she is no stranger to fucking a girl this downright gorgeous, knowing the danger inherent in allowing that kind of damage, but if Irene has you figured - she's figured Karina even better: someone willing to push through the burn. Someone, she’s betting, with the capacity to handle pain like it's an artform.

“Karina,” Irene says, and she's really leaning into it, "you really ought to be more careful with that smart-mouth of yours.”

It's the absolute worst way to proposition someone; maybe second only to what Irene whispers straight into her ear:

"If I had to guess, it’s your sweet, pretty face that has everyone bending over backward just to let you fuck them, hmm?” 

You’d anticipated this much. You watch how your beautiful wife-to-be eases forward and leaves a slow kiss into Karina's throat, before adding the worst, most awful thing she can manage, “they're eating up this adorable, innocent facade of yours just as soon as you let it slip - letting you straddle their waist, and slide right on, and chase some clout out of oh, she must have this tight little cunt, or how good it would fucking feel to ruin a load just slamming these perfect tits, or. The best of the best, when it comes to pretty things with brains and mouths on 'em: 'fuck, I bet Karina has a face like an angel, she's the kind of girl who probably really, really loves taking it raw - filled and fucked as deep as she can manage'."

“She’s insinuating you’re a slut,” you offer on the next beat, down from between Karina’s knees. “Or something.”

"I put that much together." Karina has that teasingly pragmatic tone in her voice, matching Irene's level. "Your point?"

The joke is that even Irene - after she has the chance to drag her thumb across Karina's lips - looks mildly impressed.

"Sweetheart," the corner of Irene's mouth quips, as if the reason is so, so very obvious, "let’s say you’re just like me, total hypothetical. You're going to have to let us know which part feels better: the praise, or the degradation. I know it’s what makes you tick: all the attention. I know you need it. The same way I know that I could eat this perfect pussy out for hours just to get it slick, and wet, and wanting, and the thing I’m still not sure you’d be ready to learn," she tells her, a light in her stare that flicks upwards, eyes going from Karina's cunt and back to her eyes, her own mouth, and then hers, "the really good sex? Isn’t always pretty."

There isn't room for misunderstanding, let alone any mercy in it. Irene's face is dark; dangerous. Like, seriously. Karina knows better. Everyone does. You know exactly what she's doing. You know what comes next, but this time, you can't shake the feeling like-

Like Karina wants you to look.

She has her fingers on her cunt, spread, presenting - and a small shrug; her response is so fucking coy: "I guess I can't really help it. Besides, it’s common knowledge, isn’t it? The brattiest girls always turn out to be the best fucks. Honest, I get so wet sometimes, you know and then god, I can't think straight.” 

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

You can feel the room starting to tighten up, just barely: Karina’s breath still heavy, her chest heaving, the way Irene holds her still, how her arm curls across her stomach, palm flat under her tits; that pose in particular, the power to entice.

And maybe it's the fact Irene is still making eyes at you from Karina's shoulder, the cruel bite to her upper-lip, showing how she's working at the soft skin of her neck - a smirk, before pressing into another kiss there. Your insides are running hot, a shudder racing up your spine. There’s no mistaking what she's getting off on, not just some pretty-as-paint newcomer. There’s your Irene, your fiancée - and her beautiful, adorable, awful little shadow.

-

So what if, by some pure hypothetical, this all spirals out of control?

You don't know the consequences of taking home what amounts to a coworker and screwing her with a certain reckless abandon. There’s power harassment, a toxic workplace environment, boundary issues, sexual-fraternization. So on, so forth. It's all relative, but watching Irene and Karina make their way up the stairs and admiring the things that only a woman's hips can do, swaying this way, and that - and, following the path from one tight little ass, the other, all the way up their spines - there are no such qualms to contend with, because there's absolutely zero chance that’s the thing that’ll be keeping you up all night.

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

She has two pairs of panties in one hand, Karina’s fingers laced into the other, explaining with a quick squeeze, "don't tell me, baby, I already know," a wink, a laugh. She’s such a sweetheart when she means to be; charming, wooing, the coy girl Karina seems to have gotten so drunk off the idea of getting mixed up with. And yeah, when she drops them on the floor, and pushes Karina gently against the wall. Traces her finger up her jaw, then her cheek, and leans into the crook of her neck, into that same spot from earlier; yes, Karina can count herself lucky, or whatever.

"So, don't stop now, baby-" Karina's huffing - the line of her throat so taut and exposed. "You should really fucking try harder if you want me to beg."

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

There will come a point in their intimacy, in all things considered, where this act no longer plays itself: Irene, the seductress, and Karina, a deft and innocent prey; of course you, the hammer to a nail, pushed and pulled in one direction, the next. The moments in which her lips leave the crescent of Karina's mouth - hot, hazy, and half-wet with their own spit, their tongues twisting, the muted click, and the telltale wet drag of a body pushing and straining up against her own-

Maybe in her bones, she is begging for it. Maybe, Irene hopes, she'll have to: eyes turned up, watering, tears coming hot, streaming down her flushed cheeks as she cries it from her lungs.

"I wouldn't have you beg for anything."

It's true that Irene is ninety-nine percent grace, one percent child-like wonder; she's easy to read when the mood hits her. The lines of their bodies tousling, twisting and tangling in moon-lit-darkness. There's some irony to it, only a few steps away from the bedroom. At the base of the staircase. In front of the tall windows covered with frost that serve, now, primarily to remind Karina that she's in a part of town she could never afford, in an ostentatious apartment she could only dream of; but most importantly, that the woman in front of her - with her fingers dipping down between her thighs and up again, tracing over her navel and the rise of her hip and her cleavage - can have anyone she likes, without limitation.

Karina can't deny it's everything she wants.

"Karina, I'm curious." You're easing into that spot, where the two of them have coiled themselves up - you’ve got your cock in your hand and you’re stepping out of your pants - in the hallway, the frame of the door, a heavy, long shadow cast: Karina has Irene pinned now, a wrist over her head, against the other side of the wall where the white paintwork is starting to run thin. "Didn't you say something before about how hard you wanted it? Raw, deep, I believe was how you put it."

Irene smirks. It's just the slightest sneer, until she has her hands reaching over the curves of Karina's hips and pulling her fingers into her soft ass. Spreading her cheeks. Touching up, then down, back in the same groove, this slow rhythm that builds - like they were both expecting this exact sequence of events.

You watch Irene whisper something into the girl's ear, and - fuck - the light catches her expression at just the right moment, head lolled to the side.

"Hey," Karina drawls. She lets it come out breathy - on the note, the middle and upper registers of her voice, hitting something near a perfect alto. "How about instead of having some heart-to-heart, and making me out to be some naive-ass kid, you stop asking questions and get to fucking the life out of my little pussy."

She ends it so charming.

“Oh,” you tell her, feeling how fucking drenched she is right at the end of your cock - sliding her slick up and down the length of her cunt, and knowing the feeling will likely stick to your skin and drip to the floor, all of it - "well. If that's all."

Your hand arrives on the lithe stretch of muscle between her waist, right along the ridge of her hip bone, your cock pressing onto the heat of her cunt. Karina turns her head over her shoulder so you can see it all in profile: that pout. That look. That everything.

"There you have it." Irene squeezes the flesh she's got cupped in her palms, drawing circles. "If only everyone else got to hear that sweet, sharp edge you've got underneath, hm?"

Karina opens her mouth with some clear quip to needle, but stops herself, a catch in the center of her throat, her brows shooting up. The pull of her voice is somewhere out and over.

“God, fuck-” she can just manage to sputter. “You’re- ah, ah - your fucking cock-”

Oh, it has you cursing too. You're pushing so far into her tight little cunt - the soft airy moan, that pretty sound, riding back on every last stroke until you've filled her right to the hilt.

“I know, I know - that feels so good, right?” Irene coos.

You just pull her all the way back onto your cock, thrusting deep. Base to tip. So goddamn fucking deep.

Karina probably doesn’t even mean to whimper, but the press of your hips, slowly snapping in and in, has her lungs constricted, as the pressure slides through every hot, slippery inch inside of her - this glide of agonizing intensity.

“I bet you want to just cream all over that cock,” Irene says, fine eyebrows knitting into something like contentment. “All filled up and feeling full, and just fucking letting it go - he’ll take such good care of you. He’ll fuck you so good you won’t ever get that warm, hazy, blissed-out feeling out of your veins ever, ever again, if he has his way-”

All while the head of your cock works over every fucking sensitive part of her, dragging out to thrust all the way into her soft cunt, the round of her ass bouncing back to meet each stroke. Again, and again, until you've worked through that wet stretch of muscle. And the motion isn't exactly elegant. Karina's mouth hangs wide open, catching short breaths that curl inwards when you reach the line of her waist.

“It’s so fucking good,” Karina’s sighing out. She’s all fluster, no bite.

There’s no lack for juxtaposition in the way Irene dotes on her either - these small beguiling bits of praise like, baby, you’re doing so good, these tits of yours are just, you are - just gorgeous. Mouth quirked into a tight grin as her fingers pull and twist around her nipple. The sharp yelp that comes after. The fact that she's kissing the words into her mouth on the very next whimper: “a girl like you needs the time, and patience, and opportunity to have her insides completely, totally, catastrophically ruined.”

Irene had it exactly right on the first read. She’ll say, “I told you so,” when Karina’s washing the cum off her chest or out of her eyelashes in the shower. It’s the praise; it’s the degradation; it’s you leaning down, your hands finding her hair, curling in, and getting her right up against your lips to say it quiet, low, intimate - like a lover, like she hasn't already heard it before, “such a good little slut for me.”

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

You grip onto her hips. You pull her hair tight. Her throat bobs under your thumb and you can feel the anxiety start to throb, her pulse hot and heavy in her cunt. How it soaks the base of your cock. Jesus, you’ll fuck a load right into her. So easily. Her pussy is so snug, so unbelievably wet. Perfect enough to know if you fuck into her any faster, any harder - it’ll be just that: you'll paint right up to her cervix; you'll fill her to the fucking brim.

"Fuck, Karina, this pussy is such a fucking dream," is what you're making sure she knows, and at that, Karina just finds that bend. Arches more of herself to you, until her ass is slotted into the plane of your stomach, the head of your cock prodding, testing the limit where her cunt is hottest and wettest. "God, this has to feel incredible. Your ass bouncing on my cock" - Karina goes slack on the force, leaning forward - "as I rail your tight little cunt."

If anything, Irene is there to catch Karina's tearful, thankful gaze when she finally starts fucking crying, a litany of yes, fuck yes, yes-yes-right-there, please fuck, and a wet, dazed little "you're goddamn - you're ruining, fucking - fucking, ruining me," every other syllable broken by her shuddering breaths.

"Aw, you're going to cum again, huh? Baby-" Irene's got her head at an angle - their gazes locked, watching - and maybe Irene really gets it: how much of a big, bad crush this gorgeous fucking woman's had on the pair of you all this whole time, with all that faux-romance, and lust, and envy wrapped up inside her - but if she wasn't so obsessed with the shape of Irene's mouth, the contour of her jaw, the lean and sleek lines of her frame and the soft, round swell of her ass - she’d still be left with the shape of your cock, where it’s pounding her apart. Fucking her and fucking her up.

It's more than worth the breath to remind Karina what she came here for. Irene's fingertips brush the line of her lips, part them just so. 

“All over him, baby, let him make a mess of you. Just a total fucking mess. We'll fill you up, and fill you up, until your poor, aching pussy is full of cum," and it's probably as well: Karina does what comes most natural to her - with you three, the whole number. Her eyes flutter and go dreamy. There's not even a moment of hesitation:

"-until it's leaking down these fucking thighs-"

"You're doing so good, babe," is your supporting role in all this, murmuring encouragement straight into her ear as you fuck her to pieces. Your breath fans out against her cheek. And then, your hands make a grip under her thighs, holding her steady, making her mouth fall open - this keen, wobbly, vulnerable thing that exposes the naked girl she is, behind all the makeup, and the heels, and her seductive and all-consuming appeal, everything.

“Just so you know: it’s the best fucking part, Karina. I mean, the look on his face.” Irene laughs with her whole body, until the rich, raspy sound of it fills the hall. “The way he bites his lip when he's close, his eyes clenched - and god, I fucking love when he finally cums. It's so good, watching him. Letting him have his way. Feeling his cock throb and spill into you - hot, and still, and just pumping inside you - just so, so good.”

"Fuck, ah-" the little gasp is like she's starting to hyperventilate. 

"Because baby,” is the final nail in the coffin, hammering home, “he’s fucking you just like he’d fuck me.”

"Fucking, please, god-."

Irene's hands have her breasts in their grasp and are playing at where she’s sensitive, then pushing into the soft, delicate space beneath, thumbing the indents. "He's so fucking good, isn't he? Are you going to cream and cream all over his hard fucking cock?"

Then - and because it comes so instinctually to her. Because, actually, your Irene has a slight propensity for evil:

She slaps Karina, right across her tits. "Fucking cum on it."

One.

Tugs hard on a nipple. "I swear, every single bit of you is so goddamn beautiful-"

Two.

"That body is built, perfect. So easy to ruin. And god - what a perfect little pussy you've got-"

Three.

Karina struggles to breathe. Her voice is torn, frayed. She barely manages to utter out a very shaky, very desperate, "harder, fuck- you’re fucking making me so- you can, harder-"

Four.

The cruel contact of Irene’s palm pulls this deliciously hedonistic sound in Karina's throat, a loud moan; like she just hit the sweet spot inside that's all her nerves coming alight. Irene plants a quick peck in Karina's hair. Her temples, the ridge of her brows. Slides her thumb across her eyelashes, brushing them clean from whatever tears had sprung free. You don't even want to try, not at that moment, to try and endure the quiver of slippery muscle all over your cock as she shudders into her orgasm. It's simply too fucking much. She's too fucking tight.

"Aw, shh shh, shh," and then Irene's soft hushes are coming down from the other side of her head. Irene kisses her full, straight on her mouth. Karina is shaking, convulsing and caught and fucked from head to toe - and what she needed was someone like the two of you - to watch her cunt swallow your cock like some magnificent and unbelievable sight, taking the whole damn thing. Irene is telling her, "it's okay. You can let it go."

The silhouettes alone. From the end of the hall, and where the afterimage lingers: the smoke-frosted windows, the dim lights, their bare, beautiful forms - this picture that will stick in the center of your head, will probably haunt you-

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

"I'll cum again, it's too- I'm so-" Karina can only plead and sigh.

Irene shushes her one more time. "It's a lot. It's alright, baby. He's going to keep fucking you until he's ready to pull out, until he has a whole mess just painted onto your ass, and thighs, and I'm going to make sure that little pussy gets so wrecked, fucked, stretched on every last inch- until the thought of sex hurts, and then we're going to make you cum again, and again- over, and over-"

You're leaning over her, nose buried into the waves of Irene's hair, the curve of Karina's back, and the flush of skin in contrast. That's when you feel the coil in your chest come loose - unspooling, and bursting - when Karina's lids roll into the back of her head and her lips fall open with a pleasured gasp and a stammer, "y-you're, ah, both, you're so, both- oh god."

You're about to just pull her down and absolutely cream her, stuff her full - a mess.

And she wants you to-

"That feels so fucking good," she lets slip out on the cusp of a shiver, just as her inner muscles are spasming, milking your cock with the pressure from one pulse through the next, squeezing.

She’s right. It does. Her, coming undone. You, at wit’s end. 

Another breath, and Karina is managing out between these small hiccups - not as much out of breath, just dumbstruck - simply muttering, "I’m cumming, I- oh my god." 

You barely manage it; you unbury your cock from her cunt; you’re cumming all over her ass. 

A shot of white that streaks right down to her bare-slicked skin, before it gets painted down into the crease of her pussy, all swollen - wrecked and raw.

Just the way it feels on her skin is enough to earn another hushed moan from her, this sweet little whimper as she can hardly stand up straight. She lets her knees buckle, but Irene is right there, to catch. Her eyes are closed, eyelids clenching, as Irene tilts Karina's face her way, to lay one, two, three soft, adoring kisses on her mouth, the angle all wrong. 

“Mmm.” The smack of her lips. The pull of whatever breath she still has to give - right out of her heaving chest. "Sore, that, ahhh- um, thank you."

You fiancée wraps a slender hand right around Karina's wrist, and starts whispering to her, unbridled, "just had to. Had to see how you look-"

It’s wicked, for one thing. More than that, it's seamless:

While Irene still has the girl's voice caught in her throat, she reaches around the curve of Karina's hips and drags two fingertips through the puddle of warm cum that sits right at the base of her spine, glistening all over her ass cheeks and inner thighs, slipping and rolling off her cunt, down the center, running in rivulets. Your cum between her fingers is so filthy, so obscene - dripping hot - right off her reddened skin, and Irene can't possibly help it; not after a display as indulgent as that. The trembling that remains in Karina’s thighs does nothing to hide how her legs now jitter and shake under Irene's touch.

“That’s my good girl,” she whispers as her fingertips hover across the apex of her puffy lips. Over and over again, with more force, and more, until you're almost positive it's Karina that leans in a moment later, kissing the rest of her soft assurances right off her tongue.

Listen to her: this incoherent string of words pouring from her mouth, like they can't move fast enough, tripping over each consonant, "are you, oh, oh - oh, fuck."

No one else could make that kind of overstimulation feel so heavenly, you figure, the way she just properly melts. You take a step back, just to let Irene work. Just to watch. To appreciate the craft.

You absolutely get it. 

How to touch, how to tease. Firsthand experience has you know she'll ride your cock until you're throbbing and spilling cum and she'll just shh-shh, let you have it - it's okay, sweetie, just let go - until she's rolling her hips just right, or reaching a hand back to massage your balls, or stroking your inner thigh in that exact kind of spot; some method that keeps her all the way on the end of your cock, but not quite off the edge, and your cum leaking down your shaft, spent.

She’ll bite into her smirk. She’ll tie up her hair. She’ll get that serious look on her face because she knows: you’re all hers for the taking.

So she'll sink onto it, again and again, until she's fucking you with the slippery friction only your own spill might provide. "Just a little more," she'll tell you, which is absolutely a lie, "come on, just a bit harder, I'm so close." Irene does this thing - she's had years to refine and perfect - and her voice gets a husky edge to it as her teeth graze the shell of your ear; she makes a small, pained groan into the curl of your hair and breathily hums it: 'I'm almost there.'

Who stands any chance to resist?

And she's always asking you - the same way she's coaxing and promising Karina the world with just the movement of her fingers, this delectable in and out, in and out, pushing that filth up into the red-soaked lips of her pussy - "now, what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?"

Karina blinks, once - a sleepy-lidded draw that leaves her lashes, lush and long, and fanning her flushed cheeks. 

The sound between her legs is wet, squelching with your cum, with hers, the barest hint of slapping her tender skin. The beat of Irene's wrist against her thighs - like that's where she needs it most - a deep, primal rhythm, like the last thing she wants is to take a breath. It's fucking hot; her head is tilted, her jaw clenched, and Irene has the tips of her fingers twisted between Karina's legs, swirling your cum right back around in her slick cunt - those plump pussy lips that you've watched stretch out on the first press, the first and the second and the third, as Karina finds what gets her there fast, fast-fast-fastest-

"You can cum for me too, baby."

It’s not a suggestion. There’s nothing but expectation in Irene’s voice. 

“Just cum.”

You watch it knock the architecture right out of Karina's legs.

-

Indulgent, just isn’t quite the right word for it. Careless, reckless, clumsy even-

Look - the tumultuous tangle you three make is all over the fucking place.

One moment, you're at an angle, moreover twisted-limbed with Irene bent over her dresser, then propped up on top of yours the next, your forehead landing against hers, feeling the soft cradle of her shoulders, her legs around you. She has her hands wrapped in Karina's, in that muddled in between: it's a collision of sorts.

There's the chair in the corner of your bedroom that really has only ever known one purpose, a plush rug, all these surfaces, horizontal and vertical for you to take the two most breathtakingly beautiful people in the world on and let your bodies settle into the shape they've needed to ever since your fingertips met Irene's in the cab, ever since she blinked her heavy lashes at you with Karina in-tow, just shy of smiling.

And boy, do you learn that Karina likes to watch herself get fucked in front a mirror. Specifically, the tall one beside Irene’s closet. It's hard to blame her. When you hold her hips tight, and really, truly fuck her, you can’t keep your eyes off how her face twists with the pleasure; or, when you drill the length of your cock into her sopping wet cunt: the wide, glossy rim of her pretty lips pulling back into a wince - and your eyes dropping past the reflection of her shoulders, her collarbones, down to her perfect tits.

The back and forth, the up and down, the way they fucking wobble in their beautifully buxom blur.

Though the eventuality remains unchanged, spread out across your bed. Karina takes a moment, hand pressed to the mattress experimentally like it's all running through her head - this is where Irene gets all that fairy-tale-inspired romance from, really - a quick pause where your future-bride is up on her elbows and staring, watching - your finger sinks in slowly, between where she's soft and warm and wet. She's thinking, you can just read it off her face, 'oh. So that's what you'd do, huh?'

Just for demonstration’s sake, you fingerfuck her in all kinds of ways - show-off and performance and dirty and mind-blowing. Because even better than the whiny, gut-wrenching moan it gets out of Irene, Karina can't get enough of how it’s all presented.

"Ugh," she slides up next to you at the foot of the bed, helping you turn Irene on her side, "why does she have to be so pretty, it's annoying, she's- she's like, made it so fucking far by playing the girl everyone wants to wife, huh?" She's talking directly to you, even while Irene rolls her neck to press her head against the pillow. "Inspirational."

You're drawing circles into her clit. Thumbing the dip, circling in the opposite direction. Karina has her nails biting right into the crease where your knees touch. In tandem, you’ll help your fiancée reach the top of that first wave. 

Karina presses, all cheek - a very dry, "cute."

It’s so simple: you eat Irene’s cunt. You hold her down. And Karina slides her tongue lazily against the tight pucker of her ass.

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

“Oh, christ, you have no idea,” Irene is murmuring into the pillowcase, head tilted at an awkward angle, looking at the wall, almost distant; but her legs are split wide and her hands are reaching forward to rub a circle into your cheek, "you know how sensitive-? Yeah. Like, really, super. Super, super fucking sensitive, okay? So - if you'd keep doing, uh, oh- oh…”

Simultaneous, then slow, and easy - kisses landing right onto Irene's clit. So much so, you can't help but turn a little, smiling right up at your girl as she digs her toes into the duvet and threads a hand into Karina's hair.

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

Karina gets to measure that fact up close - where the details of Irene's composure are not only sharp, but also readily and openly and emphatically pound to dust by the time the last loose curl of Irene’s hair falls over her collarbone; she ends up on all fours, spread out over Karina - pressed along the length of her stomach, spread over your duvet and fitted sheets, your hand at the base of Irene's waist and tightening into the divots. She’s so small beneath you that when you bury your dick inside her- 

“Fuck.” Her cunt is so wet. Her breath uneven - and her words are starting to slur. There’s the gooseflesh on her back that lets you know it’s all already over for her. “Okay,” she tries to steady the ache in her stomach, “okay, okay, just- right there.” 

The drag through her pussy is fucking extraordinary. It knocks the wind out of both of you; so soft to the touch, like velvet - she’s unbelievably tight. You pull her hips into you and it opens her right up. Then when you end up balls deep inside your girl a second, third, fourth time:

She simply shudders apart.

Even though you fuck her so slow, so easy - her cunt clenches and squeezes on you like Irene detests the very idea of letting you go. You don’t even need to rail her lithe body to complete and utter ruin just to feel the familiar pent-up tremor starting to build in her muscles, how she rolls her hips back just so-so. How your hands fit that round and pert little ass of hers so well, and when your fingers finally sink in, you’re pulling it all apart to get a good look where your cock shimmers with her slick before disappearing right into her tiny cunt.

Karina mutters something in her ear. It pulls on some thread, somewhere - you feel her wind like a spring, further, and further; your cock edging her so close. The smirk Karina saves for you over your fiancée’s shoulder makes you think she’s figured her out- 

“Irene, look-” 

Well, at least she’s tuning in on all the right frequencies.

"Aren’t we all about being thorough?" Karina raises a perfectly trimmed brow. She drapes her arm across Irene's neck, their lips sliding together again, and that kiss is drawn-out and languid, albeit needy. "So, say," it gets muffled against the seam of their lips, and comes up, and comes out like a slurry, "are we gonna use everything else too? Your mouth, your perfectly tight ass?"

Irene can hardly muster out, "fuck- fuck- yes, fucking, god," as she takes it, so deep. There’s enough there to make both of you cum, you’re sure.

“Who could’ve guessed - like there’s ever been a more perfect cocktease than bae-fucking-Irene," Karina coos, all lips. She plants a row of kisses along Irene's exposed throat. The tilt of her hips, as she pushes closer - as you press the head of your cock as deep as it can go. "Go on. Cum, baby. Be a good girl, a good hole to fuck, just do it. All over his big fucking cock. Let him fucking have you."

Which is probably about the same time you realize that you, Irene and Karina are all well enroute - becoming this one mind, a single unit. This plurality you know there’s no coming back from.

You look down, with a little more focus, and Irene is being pulled apart in every which way - your cock stretching her out, over and over - Karina’s fingers right under her clit, every circle making her whimper. She’s all sharp edges and delicate angles, but manages to be soft for you in just the right places.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” you tell her, shifting your hips; pulling her ass flush and filling her completely. Your grip tightens on her waist and she doesn’t flinch a bit. "It's so goddamn easy to cum in this needy little pussy of yours. All wet and slick, and, hah- just pulsing-"

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

“Oh, right there, huh?” Karina asks. It’s not quite mean, but it’s getting there, fast. “Is that how he’s going to make you cum?”

You thrust on the same angle again, the same depth - you’re hitting all her nerve endings, all her sensitive spots. There isn't even room, now, for some imaginary head-to-head, some verbal volley, the banter; what comes forward is her tiny, broken moan.

How many times had Irene done the exact same, after all. Fucked you without holding back? Fucked you over? The flood of sweet-nothings as you started to approach: honey, you're so perfect, we can go slow, you just have to ask, and if you feel uncomfortable at any point, if you want me to stop-

“Just say please, doll,” Karina tells her.

If Irene told you a quarter of what made it out of the side of Karina’s mouth, you’d have never believed it. "I can't wait to feel what that arrogant mouth of yours will do when he cums inside this cute ass-"

You watch Karina spank her. Hard. There’s a red stain in the round of Irene’s cheek, and her skin is so pale that the imprint of all five fingertips looks stark, glaring.

"Just," Karina presses the rest of herself against Irene's skin and steals a quick glance at you - this half-coy smile pulling on one corner of her lips, "thought I'd do that in the name of-"

"Mmph," Irene’s groan is long, loud, "yes. Fuck, yes- please-"

Karina immediately looks away. An effort to hide the smug satisfaction. She fiddles with the auburn locks behind Irene's shoulder.

You’ll finish the sentiment: "-being thorough," and drive your cock to the hilt. Irene collapses forward onto Karina’s lap.

The sound she makes you swear is a sob. See - for Irene, it’s only about getting control in so far as it is about getting off; she’ll take whatever comes her way so long as it’s directly to her benefit - the theatrics of being pinned, the willingness for surrender, for subjugation, for the sake of telling you, yes, push my knees, spread me apart, hold me there; look at the things you do to me - it's the Irene everyone imagines, when they see the dresses, the gltiz, the glamour, just the brief flash of her grin, or the way she holds her fingernail between her teeth. Everyone wants to put her on her heel and feel a bit powerful. To have you watch the supple arc of her neckline bend, to hear the humility slip off her lips: the notion goes beyond simple kink-

It steps out into pure necessity.

She really, really needs it, and it's written into every muscle and tendon - it's on her breath as it shudders through her whole body. The beautiful, harrowing sound. "I love the way you two fuck me," she murmurs, head buried into the crook of Karina's neck. It's the sort of line, coming from someone like her, you know could raise a few blushes - if either of you was still in the business of such things.

"Honey," her voice wavers. Then, it falters: "please."

The desperation is thick, husky, almost. Karina seems like she's breathing her in, nose tucked against Irene's forehead.

You watch how she runs her nails up Irene's sides, a hot whisper sliding over her skin. You feel it, and so does Irene, this white hot pleasure singing up from the tip of her clit and spreading throughout the soft curves, the sensual lines of her body, this tangible current, a hum, a whine. You see her strain the lean stretch of muscle connecting her neck to her shoulder.

Until her face is tucked under Karina’s jaw, with a hand reaching back and hooked around your wrist and keeping you fucking, filling her, your hips drawn tight against hers, like a second home.

In and in and in.

Fucked-out and outright to the extent she goes completely silent. Almost completely still. The moment she cums all over your waist. Mouth hung open, like she’s in pure disbelief.

It doesn’t really matter, how often or how precisely Karina has imagined the whole thing. It's still a fucking revelation the first time she gets to watch Irene cum.

“No way,” she’s almost laughing, holding Irene’s jaw with both hands. “No fucking way. All the times you- what? No. Nuh-uh. You better fucking explain why this face, you- it’s not fair, the perfect face- I swear, even mid-fucking-orgasm, you are such a fucking doll-"

There's the sheer intimacy - Karina holding Irene's lips open, dragging her thumb down along the center. Quiet and sordid curses slipping from her mouth. And the obvious, her free hand already running down the curve of Irene's spine, her ass: all this sensitive-touching, admiring, appreciating-

"Hey," Karina says, voice raspy and drunk on the sex, the premise, "do me a favor, and tell me this feels as amazing as it looks. Or maybe, for once - just for the sake of fucking argument, is it actually better for the both of us, hm?

Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy, sultry. She's arching up into Irene's warmth - until her palms are spread out against her chest, thumb sliding right over everything sensitive, and she leans right to pull the other breast to her lips, and start all over again. It's clear what she means, spreading her legs as far as she can, pinned beneath the orgasm you're still fucking into Irene. As much as her petite frame will allow.

And in case you missed the point:

"So. What are we waiting for," is what she says a breath later, matter-of-fact, not at all expecting denial. “Or am I not as fuckable as our princess here?"

There's so much wet spill around the base of your cock, and the sound Irene's pussy makes when you finally draw free - all her creamy slick mixed into your mess just fucking leaking around your shaft. Karina holds herself open for you like that, spread wide. All your attention to her pink, raw cunt; you slip right inside. 

Karina lets her arms go slack on the mattress, her chest shivering, lips locked around Irene’s panting breath.

And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

-

(To anyone taking notes - chemistry, by definition, is the sum total of a certain process; where and when energy becomes matter becomes another.

More relevantly perhaps, it is that race and rise you feel inside your chest. 

Nothing about the sensation, it seems, is too exclusive either - Irene, and now Karina, the pair of them equally devastating, all over and again. It has you in communication with a different kind of contentment: to fall apart inside their embrace in particular, and kiss them with enough breath and time to waste until the morning.)

-

“Jesus,” Karina laughs out loud, “you really believe that? You corrupting me?" she makes another scoff, both hands buried somewhere in the pockets of the sweatshirt you've lent her. "At least do me a favor and cut it out with the solemn tone."

You're leaning over your apartment’s balcony, watching an emergency plow make the slowest grind of progress up the road. It's late. And cold. Or actually - it’s early. The sky is the kind of dark midnight navy you see after all the snow and stars have run through the horizon. Time ticks on, and Irene’s inside sound asleep. A woman that small has no right to snore like heavy machinery.

So,

You and Karina happen to be two things at once: very tired, and very awake.

"What I mean is: I'm sure your manager, or your parents - fuck, someone - would fly off the handle," you say, pulling a cigarette from the pack and offer it begrudgingly. She takes the end and slips it between her lips, a little unsure. You then draw a lighter and offer it, too, and Karina puffs with all her strength. She's no expert, but it looks like the end catches and turns bright. 

A bit of color.

"My parents?" Karina flouts, sucking at it, pulling deeply from her chest - smoke pours from her nose.

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

"Um. Your girlfriend had her fingers in my ass - your cock down my throat - and we're worrying what my parents might think?"

Well. She's got you on that count.

"Not to mention: who the fuck thinks they're so virtuous-" a small chuckle as she passes it back. The cigarette is lit, bright. You take a drag. Watch her tap her feet on the snow. "That they need to do that to begin with. It's more trouble, telling me what to think and feel, as if that hasn't just the opposite effect."

“Irene’s protective, albeit in her own sorta peculiar way. So, you know, by extension, she worries-" you pull, and exhale, the smoke blowing past Karina. It gets caught in her fringe, in the wisps. You offer it back when you see her shiver. "That some shit happens, after."

"Your concern is heartwarming, truly - if you want to let me think on it, I might go and write a nice little diary entry tonight. It'll have sparkles and glitter - if you're that worried." 

Karina reaches in. Lets her fingers graze yours. Her skin is cool. 

“Besides, I don’t need a lesson in image from Irene of all people. She’s her; I’m me.”

She holds onto the cigarette between two long acrylic fingernails, tapping the end so the ash flits out onto the ice. You're caught staring, probably - the dark hair framing her face, all messy and soft, falling about her cheekbones. How that pretty pink blush in her skin seems to never go away.

Your eyes drop to where her mouth is red, a bit swollen - well-kissed; it is snowing again, after all. And it’s easy to be kind of transfixed.

"You're not, I dunno, say embarrassed?" you ask, after a beat.

"Nope." Karina swallows. Brings the cigarette to the pucker of her lips again. You watch how she holds the inhale, holds her wrist up and slacked, head tilted back a little. This exaggerated fashion-model exhale follows, all smooth.

“Because I'm not the type.”

The heavy stream of smoke then blown right into your face.

"Really, I think - sorry, I have always wanted to do that. It felt like a movie. Look," she coughs on the next breath. "I get your dilemma. But also, um-"

There are some quiet moments too, here and there: the heat between your thighs, her pressed up close. She smells like Irene's shampoo and bodywash and that just confuses your head some.

"Who’s to say I’m not just looking out for you," you offer. Every good lie is rooted somewhere in the truth.

"Don't bother," her words hit you square on. "It's about getting off right? You invite me to your bed; I’m so starstruck and enchanted by the very concept of it - Irene and her charming, intoxicating husband. Fuck, I dunno - the way the two of you kiss, look, feel: the experience that you will let me be a part of," she stops and makes another face of amusement, so fucking confident, "you let me play, too, just once, and we're all just a little happier. My version."

“We’re not married,” you correct.

“That’s the part you’re hung up on?” Karina leans over, her upper half across the balcony, staring right up at the sky. “Same difference.”

The moon finds her smile bright like nothing else. It's something infectious. Immediately, it reminds you: of Irene.

"Trust me," she goes on to say. The cigarette slips back into the space where you are connected - the lines of her fingers, her knuckles. "I had a wonderful time, but the sun will rise here, and I'm not gonna stick around to blow you while Irene burns three omelets and finds a spot for me in her fucked up game of house or whatever."

She makes you laugh, free and easy, like a gust of cold air. Something genuine and natural. And as the laugh shakes, Karina makes it impossible not to crumble farther. Not to fucking simper there like an idiot.

“I really thought she was going to make me call her mommy or something, I swear-”

"Hey, I'm sure if you had asked." A spark catches you. The flash of her canine, and those eyelashes. “She’d have done you the favor.”

"Oh, shush." The touch of Karina's fingertip against your hand is delicate, careful - unassuming. But, god, everything with her is just the right amount of heat - it melts you; and when it stops, her touch: that feeling is so cold that you just chase her out of impulse.

"What about New Year's?" you ask. There are still boundaries you really shouldn't be crossing, but here you are, straddling yet one more.

Karina's grin cracks like an old fault line. "You're not allowed to ask me out like that," she insists, batting you away - trying her hardest not to lead with the obvious. You look out on the view, watching a guy in a parka trudge over to a garbage can, a handful of newspaper bundles, then a glance back-

The slightest flush has bloomed up Karina’s face, right underneath where the makeup's been rubbed bare. It's utterly irresistible. "Go wake up your fiancée and ask what her New Year's Eve looks like. Doubt it involves me and my dumb friends."

She’s probably right.

"Karina," you start, watching her push open the balcony door with her foot and walk slowly, lazily, back into the apartment. The window rattles, and she looks back over her shoulder. The bob of her ponytail, the sweeping lashes, that perfect slow-burn smile. That’s how you end up with a title as ridiculous and reductive as ‘original visual’ or ‘the human cg’.

"You’re really going to let them in on what we all got up to?"

"Oh," she makes this low, delighted hum - it sounds so dreamy, how her voice gets the richest sort of rasp, "every last detail."

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

There's a bunch of stuff on the to-do pile. A lot of loose ends you have to clean up, a ton to catch up on. Irene is judiciously ignoring all of it. She's wearing her glasses - the ones with the big round frames that should look entirely obnoxious - which means she's already decided she's not leaving the apartment; Karina's still wrapping the world at large around her finger and has everyone convinced that she's all femme, no fatale; and you - well, you're back to thinking about how to climb the ladder and maybe how to stay there.

You head downtown with a cup of coffee in one hand and a musing mood in the other.

On your phone, some more choice text messages arrive in the late AM: had a great time by the way, stay out of trouble, this sweatshirt is actually just mine now, duh. 

The selfie alongside it is pretty suggestive, but just vague enough to flirt with indecency.

She sends one more at lunch where she's gotten out of the shower, or a hot pool, or maybe a long workout - her breasts squeezed between a towel and an arm - she has the camera all zoomed in and framed tight, almost full body. If her intention is to mess with you, that's what she gets. The texts: ah, fuck off and did you have a nice date with your left hand then, thanks for reminding me, the hotel wifi is shit lmao.

The messages just keep on coming and there's really no better descriptor.

And Irene, later, in a way that's neither diplomatic nor nuanced: jesus, don't let her catch you by yourself. For simplicity’s sake. She interprets being alone with a handsome boy as carte blanche to do absolutely whatever she wants and she's vapid that way.

There’s a chance it fizzles out into nothing. An even greater chance it all goes sideways. You'll have to see what becomes of you three.

-

Okay, right - new year, new you. The resolution for the past couple remains unchanged, and unfulfilled - less takeaways and eating out; more meal prep, less calories, healthier decisions.

Irene has this cute little apron over her sweater that is fixed extra tight, the belt trailing down the tops of her jeans to accentuate her nice round hips and slim waist. She knows the nature of her charm, her sex appeal. How it occurs, almost, as if by accident.

You say something that will get right under her skin like, “looking real domestic, Joohyun,” as she slides a chopped onion from a cutting board to a bowl.

She presses her hips out just a smidge, just enough. Turns a bit as she opens up the fridge, and the smirk she has for you, that sidelong glance-

“Don’t you Joohyun me,” is her lightest rebuke. 

She twists her way onto her tiptoes to fetch at the highest shelf. The crochet corner of her sweater rides up a couple of inches, flashing a hint of the fair, bare curve of her lower back. "You can help me by grating the parmesan, hm? Into that," she gestures back at the table, pointing with the bottle of olive oil.

And so you're ten, fifteen minutes into helping with dishes, with the grunt work - with the realization that Irene is going to chop her fucking fingers off if you leave her to it unchecked.

"Actually, here," you say, "can I?"

She tilts her head, skeptical - still, a quick nod of permission - and her slender fingers surrender the knife and wooden chopping board to you. She's tapping away at her phone, finding the playlist you're both always secretly listening to.

"Wow," Irene says, low, as you start dicing mushrooms, a stalk of celery. "So brave. There’s no way I could do that. Is it safe? Are we, like, in nuptial bliss now, do you think? I fancy you, I fancy you-"

It's always this sorta-delicate dance with her: how much should you step up; how much should you put out of hand; how much she accepts versus how she pushes you aside and gets through you all the same. You're too proud, really - both of you - but fuck. She's adorable; the apron adds insult to injury; and it makes the switch in your head simple.

“I always forget how much I love this song,” she’s saying; the rolling pin she’s grabbed is a reasonable surrogate for a mic. When she’s through singing a verse, she shoves it in your face. You don’t know any of the lyrics. 

She doesn’t really care.

You have to laugh at everyone who's ever wasted the effort to theorycraft who she is behind the smoky lashes, the lowered chin, the downturned glance. All the characters and archetypes she'll wear and cast off as she needs.

"Here." She sidles up and tucks her hair behind her ear, the side of her hip grinding into your thigh until she’s pressed firm into the line of your leg. Because she needs to tell you that's way too much garlic, and she's not going to kiss you if your breath is trying to kill her first. She uses the word "pungent" a number of times, just for good measure. Go on - she’s murmuring - taste; right off her finger. If anyone caught this you’d be embarrassed for weeks

“I think, definitely, should open a bottle of wine-”

That’s how you earn all the responsibility for getting the both of you fed; she gets distracted looking through the recipe book.

But there's the way she looks up at you from the opposite of the kitchen island, face held up between her hands, fingers folded underneath her chin. "What?" she asks. 

She’s totally caught you staring.

The truth is: Irene only looks this gorgeous when it's just her. When she forgets that she's supposed to stick to a script.

You tell her as much when you end up fucking her right there on the counter.

It's so slow, atleast at the onset. Her panties pushed aside, jeans spilling off an ankle - the fucking apron managed to make it to the floor but her sweater got kinda stuck on the way up. So you're reaching through some overpriced fabric blend to pull down the wire of her bra and get your palm where she most prefers it.

"Say it again," Irene sighs into your neck, clutching to the back of your shirt - white-knuckled at the seam. "Come on, you can be so charming when you want something."

"I wouldn’t push your luck," is all you choose to tell her. 

You're hitting all the spots she wants you to hit anyway: her pretty pink cunt, slick, all wet for you already. Everything clenching as she arches her back, until she's hanging off the edge of the marble. You find it’s just enough leverage to fill her completely with your cock - stretching her out and open until her thighs bracket around your waist at the perfect angle.

"Or what?" Irene is out of breath, but hardly at a loss for words. "I know. You'll have to remind me how much smaller I am than you, right? So easy to keep pinned."

Well, if you really wanted: "Hah, ah - right." You get right next to her ear, muttering the words as deep as your chest can go - then take hold of her waist to put her in a spot she can't escape. And, by Irene's usual logic, once that happens, that's as much a victory for her as it is for you. You're being compliant, aren't you? The in and out: fucking her, filling her up, pulling your messy cock out of her pussy and slapping her clit just so she can hear how fucking soaked you make her, merely as a reminder-

"I wonder if she was even half as desperate," she moans against your jaw. "Her heart probably stopped the second you, ah - told her, what? About all of this?"

You stop fucking her, halfway.

"I’m sure you wouldn't be referring to Karina, right?" is where you glance at her. “I remember us both agreeing to chalk that up as a total absolute mistake. That was that.”

Irene just swallows, looks off somewhere over your shoulder. No one wears a blush better than her.

But she won't say it. Her honesty is such a privilege. The prodigy-type. Or at least, that's the word Irene chose. Then again, there’s you and your uncanny ability to turn a blind eye. 

To the vice, the virtue, and everything in-between.

"So, can I ask," you press your lips together, finding the point of her chin with a gentle tap - you have her looking you straight back at you. The moment could let you drive back inside and fuck her brains right out, right there, like that - right through, instead: you watch her try not to squirm. 

The tension in her upper chest, the rising heat that settles between her thighs, her weight struggling where you spread her knees, as far open as her body can allow. “How long exactly," you choose your words, careful and pointed, "are we going to pretend that she isn't texting both of us?"

You bury the question deep where she’s practically molten - hot and wet and so incredibly needy.

You do, again, and again. You pull her against you, watching that pretty brow scrunch and un-scrunch as your cock bathes in that soak. And hell, Karina had sent her a selfie today, is what she's explaining when you slow down enough - a bit of red, on her cheeks and her lips, and a lot of black, all the rest - the part about a midnight flight that's on hold until tomorrow morning. And then another, an hour later. To you both: her tits, the lace lingerie - so heavy, and soft, and easy to see yourself getting lost in-

Irene gasps at how fast you find all her favorite spots, then repeats - twice and again - hey, Karina said you're "such a cutie," and she sees her as the perfect mistress-material, don't you think? Wouldn’t it be ideal? The perfect fantasy? The perfect toy-

Obviously, that is morally bankrupt, even for the two of you. And you’re making sure she hears about it.

You ask her, point-blank: "are you really so selfish? So callous." It's ground out, slowly, against her hip, into her cunt. You've got Irene dripping wet, she's running everywhere, and you're telling her, "and this is your roundabout way of asking me to validate your twisted little ego?"

Don’t get it too confused: Irene lives for this shit; that sharp, hard-hitting tone - it drives her up the fucking wall. 

"Duh. Tell me - just a guess," she presses her hands further back, arching into each push. The slim curves of her chest are bouncing, just under her sweater. "You like to feel so guilty and morose but I bet-" she chokes off mid-sentence, you know exactly how, the exact motion that has her wanting. She gets a leg over your shoulder with no effort at all, and your fingers find their place, digging into her hips as she locks into your thrusts. 

Like fucking her is the only thing the two of you ever do.

Your whole body buzzes, it hums in resonance with where her gasps conflagrate to moans - you're pulling her slender frame down into every sloppy thrust and she takes you so fucking well.

"I bet it all sounds like, ah, the prettiest fucking music - in your head-"

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

Because the things she wants to hear never actually leave your lips - your girl, fucking relentless.

Because the line between you fucking her and her fucking you becomes less distinct every time she rocks back and takes you deeper. Or when her mouth catches your next kiss a bit lazily. She takes over to swivel and slide her cunt up and around your length. So good that you have to keep her there. Hand locked onto her throat, digging a bruise or two in her collarbones, fucking her senseless against the countertop-

"Irene, fuck.” Your voice comes out thick, like gravel, and practically as an aside, “you’re going to make me-.”

Irene cuts you off, nodding, shh-shh’ing you into silence. “I know, baby. I know.” This total sigh of agreement - a hushed yes, or maybe uttering something she knows will sink right into your core, two words that sound a lot like “good boy.”

What, is that tacit approval? Probably. It’s hard to think straight.

So you bury yourself inside her, instinctually. Irene tips her chin up when she feels you paint her fucking womb. Every throb - with a fistful of her ass and your face pressed against her chest, sucking and biting and marking her anywhere, everywhere - right through her sweater. Fucking her so full that your mess is dribbling out all over the fucking floor, drip, drip, drip, and-

"Hey, I want you to know that I" - she sounds so amused as she cards through your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead - "really couldn’t ever ask anyone except you."

(All is fair in love and war, is an adage Irene takes to its logical extreme, tangled in your sheets or with a dress puddled at her ankles. A silk stocking rolling down her leg, the crochet thrown into some dark corner.

You never say yes. You never really have to.)

This all before setting her down, off the edge, back onto her feet and taking another half-step forward and having the awareness not to completely flatten her under the full weight of your body, so she can run a hand down between the two of you and her fingertips can start gathering up all the cum you've pumped inside her. Irene tells you in her sweetest lilt to pay attention as she leans back up against the counter and gathers as much into her mouth as it will allow-

The sight alone.

When her head tips back, tongue passing over her knuckles, and she swallows-

"You are so," you sigh into her temple. Her cheek. You've settled the rest to the space in between. “Absolutely unbelievable."

She reaches out and trails the tips of her fingers lightly along the rise of your cock - her softness up against your hard lines. Her eyes flash when you twitch on the fucking spot. It's so tender all coming from her.

And there, a moment or two more. You can see it in the way she has her lips tilting, dreamy. You've always known what you were signing up for - how she's thumbing the nape of your neck - what her ideal outcome was, is. There's nothing and no one in front of either of you to bar the way.

You’ll make your vows like any other.

"Well, hey," she finally says, slow and husky and curling toward you with a smug self-satisfaction.

You push her hair behind her ears, the dark brown locks. Some part of you understands, unequivocally, that she is the absolute limit of how far you would go for any other person on the planet. No questions. In a heartbeat, without hesitation.

The kiss to the corner of your jaw is unironically chaste - before she’s telling you, "shouldn’t we get a move on it, chef? There’s food to eat, recipes to ignore; aren’t you fucking famished?"

-

The bolognese reduces down to a scorch in the cast iron. Too much heat, or too long, you got too preoccupied, who knows - there's a moral lesson to ignore here if you're so inclined. So it ends up being over a tray of sushi delivery that Irene explains to you her working theory like it's high-stakes political intrigue.

"Listen," she's got her chopsticks pointed at you, "for one, Karina, to her core, is a total seductress; and she's told me already, more or less to my face - she gets off on the chase, and hates the other shit. To be involved, or invested."

“Okay then why all the go-around; the wait-and-see; what’s her endgame?”

“What’s anyone’s endgame?” Irene shrugs. “Validation." She slips a tuna roll into her mouth.

"I think you might be projecting."

"Or, I'm simply an extremely empathetic person," her sarcasm hits harder through chewing - she almost gets you, and finishes swallowing to say, "look, she's like us if we were pretending to care, okay? Just more, like - explicit about her lack of intention. So. Doesn’t matter if it's to piss her manager off. Or it's like a revenge-slash-extortion-thing against someone she either had or is having an affair with."

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

"It's not like it’s an unheard-of workplace hazard, come on," and then the final confirmation: "she’s just into it because it sounds dirty and sexy, okay, like everything else-"

"And you figure we should be the ones to dole it out."

"What I figure," Irene says, doing that same mental calculus she did the first time: how, where, why - it's clear. A dozen different kinds of naked are an old, tired song by now. "I want us to fuck her. However she likes, whenever she likes, for however long she likes. Let her think she’s won something, or think she has you totally fucking hooked - I don't really care. Because it would be so much more satisfying to hear you tell me about it - because the idea of you two being like that for me. It's," her words pitch up a touch. 

"That's the fantasy."

And Irene dives into the details. She explains what it could look like, all the more raunchy and ridiculous. This very specific arrangement. It makes no real sense, the conversation alone, and that, you decide - what can't be rationalized - is how she'll take it: by fucking both of you. That's the objective fact. That's the demand.

You listen until it feels less and less like the decisions have already been made.

“Okay, babe,” she’s presenting her case. “Hear me out.”

And she keeps going until you both can see it materialize: "if Karina thinks she can handle both of us, then both of us it'll be." It’s how her fingers end up buried in your boxers and around the throb of your cock. You hear the gentlest laugh Irene has as you start fucking softly into her grip, and she runs her thumb over your weeping slit until she finds you that much more malleable to the suggestion. Effortless almost, she lures the primal part of you from its confines and teases and prods at its wants and desires. Which is also how some charged vocabulary gets thrown in for good measure. Because no, no, no - she's murmuring into your mouth, tipped back, plush lips right above yours - it's not a cuckquean situation, or an open relationship, or anything like freeuse or whatever else might justify the concern. It's not even cheating, Irene’s explaining, strictly speaking, because who said you and I wouldn’t be doing it together?

(Lying by omission is the story you both live - and the difference: she's pathological. You’re just now getting the hang of it.)

"Fuck," is what you exhale out as she opens her fingers, offering. Her thumb glides across the expanse of your head, a trail of pre-cum drawn underneath a nail. And you know all the things her nails can do - can rip your heartstrings. "I mean. God damn. There has to be, like, terms."

There's still sushi sitting on the coffee table, and Irene is placing these kisses into the slope of your shoulder, your sternum, making a show of the movement, how she's traveling down, downward - to her knees. Where she finds the seat between your thighs and tugs your shorts, the fabric gathered down your leg-

"Let me handle it," she tells you, and there goes the cut of your t-shirt, shoved up to your chest. Her grip runs flat, down from the rise of your hip, fingers wrapping around, touching - the flat of her tongue laving across the tip of your cock until she decides to lower her jaw.

"Just think right now. How I want to fuck her and how I'd want you to fuck her, too-" 

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

She has it gliding up, around and against the swell of the underside. Rolling to where you need it, the places she knows you’ve died before. Lapping up the mess she's already gotten out of you-

Like this, Irene's looking at the way that the idea strikes: you and you and you; the only person in the whole goddamn world that can handle her; you fucking know it too - it's the most perfect, hopeless kind of thing. Like the feeling that catches at the apex of your lungs. It burns in your stomach and grips in your gut. She's gone and cut out the nerves - there's the crown of your cock caught in a velvet grip between those pretty pink lips and her fingers twisting at the bottom. 

She breathes deep. Sinks her lips so slowly to the base. Anything, everything you want: to put your hands to the side of her head, to weave your fingers through her hair, and coax her, fuck her mouth like it belongs to you, all slow and hard and measured.

To hear all those wet sounds she makes as she chokes on the end of it. The gags as you force your cock into the back of her throat, holding her head tight, her hair pulled up into a fist, to have that mouth hanging around the length of you, tongue stuck to the bottom of her chin as you move her, your fiancée, your toy. To be looking her in the eye and watching her look the fuck back while she revels in every filthy second of it, not a single damn drop of hesitation or doubt.

"Really think," Irene urges, and she's all innocent when she tips her head to kiss her way up your cock.

She’s trying for some grace or finesse, or both - trying, you think, to make a point; instead, you end up watching her gulp and spit into her palm, just to obscure the sensual curl of her tongue with the sloppy-hard rhythmic stroke of her fist. "How hot it would be if you watched us both choke on your cum. Her face fucked stupid - the perfect little fuckdoll, is that not an image for the ages-"

You get a glimmer of that catlike grin - the one you would kill for a picture of. Something for the wallpaper, or the wallet; you've never met a boundary she hasn't challenged. The most depraved ideas in her head are just, as she is, a masterpiece. And so the answer has never changed - there has never been anything she's not been allowed-

"Trust me baby," she presses her cheek against your shaft. You feel her turn and run that mouth all over. The tip of her nose. Her eyelashes. The wet heat of her breath as she nuzzles the length. "Karina's all ours to share."

Her pout, right there, waiting.

You can't stop yourself from grabbing her face, the crook of her jaw, her neck and the tips of her shoulders. Until it all comes with a good, hard pull. The sound of her mouth on your cock, the blowjob she's been perfecting for years. It's starting to fill up the room, her lips wrapping your shaft - the sound of her being so obedient, the most receptive, sweet, pretty thing: letting you guide her pace until she has a steady motion going. Taking the thick base in her hands and working it over between her fingers. There's only enough room for that before you’re all the way inside her, in and out, again: the tip of your cock brushing over the softest curve of her throat.

When you take her at face value, it's fucking wild: your fiancée kneeling before you. Her chin and neck wet with her effort, lips wrapped so pretty, stuffed, used-

There are no questions. This is simply Irene, doing what she loves.

She pushes a hand between her legs and holds herself together as your hips tilt forward, meeting her halfway-

Just letting you get yourself off in her mouth like it's no big deal. It's her throat - it's her goddamn cunt and ass, and whatever else - because you fucking asked, right? Because you gave her the permission, the choice, the agency.

"Hey, where should I?" you’re muttering as you push the hair out of her face, already half-drunk on her slick lips and realistically only a few seconds away from doing some real damage.

There isn't a need; but you want her to tell you, to use her words. In her mouth, on her face, in her palm, you’ll go without thinking. You’ll cum straight onto your own stomach if it’s what Irene says. Even if she’s acting like you already have.

"Make sure you give her,” is what she garbles out around the hard line of your cock, and it’d be impossible to understand if you didn’t know every nuance to her, if you didn’t - you know - fucking love her. To have and to hold - to hold on tight and for better or worse, and this is pretty much as bad as it gets. 

The syllables come in-between hollow breaths, all wet and sticky. When Irene wrenches the fuck out of it, the base of your cock- “hm, that same sort of courtesy when, agh, I'm not around-"

Because the image alone is what matters. There, getting your cock sucked like you've earned the privilege - it doesn't have to be real, it just has to look like it's a new truth to believe in. The little motions in her wrist are just - hah, fucking unreal - and the way she sinks down lower on her knees for each stroke, from base to tip - lips pressing over the knuckles she has wet, and squelching, and twisting up and down and up-

She places a hand under your balls, the gentlest cradle, and something of your restraint finally breaks - it snaps - her insistence is ruthless.

"Yeah, god, okay- I’m just gonna go ahead-" 

There are these images in your head, of Irene: the upturned brows, the hollowed cheeks, and that slutty-as-shit smirk - and then of Karina: doing the exact same thing. Fuck, your cock is heavy, absolutely leaking cum: you can feel yourself leaking into the press of her mouth. It fills up her cheeks as she blushes into the fuck. Her lips become flush and go soft against the ridge of your shaft - her jaw slack in anticipation. 

"Your fucking mouth, Irene" you breathe out, “I'm going to cum-” 

Just at half the sentence, you're there, sunk into your fiancée's throat. Fingers across her ears and into her hair and watching her own hands pulling you, guiding you-

It’s all flexed in your back. Every muscle. Every fiber.

Irene hums onto a simple, satiated note. She always does, when she tastes it. When you dump a hot load of cum all over her tongue and straight into her throat.

(And yes, some might claim this is the death knell for all kinds of reasoning, but you’ll go ahead and admit it’s so, so worth it.)

"How thoughtful," she says, low and slow, once she's through swallowing the entire fucking thing.

The corner of her mouth tilts up. Because you're finished: two steps left in the brain from falling out of consciousness, a mess on the couch. You get to watch as she pulls you into sorts and slots each piece back to where it's meant to sit. The underwear, your pants. It's with such careful attention. Your soft cock gets cleaned with a tissue and wiped dry. A tiny parting kiss for the tip, her mouth full-on puckered, like she's kissing out anything you have left.

Though it's a pleasant daze. She prefers you soft like this, really.

All you have left to say is: "fuck me, baby." It sounds sloppy and open-ended as hell. "I guess I'll leave everything to you."

If that's a cue or sign for the evening, the only right thing: it isn't exactly misinterpreted.

-

The actual logistics don’t arrive for a handful more weeks. You find it surprising they ever happen at all.

// Karina 10:41 pm > i'm bored.

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

// 10:49 pm > have you tried looking into an incognito tab?

// Karina 10:58 pm > lol, and what is it i'm supposed to be finding?

// Karina 10:58 pm > help a girl out here.

"Send her a picture of your cock," Irene says, like it isn’t a joke. She looks up from the smutty-dash-of-romance-porn novel she's got herself wrapped in, with her best faux-serious expression. The pair of readers that usually are in her top desk drawer have made a new home perched low on her nose. "God knows she hasn't stopped leering since she found out what I'm marrying into."

"Please," you tell her, because she's full of shit. "I'm not sending her a dick pic."

Your laptop is warm on your thighs as you huddle on your side of the bed. That's the point of balance where it feels like Irene isn't trying to look. Though she clearly is. You flick up through a couple tabs just to drive the point home.

// 11:01 pm > sorry. i'm not in the business of just handing out freebies

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

// Karina 11:07 pm > thought we were making progress here

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

"Ask her if anyone's home with her." Irene dogears the page she’s reading and sets her book down. "Or ask if she's, like, tied up or something. Something edgy."

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

"Do you want me to put the readers away," Irene offers. She's wearing the sort-of smirk you always need to be wary of.

"No," you say. “God, no.”

"Ask her where she keeps her lingerie. Tell her she should be thinking about what it'd look like: all naked except a thong. With the straps digging into her. Tied up all nice and pretty-like."

// 11:13 pm > u alone right now?

"What the fuck?" Irene slugs a pillow at you. "That is the creepiest way you could've sent-"

// Karina 11:13 pm > yeah. i am :/

You and Irene are both struck a little dumb by that. 

“Sheesh, she must have had her finger hovering over the reply button.”

"Yeah," you say, eloquent. “Who could blame her, though.”

"Uh-huh." Irene exhales, staring a bit pointedly.

// 11:16 pm > cool if I come over?

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

Irene nudges you with her heel, a questioning glance: the window has just been left there wide open and hanging. She whispers like Karina can somehow hear her through the phone, "you are terrible at sexting."

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

// Karina 11:19 pm > got a couple. i wouldn't be against hearing something that lets my imagination fill in the gaps though

"Text her that you're into her throat and want her to show you her tits," and Irene actually cracks a laugh as she has the audacity to make the request. She's in good form this evening; in nothing but her favorite silk camisole - the navy blue one, which pairs great with all 5’2” of the rest of her. Like the soft curves she wears and everything else isn't bad for your heart. "Seriously, I want you to-"

"How am I supposed to end it?" You ask. The tone is purely sardonic. "Babe. Baby. My future wife. Tell me. You do realize you're basically asking me to bait her, right?"

Someone will eventually put their cards on the table, and Karina, Irene, and ostensibly you will realize you’re all currently having a mental break from reality. Or something along those lines. "I mean. Could that really be a negative," she wonders with an eyebrow quirked and another gesture of her arm like she wants to showcase the night sky beyond the bedroom windows.

"How, what - babe."

"You could promise to let her sit on it."

"Is the cockslut routine an act? Like," you lower your volume, "do you really have a playbook, here?"

"So mean." Irene reaches a hand over. She has her head propped on an elbow, the rest of her sprawled and comfortably positioned on the bed. And you wonder why the fuck you feel compelled to argue a point that so obviously has already been lost. "Just go fuck her already, god damn, I dunno."

Right. So. This was the part that was kind of inevitable - and Irene's impatience aside, you probably were about to win a lottery when you showed up at her door - that golden little interaction: "hey it's me, your rival at work's future ex-husband, I guess - I'm so horny and I think you're so beautiful and wouldn't it be so crazy if we, like, boned, haha, what?"

"Just- have sex. Tell me about it after."

The novel beckons Irene back toward it. She makes herself the picture of someone perfectly comfortable with you walking right into the next most uncomfortable predicament.

The sigh. That long, heavy thing. A leadup you do so often.

The simple idea of sending Karina that sort of message sends heat, low - just under the band of your sweatpants, and right where you've got yourself in the palm of your hand and you're already wondering how this is the result, why your cock is coming to a rise already - god damn - why every thought of Karina's face, and Karina's ass, and Karina's everything, every moment her lip is caught in between those teeth is becoming impossible not to touch. "Okay," you huff, "fine. I'm getting up, I'm going now- I mean it, right now, just give me a minute, I am putting my clothes on."

"Wait," and she's saying, "wait. Wait."

And when you turn around, Irene has this cat-that-ate-the-canary grin all stretched on the canvas of her face. She takes off her readers - her elbows thrown into her lap as she goes to the very edge of the mattress, pulling your shoulders for balance. "Babe-"

"Mm."

Irene likes to get you at a low simmer. The way she runs her thumb pad along your bottom lip. And all those questions - a look into her eyes - it's hard not to fold or break - when she's holding onto that sort of expression, unwavering; no matter how her mouth seems to get soft and curious.

Her lips move onto yours, asking - a push. And your eyes - a brush against a shoulder and you've already gone a whole mile from anywhere decent. There's the touch of her tongue between your parted mouths.

"You'll be good right?"

"I mean, sure," is what you manage, watching her lips close.

"You'll fucking wreck her, and do it exactly how she needs it done." And her brow, knit. She can tell your brain is busy jumping ahead to a hundred different scenarios. "Stop worrying."

There's a brief nod of reassurance. Her fingertips dust down your chest and the rest of the way. You hear Irene tell you to-

"And give her an extra hello from me."

"Okay, I love you, but also you're insane, like certifiable."

"Shush, I know you," and Irene gives your hair a little tousle before pushing you out the door.

-

You're standing there at the front door of Karina's apartment a little after midnight, bathed in dim, orange wicked fluorescence. Like it knows your sins - past, present and future. There's no obvious answer when you go knocking, and for a half-moment, you're thinking, okay, it's alright, this is how I let someone down easy-

Until she answers and leans out, pulling open the door. It takes you by surprise-

"Well, I'd normally let you in," you hear Karina say, and a smug smile starts to cross her face, "but..."

It's about the degree to which she looks hot and a little off kilter in this tight t-shirt - a snug pair of panties around the sway of her hips - that almost sends you spinning. There's not an ounce of self-consciousness; it's like a punch to the gut.

"Aeri's date went south and she's drunk. She's passed out on her bed, like, right now, I don't think-"

There's no bra. It's hard not to get fixated on every detail. Like her nipples, practically standing out. You have an irrational desire for her to take a step back, further into the room, further out of your vision's reach-

"Uhh," you croak. And you do have the mental faculties for, uh. For telling her. "Maybe, you know, later, could be better, yeah, maybe call me."

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

"No, no." Karina has her hands searching up and underneath your sweater. Her fingers dance flat up, right over your stomach - teasing as she hikes you back inside. Right past the threshold. Your mouth is half-caught and stupid under her, the gentle hum and pressure on her lips. "It means we need to be quiet."

She drags you another step forward, with just the hot flash of her gaze. 

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

The laugh she makes into it, this one little scoff - it's an acknowledgment: an agreement. It's one of the worst fucking sounds, and the whole damn thing gets to you. Like her ass wasn't the perfect fit for the palm of your hands- like you don't want to trace your fingers under the elastic of her panties.

As if it wasn't fucking clear enough. It's the tongue in your mouth and the hands in her hair. She's kissing you soft, she's kissing you deep; her weight rests and pulls back with each swell of your ribs, pushing her fingertips down until they're skating, slow, low into the grooves of your spine. Like she's getting familiar with you again.

"Okay," you breathe. She laughs on your lips and presses forward - pulls you back, farther- "uhh. Okay."

She must see the confliction you're in-

"Hey." Karina keeps going until you've got her backed against a wall, until your thigh has pressed into the crux of hers and your hand is in her shirt. You don't miss how she lets her head tilt back when her eyes shut. It's her. There's no disputing the reality. "Whatever you want to do to me. That is all I've been thinking about. Do it."

"I- don't really-"

She makes a decent show of crossing her wrists and tugging her shirt right over her head. Tosses it someplace safe enough. "So are you just gonna leave me in suspense, or do you need my explicit, enthusiastic permission?"

Your lips draw themselves a blank on anything useful, while your heart rate accelerates.

"Here try this: you’re going to fuck me until I beg you to stop. Then you’re going to fuck me some more. Or whatever- then we can go somewhere, I don't care," she offers with a half-whisper. In all her goddamned glory - barefoot, almost bare chested - it's not like it could be any other thing.

-

You’re not exactly supposed to end up on your knees for this.

This isn't quite how you pictured-

Okay, fuck, Karina's making the prettiest noises where her spine is curling up against the wall; those sounds you couldn't even make up. How it feels like the easiest damn thing, because there isn't a question to why. Every inch of you is pressed to every inch of her. You know what you'll taste on your tongue, which of these breasts belongs in your palm and the fingerprints in the dips of her waist - her lips on the curve of your jaw - every mark and bruise on her skin, every hint of it is real; it's fucking you up because you're kissing the woman that Irene picked, the woman you met - it's how you pull yourself away-

Karina, for the longest few seconds, is shocked into stillness.

Because you could, of course, decide to give this one last shot, your head between her thighs and eat her out until she was so fucking wet your cock wouldn’t even enter the equation. This is not actually a new idea; the possibility has run through her mind enough times already.

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

"Do you need instructions? I can get a bit graphic."

"Actually, you know what?" you choke a little, and - "trust me."

You stand straight up for a moment, a second, an extra fraction. You slip your cock inside her hot cunt, and, yeah. She collapses right into you. You’re holding up her just enough to fuck into - she's starting to breathe deeper, harder; you've got her pinned like that - a hand on her neck, fingers sinking into everywhere she's softest: her tits, her ass, her waist, her throat, and there is nothing that isn't some version of fucking glorious about Karina's weight grinding, heavy onto the tip and onto the ridge and down the thickest length of you-

And her face, jesus christ, her fine brows upturned, the tears heavy in her dark lashes, the little gasping-sobbing sounds that spill across her wobbling lips - this is the both the easiest and the hardest part: seeing her get absolutely fucking ruined-

(You know, god help you.)

-

Irene doesn't even have to ask. There are hickies and bruises shadowing in on your neck, your chest - these marks you never remember Karina giving you, and a ton of scratches all up your back.

"You know I was going to offer to make you breakfast," Irene says, smug, "but I'm wondering if Karina got to you first."

"What the hell do you think?" you say, dumb.

There are eggs burning on a skillet that are never going to be salvageable, no matter what Irene says. She has no respect for the process. And her voice is full of that infuriating smile: "was it everything you hoped?"

"God," you mutter, trying to mask the embarrassed laughter in your words. You can hardly move an inch on her behalf.

"At least tell me something fun, you insufferable tease," she presses her nose into your hair and tickles the spot on your side, just to be a pest.

You lay it all out for her. Everything she wants to hear.

-

Surprisingly, there’s still plenty to learn about each other; days to weeks to months. The first real thaw of the year comes, and you’re quick to fall into this odd rhythm.

Karina won't actually join Irene on set or production very often - too much heat. It shouldn’t have taken so long to figure out the two don’t belong in the same room together, and if they’d asked you, they’d know - but no one ever really does ask you. However she does spend more and more time around the apartment. In and out of your personal spaces. And maybe a bit in between, or a little underneath too: how she seems to slot herself right into every possible fold whenever Irene’s away.

Always traveling for this reason or that.

And god, the perfect powder keg Karina is - ticking, short-fused, all ready to explode. It’s ironic, you think, she’s drawn to scandal the way Irene will do anything to avoid it, and here, she's found her ultimate indulgence.

The quick lay, the time and place you know you can be patient in pulling her apart, the everything in between. 

In fact, you’ve taken to calling her "babe" just so she doesn’t think twice when she gets your cum pooling deep in her cunt, all hot and sopping. Looking like the picture-perfect centerfold. The fucked-dumb face - all twisted in your grip, flushed-red; and the musky scent of sex; the noises and her presence alone. You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her, rubbing a thumb across where the mascara runs thick.

To be the gorgeous girl, cock-drunk and fucked-out in your lap - so simple - so natural: Karina finds her way over more often than not.

After your shower, after your nap; your work, the bar - Karina’s never more than a text away. And you'll keep a hand around her waist as she stands around in the kitchen, stealing Irene’s leftovers out of the fridge. Karina ends up straddling your thigh right there at the breakfast table, holding onto the wood for support as she cums all over you.

The long and short of it is: 

She's fucking you. She's fucking your fiancée. She sees no problem in having her cake and eating it too. The only caveat is: Karina thinks neither of you know what's actually going on.

“You gonna say hi to Irene for me?" she's teasing one day, snapping her bra back into place. The t-shirt pulled over all that glossy-dark hair, the shimmy of her hips just to get back into the world's tightest jeans. She presses a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's such a stark, clinical goodbye - ending with a flick of a thumb across a screen. "And oh, let her know if she ever wants me to teach her a trick or two. Anytime."

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

Karina does the most insipid thing. She fucking winks. “I’m sure she would.”

-

"Uh, are you kidding me?" you ask Irene. 

It's late one night, and Irene is standing in the kitchen in her pajamas with a welt the shape of Karina’s lips kissed right into her jaw. A couple drinks in your system have given you both a false sense of clarity, and also an ill-timed desire to solve all your goddamn problems. You lower your voice. "In her ass?"

Irene has that all-triumphant and dopey grin that makes your heart ache for her. There's a soft curl of her hair loose, thrown across a shoulder. "I’m serious, pull her hair right, hold her wrists until her back has to be arched. Pin her to the bed," she continues to illustrate, "it's all in the finer points of how much. Tell her to count, even. I'm not joking-"

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

"-she'll let you do anything, promise."

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.” Irene wags the spoon at you. “It’s great.”

-

It's not only the hypothetical-homewrecking that gets Karina so torridly wet for the whole affair; when she's pinned beneath you with her legs spread and her toes pointed skyward, or perhaps later - the same day even - riding Irene's face in a locked dressing room and crying out - "ah, hah, jesus, please-"

In her head, she has you both at her beck and call. Forget semantics - Karina is a fool to her own illusion. Because in her head, not only has she managed to go toe to toe with the industry's reigning monarch, she’s managed to win.

-

You don’t exactly know how Karina ever intends to keep it casual. Because things are damn near constant:

It’s a weeknight, and the moon is high above the windows, casting a crisp rectangle onto the hardwood; it doesn’t actually matter, as far as Karina is concerned.

Irene’s on television again, the sequin in her dress clinging tight, and she’s found the gaze that never breaks for the cameras. Found the flash of her most practiced smile - that little chime of laughter she has that sounds like striking pure gold.

Then Karina: sitting cross-legged at the very end of the sofa. One leg thrown over your thigh, she’s got these nylons on her feet and she’s poking a toe into your ribs. "Isn't she stunning," you hear her muttering, "honestly. Doesn't it, like, turn you the fuck on?"

Her foot grazes your lap, all casual at first; the impossibly soft-curved heel of her sole. There are so many ways she'd prefer to pass the time and they almost all involve getting under your skin, if not just outright getting into your pants.

“Elaborate.”

"I mean listen, in your case, just knowing your fiancée is up there looking like a total angel and at the same time, thinking about you; how she’s got to be considering every which way she’ll unwind just after the showcase - at least, that’s what I’d be doing." She licks her lips, teeth. "Hell, I’m only imagining how pretty her eyes are when she can barely keep them open, and that’s enough to ruin my panties."

"Are you really."

She shifts her weight. Puts that ankle to good use. Rubbing it into the crease between your legs. "Tell me," her lips curl. She’s looking at you dead-on. "How does she usually prefer it, hm?”

Like a wildcat, you suppose, your Irene - a pretty, little predator. You could tell Karina everything, but you don’t. Instead you let her wander into the lair of her own making. Her eyes: light and curious; it’s written in the lines of her face how she's picturing it all so plainly.

“I’d guess she lets you go slow. Or hard. Or maybe a little rough and then you make her cum, and then maybe, just maybe, after the teasing; after the edging, I guess, that's when she comes in hot. I would hope."

Karina twists her foot around, swings her weight onto your lap, and sucks in a sharp breath when you reach out and grip the lean lines of her hips. It’s as easy to hold her still as it'd be to drag her across the couch and under the rest of your body, fuck the goddamn tension until there was no longer any room left for the pretty smirk in her lips. And her gasp would probably sound a hell of a lot better - than all the needling quips - a much louder and much less-pretend whine when you could throw those thighs open and really pound her wet, aching little cunt-

“Easy,” she chides when you end up taking two handfuls of her chest. "Shouldn’t you be more supportive? For god’s sake, it’s your fiancée’s moment in the spotlight, you know-"

There’s nothing stopping you from popping off the buttons of her dress, one by one by one - and kiss right there, into the swell. Your voice feels all the rougher when you respond, "and what a moment."

Her fingertips skim over the places she's been kissing you, where she's been marking and claiming and trying to, at least, to stamp you like her personal property - when the look is that serious. All cold-burn. Right through to the bone.

“So.”

You can feel her touching into your pants. The heat in her soft, silky thighs; she sits above you, keeping a leg on each side. A part of you feels trapped; another is confused why you aren't turning the tables right now - flip her and ride out her cunt on the couch. Some passing thought, or just a fraction, the only one that matters in that particular instant, wonders what Irene would do, will do - has done - in your situation. How her hips would roll. How Karina’s moan might sound when she dug a nail right into a sweet spot.

You push Karina's skirt a little farther up her body and try to gauge the moment she's finally decided she doesn't mind.

“How about you keep your eyes on her, and I'll suck your cock while you do," ends up being the short and not-so-sweet of it all. “-or maybe you can get off between my tits.”

She wraps those fingers around your base and pulls gently. It's not a decision, but merely a continuation, a culmination: a gesture made entirely to pull the response: the hitch to the throat. Her nails skim that ridgeline as her eyes track across the cut of your features. It makes you groan into her next kiss, to say, "if you wanted it so bad, babe, you could’ve just said. Would save us a lot time-"

"Are you complaining?" she husks, pulling your pants down your thighs. Your cock is in her hands and she smiles like a cat - licks her teeth when it twitches at just the slightest touch. "Yeah, I didn't think so," is how the breathless laugh leaves her lips.

You catch the quirk of her brows, her tone: straight-up, like nothing. You’re almost buying into that until she's got your shirt on the floor, those lips of hers in the divot of your collarbone, and her tits wrapped around the base of your cock, and, well, fuck-

She actually wastes no time - none at all. A couple feet away, Irene covers her laugh with one hand. There's a brass award in her other. And the television casts this soft, pale glow.

Karina tips her head, and a curtain of her dark, silken hair spills across the ridge of her breast. She runs those big eyes over you, all wide and round and vaguely-deviant. There's the perfect amount of motion, of squeeze, just a light-bit of pressure, and she's got a face smug-arrogant in an instant, knowing. Fuck, her hands on either side start pushing into the line of her cleavage as she bounces and rocks and draws every inch of your cock up through her soft tits and back down again.

"Fuck," is the harshest exhale she's ever dragged out from you.

She hums a low sound, all self-satisfied when it's her own namesake: your body wants her, like you know the full weight of her needs, your touch, how badly she's fucking craving to get off and still not admitting to anyone it might be more than sex. Like it's really as easy as her next breath, the flutter of her lashes: Karina wants your eyes, the weight of your attention and she's not going to beg for a fucking thing. The feeling, you think, is mutual.

"Irene," she says, her smile as open as it could ever get. "She's just so gorgeous, right?"

On one hand, she’s speaking between the lines. A perfect tincture of deceit - the bawdiness-by-nature: watch me, look at me - is what she might as well say - look what I can fucking do, the whole lewd display. And, god, how she knows every way to make a guy want it, like she wants you to remember it.

Because on the other, the movement is so, so direct. 

Karina twists herself in an upward tilt, just an easy, practiced thing; she lets her tits spill around your cock and through her fingers, full and soft - and her lips part, mouth slacking alongside yours, matching the sounds out your chest with her own. Like she knows exactly which slide of slippery friction will make you moan, or which pull and drag will send your teeth straight into your lip.

"Isn't it crazy," she lolls her head a little, letting her own saliva drip down the center, onto your weeping slit. "How much I want your cum filling my cunt, even knowing she's the one you'd rather put the ring on," the drag and drag and drag - her tits are fucking incredible, and she knows it. She pushes up with her fingers and gives you a long draw right through the press, right where the nerve endings run electric, right where she keeps moving, up and down, and up and down- 

“-it must be hard, I mean, jesus christ. Here I am, needy and hot. Begging you to wreck me and my only sin, hm - the sin of being second best, right-"

"Holy fuck, you're-"

"Obsessed," she says, and drops her tits against your waist again. "I know, I know. How could I not be?"

You're left muttering into the titfuck alone, watching her rub your precum up between their soft shape, feeling the slight give, how her skin goes warm. The act itself: such a simple-thing-bordering-on-the-absurd that you notice how you coil and flex beneath her curves, how she feels so soft and warm. The slight pucker of her lips every time your cock escapes her cleavage does little to help. It's probably the fault of the brain-fuck but the wet of her mouth is practically everywhere you look. You could eat her alive right here, spread her legs on the coffee table and finish with a bit of screaming, groaning and tearing, and no one would ever stop you.

But instead,

"-it's a good color on her, really; but then every color is a good color on her, isn't it so unfair?" She's taking your cock into her tits, deeper on every rock forward and back, holding them close - a gentle lock of those long manicured fingers keeping it all together. "Even wearing no color at all; you must just love how all the freckles are so easy to see," she murmurs, squeezing tight. The sound is wet, messy. A filthy chorus between her dirty words and the dirtier action, and just that glimpse of friction when she strokes down again is maddening. You're all slippery. So sticky-slick, so tight.

Of course there's not a fucking inch of a reaction out of her; you want to get off so bad-

"You could close your eyes," she tells you. "She would still be there. The sound of her laughter. The image. In that dress or not," and her mouth furls into a half-smile before she pauses. Reaches down, pulls her tits around you impossibly tight. "Just so damn pretty-"

You cum just like that: 

"Babe," is what you let her have. The soft, undercurrent hiss. "Fuck."

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

Well, mostly up - along the expanse of her neck and throat, coating where her breasts sit so pretty against the lines of your thighs. Across her sternum and the hollow of her neck - her body's covered in your shared mess: slick-filthy-hot, all strewn across her perfect tits.

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

"Completely covered in you." She's still smiling. That deep-cut and perfectly symmetrical curl of her lips. The gorgeous fucking shade, and her chin, how her cheeks flush, just a little - they've always turned pink in the most specific places when she gets fucking cum-soaked. “I know, just look.”

And her hands slide across her chest, trailing a path through the thick of your release, spreading the glaze all down her front. Making it messy, making the exact look a guy sees once and is driven to the ends of his sanity - just to spill his load out onto her. To get her all used, and trussed up: just how she likes.

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

You can't do anything other than what's expected: take her up in a kiss, breathe into the mess you've made on her skin. The gasp is full, surprised - just enough, maybe, to count as genuine.

Such a mess - she murmurs - um, come on then, you can do a girl a favor. Bath bomb, bath towel, bath robe - and really it doesn't have to be a suggestion.

You’ll pin her down and fuck her right over the lip of the tub if that’s what she really wants. Just being in her company is indulgent and excessive and begging you to make a terrible habit of it. Have some self–restraint, she has this tone in her voice sounding more and more like a dare. There's just enough there in her hands: one reaching for you and the other reaching into the porcelain, swirling up the lather - and that look on her face, as if to say, can't believe you have me waiting, like some desperate, depraved pervert - only it’s more explicit than that. Only it feels worse - and her mouth is moving again, speaking into the air that already feels stifling hot, words cutting through the steam: you're not very nice, I mean really, it should come as no surprise how she turns out, having this jerk for a fucking boyfriend- 

Nevermind. Not a dare, it's a challenge. She was right the first day you undressed her, the brattiest girls always have the worst kinds of fantasies, the darkest little tendrils of self-destruction. How she's laying there, asking and telling, pushing and pulling; and how she thinks she's so clever too.

Though that is no reason, she laughs, for you to think she won't love having her pretty cunt cockwarmed and spoiled for an evening or more. - And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

-

(Really, to Irene’s credit, she had Karina pegged right from the jump. A character study in, well, herself.

She's seen as an ingénue by the press, and an outright savant to the executives. They know her as the obvious successor. They give her the runway, they watch the leggy-girl-turn, the model-posture, chin held high and aloof, looking down at the gathered throngs of photographers.

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

But her favorite game - that bit of innocence served on a platter, ingenuous when it comes to spinning a flaw to gold, and the deception too - Karina loves and loathes every second she spends upstage from Irene's own, hectic, international production. Because if anyone asks her, that girl would claim it's never been a competition in the first place. 

So you see, if you and yours have both decided to ruin her-

It is a disaster-in-the-making, isn’t it.)

[chiwhorei]

Bésame

Miguel O’Hara x reader

Tags: 18+ ONLY mdni, College AU, roommates to lovers, tooth-rotting love for this man, pussy-devouring, fingering, squirting, I wrote this in one go so you get what ya get

Word count: 2.3k- written in one, prolonged blackout

Notes: I’m fucking back bitches. I missed you, I missed this. I hope I stick around this time. This was supposed to be a blurb about squirting but the melancholy romantic won again.

Cross-posted to Ao3!

There’s something about the smell of crisp summer morning, the feeling of gentle air, humidity whispering across your face. The inescapable heat of late July is hidden from the world in its earliest hours.

“Keep up Mamí, I’m not getting stuck in the rain because you’re daydreaming.”

You pick up the pace, jogging in quick steps to catch up to Miguel. He’s farther ahead than you realized, strong muscles and wispy brown hair outlined by dark storm clouds.

Your breath is heavy, rattling against your ribs while you match the canter of Miguel’s long stride. He’s never gone easy on you, but your labored breathing makes him ease up a bit.

“What’s got your attention this morning? Or were you admiring the view behind me?” Miguel reaches up to adjust the cloth headband keeping his hair out of his face. His arms look like they’re chiseled from marble, strong, tanned skin flexes under the cutoff he wears in some iteration every morning.

Your eyes glaze over, not realizing the intensity of your gawking until Miguel’s eyes find yours. The color is deeper than usual, darker and melting into the black of his pupil. You write it off as the gloomy weather above, but he licks his bottom lip before relinquishing your stare.

You forgot what he asked you, but he doesn’t press the subject any further. Out of character, but appreciated.

“What time is your last class over tonight?” He asks, you fix your eyes on a stop sign ahead to avoid getting lost in his stare again. You see him from the corner of your eye, the angle making it seem that his gaze is focused on the bounce of your chest.

It’s just the angle, you sound even less convincing in your own head.

“Uh- well it’s Monday, so I have lab until 4:30.” You groan out the last part, ruminating on the long day ahead of you.

“My evening class got canceled for today, so I can take care of dinner tonight.”

You hum at him, his offer settles against your shoulders like honey. Something to look forward to at the end of a long day.

Sometimes he almost feels real.

He folded you into his life like melted chocolate. An easy, peaceful affection towards you since you moved in all those months ago. An offer to join his morning runs, filling a thermos of coffee for you to grab before leaving the apartment, coming home to dinner with that casual dismissal that makes your head spin.

“It’s no problem, mamí, that’s what roommates are for.” He’s always been so plain and earnest, smoothing over any objections with a sugary term of endearment and those big brown eyes.

Your heart aches so deeply when you forget that he’s just your roommate. Stabbing and twisting in your breastbone when you think about how much effort he must put in with dates.

You stop abruptly, feet cemented to the sidewalk and chest heaving rapidly. Miguel slows to a stop when he notices you missing from his side.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re quitting, we’re two blocks from the apartment.” His voice is light, but his eyes fall from amusement to concern when he sees how hard your breath falls from your lungs.

“Whoa, what’s wrong, are you feeling okay?” He paces towards you and another deep inhale fills your senses with his musky scent instead of the rainy morning air you desperately need.

“I- I’m fine,” you struggle against the words, lifting your gaze to see Miguel’s sweat-slicked curls flop against his forehead.

You blame the early hour, or light-headedness, or a moment of delirium as your hand comes up to tuck the stray hair back under his headband.

“You’re so beautiful, Miguel.”

Your words tumble out, breaching the filter in the back of your mouth that keeps you from saying stupid shit to the man you’re stuck in a lease with.

Miguel’s breath hitches, concern falling away and filling its place with an unreadable expression. His eyes pace between your pupils, freezing the blood flowing under your skin. Why does his proximity make you act like a love-sick puppy? The frustration wells up, lining your tear ducts.

“That- I- I’m sorry.” You return his look with an awkward laugh, coughing around the lump in your throat.

Your body moves on autopilot, sidestepping his frame to make a run for it, but Miguel circles your wrist with a large palm. His skin is callused and warm as he pulls you to stand in front of him once again.

He holds you in his stare, burning eyes and the light grip of your wrist is more than enough to keep you in place.

There’s nothing more you can do but stutter around your tattered pride. Racking against your brain to find an excuse for your weird behavior. A possession? A moment of psychosis? You’ll call a priest later, but you first need to get away from Miguel and the sweet smell of cologne and sweat so you can think clearly again.

“Mi hermosa,” your balance is kicked out from under you as he holds both wrists against his chest.

Miguel’s lips dip down to you, you can almost taste his cherry chapstick as he traces his words above your mouth. You feel the first drops of rain as they hit Miguel’s cheek and bounce off your nose. Before you can taste that distinct cherry flavor, the angry crack of thunder pulls your bones from your skin.

“We need to get home,” you see a flash of lightning as it reflects in Miguel’s eyes, it splits the clouds and opens up a swollen reservoir- rain pounding down on the two of you, “we’re getting soaked Mig-“

“Say the word, Mamí,” He interrupts you, barely fazed by the storm that was ripped from your soul and clawed itself into the sky, “Tell me to fuck off and I’ll never try this again.”

Miguel drops his grip on your wrists, moving those eclipsing palms to the juncture of your neck. His lips beg for your touch once again and for the millionth time.

“Bésame.” Your accent is rigid and unpracticed, remedial at best but music to Miguel’s ears. His mouth meets yours in a wide smile, fingers finding purchase on either side of your neck.

His kiss is dripping and desperate, if you’re not careful you could drown right here and sink into the concrete.

All of the times you’ve imagined this moment are nothing compared to the real thing. He’s aggressive and hungry, licking into your mouth and vibrating your tongue with a growl.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Miguel bites at your lip before pulling away, his face is obscured in the pouring rain, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

How wrong he is, you think.

Miguel pulled you through the threshold of your shared apartment as soon as the door was unlocked, the only sense he has left is depleted- used up from keeping his composure while you fumble with your keys. His strong, broad arms circling around your waist to tug you ever closer, keeping your mouth open and whining against his.

Your feet lift from the carpet as Miguel lifts you up with the same effort as a paperweight. The feeling of his hands settling on your ass is the last pull against your unwinding composure. You’re legs wrap around his middle and you grind down hard against his abdomen.

“Fuck, I can feel your pussy through your leggings.” His words make you dizzy, grinding against him with a brainless rhythm.

“We don’t have to,” his lips trace down your neck between each word, “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The sincerity in his eyes hits you squarely in the chest and moving across your skin like fever.

“Miggy, I need you. Please, anything you give me- I’ll take it.”

Your even tone shocks the both of you, the most confident you’ve sounded all morning.

“Fuck, I almost want to make you regret those words.” His teeth graze the tender spot under your chin.

“But the first thing I want is a taste of that sweet little cunt.” You’re sure your knees would buckle if Miguel wasn’t holding you, the rough tambor of his voice will be the death of you- you’ll take your chances.

Miguel carries you past the small kitchen and living area, you don’t notice where he’s sat you until he pulls his lips away from yours.

His room smells like fresh laundry and pine, the bedspread he’s set you on is tucked neatly on either side and soft under your touch. You’ve sat in this exact spot plenty of times, to study into the late night, to watch reruns of your favorite show on lazy Sunday afternoons- but never like this.

Miguel pushes you lightly so your back hits the mattress, he spreads your legs apart at the knee and you feel the tight fabric of your leggings as it shifts against your pussy.

Your running set is tight against your skin, sweat and rain covering your trembling body so that every inch is sticky and damp.

Miguel’s pointer and middle finger rub against your pussy, memorizing the outline of your plush lips under thin nylon. He’ll tuck the image into the back of his mind in case he needs it later.

“Mmm, no panties this morning,” he muses, pressing his thumb against your clit.

Miguel pulls at the fabric on your pussy, letting it snap back against your skin, you can feel the tight material drenched from your aching pussy. You want to tell him that you can hardly take this teasing, but all that comes out is a wobbly string of please, please, please.

“Don’t worry, Mamí, I’m gonna take care of you.” Your thoughts don’t catch up to him until the chill of open air hits your bare cunt. Your soaked leggings are tossed to the corner of his almost clinically clean room.

Miguel takes a moment to marvel at the sopping wet pussy he’s got trapped against his mattress.

“Que maravilla,” he kisses his words flatly against your puffy lips before coaxing them open with his nose. His face is covered in you already, glistening across his lips and chin. But it’s not enough, it won’t be enough until you drown him.

His tongue laps at you like you’re what’s keeping him alive. He kisses with his mouth open, collecting your offering to him and drinking it down with every flat lashing of his tongue.

You taste tangy and sweet, a heady mix of sweat and pheromones that pulls him in ever closer. Desperate to drink his fill of you. Every long swipe at your sloppy hole is dotted with a kiss, every inch of skin is electric- zapping against your clit with every measured nip.

Miguel’s fingers find their way to rest against your pussy, pushing in gently when he’s satisfied with how well his tongue worked you open.

Once the digits are wettened, Miguel pushes two in to the first knuckle. He groans at the feeling of how welcoming your pussy is, how responsive you are to his touch.

He licks his praises against your soft skin as your muscles relax around the thick intrusion. His vision fuzzy at the edges thinking about how you’ll take his cock. The thought is pushed back for now, lingering on it could break you when he’s just gotten started.

Your hips rock down against him, catching your clit with his wide palm.

Your whimpering emboldens him, cock weeping in the waistband of his shorts. He’s harder than he’s ever been, the frustrating ache in his balls is poured right into the quickening pace of his fingers. He needs you to break- crumble into pieces so he can put them back together.

“Miguel, fuck, I need- you need to slow down or I’m gonna“

Your pleas fall on deaf ears, Miguel is hypnotized at the sight of your pussy spilling over against him. He doesn’t relent even as you cry out and shake under him. He doesn’t miss a beat as your pussy squelches, clear liquid splashing against his chest.

“Oh fuck, you didn’t mention you’re a squirter.” His pace is torturous, pumping against that spot deep inside you that turns you into a puddle.

Once his other hand comes down to circle your clit, you know that you’re done for. The fear of letting loose like this is something that holds your rigid body from completely letting go. No one’s ever pulled you from that damn before, but Miguel has torn it down completely.

“Let go for me, Mamí, need to feel you cum against my fingers, need to see you squirt for me again.” The words drip from his mouth like hot syrup and coat your stiff muscles.

He pulls more out of you with each pump of those skilled fingers, more than you ever thought you had in you, more than you could imagine.

You cry as you cum, tears spilling over your cheeks in fat streams. The feelings you’ve kept inside for Miguel, the schoolgirl crush, the craving, the primal need all splashes against the both of you with the telltale spasm of your cunt against his fingers.

Your mind feels like it’s been dipped in wax, dripping from it’s fixed position to coat your shoulders. He makes quick work of tugging you back down to earth, lying next to your limp body with an anchoring hand on your stomach. He coos you, whispering praise into your hairline.

The sun peeks through Miguel’s window, clouds moving on to the next town and leaving the still early morning to brighten up the sky. Your face feels hot in realization.

You’ve got a long day ahead of you.

* * *

All work is mine blah blah I don’t wanna go find my old copyright thing but I’ll piss in your water supply if you steal this.

[paiges-1vur]

locker room shenanigans… as always enjoy loves <3

“Paige!” the brunette yells as she gets pulled by the wrist into the bathroom of the locker room. “Come on what if somebody comes in and sees us”

The blonde is quick, picking up Azzi with ease and sitting her on the sink. She starts attacking her neck with impatient kisses. “Practice ended 10 minutes ago I doubt anyone is coming in here.” She replies between kisses and nibbles. She smiles up at the worried girl, “Unless you want to get caught. Have a little fun.” She winks at the brunette before returning to her neck

Azzi throws her head back to give Paige a better angle of her neck, which is now covered in dark hickeys. Paiges hand search Azzis body, still clothed in a tshirt and leggings. Her hands slide up her tshirt to feel more of her. She craved this. Every day.

Paige moved her hands to the hem of Azzis tshirt, about to pull it over the girls head before the door to the locker room opened. Both girls shot eachother a warning look before Paige grabbed Azzi of the sink and pulled her into a bathroom stall.

Paige held a finger to her lips and Azzi nodded her head in response to her gesture. Footsteps crept towards the bathroom where the girls were hiding, untill somone entered the bathroom. The girls tried their best to keep quiet as they heard the person turn the sink on.

Everything was fine until Paige moved too far back into the stall and the automatic toilet went off. Great job Paige. Great job.

“Whos in here?” The voice asked. Azzi had no choice but to get out of the stall. The girl facing the sink, trying to get a stain out of her sweatpants was Kk. “Hiii Kk…” her voice trailed off.

“What are you doing in he- Oh shit.” Kk’s eyes trailed to Azzis neck, covered in hickeys and love bites. Azzi instantly turned red, forgetting about the marks the blonde had left on her just a second ago. Before Azzi could respond Kk looked down under the stalls and saw Paiges feet, standing in the stall Azzi had came out from. “Hi Paigey,” Kk called out. Azzi shut her eyes, embarrassed.

“Hi Kk” The shameful voice quietly called from the stall. Kk broke the silence, “Well, you two have fun… im just gonna- yea im gonna go.” She ran out of the bathroom without looking back at the girls.

As soon as the door shut Paige burst into laughter, still hiding in the stall. Azzi held her head in her hands. “Paige stop its not funny.” Paige opened the stall door, pulling the brunette into her arms still laughing. “Yea, Yea it is.”

[shxtodxroki]

𝚁𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙿𝚞𝚙

Summary: While taking a walk to try and break yourself from the dull cycle of life you’ve found yourself pushing through, a runaway dog puts you face-to-face with the handsomest stranger you’ve ever met in your life, and one who just may be interested in you too at that. 

Flufftober Day 1 Prompt: Lost Pet Meet Cute

Warnings: Swearing I think, A bit melancholy in the beginning (but it gets much fluffier as it goes on), a dog (gently) jumps on the reader, reader is implied to be in college/school

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Gender Neutral! Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Check out my full Flufftober masterlist here!

It’s funny how quickly time can fly by when you’re not paying attention. When you’re so focused in on all the small details of your life and failing to see the bigger picture, when you’ve found yourself lost in the seas on your mind and the monotony of an everyday routine. It’s easy for days to turn into weeks, weeks into months, and to forget about the fun spontaneity life can bring when you allow yourself to be a part of it.

Summer’s shift to autumn was always a difficult adjustment period for you, with the return of school and the many arduous hours of homework that came along with it while still struggling to maintain a job and enough income to pay rent. Most days were a drag through your morning routine and into classes, time slipping by between them until you were finally forced to swap out your textbooks for your work uniform as you spent your evening working to earn a living wage. Life was tiring, and in the interim between summer ending and your body and mind adjusting to a new school schedule, you hardly found time to just be with yourself and your thoughts. But eventually the monotony and consistency of your routine became too dull to continue, and you feel you must allow yourself a small break from your typical Sunday homework session for the sake of your mental state as you took the opportunity of a sunny day to go on a walk and clear your head a bit.

Despite the simplicity and clichè-ness of it all, just the feeling of fresh air in your lungs and the slight chill of the autumn wind against your skin does wonders for your mind in that moment. It gives you a moment to intentionally try to push the stressors you so often face at work and in school into the back of your mind, to try and find small things along your walk to focus on in order to distract your mind from the issues and troubles that so often plagued it. 

The couple walking along the opposite side of the street, and the way they smiled so brightly at one another, leaving you unable to tell if they were newly dating or in their honeymoon phase or if they still carried so much adoration for one another after several years together. The squirrel that ran across the street right as a car drove by, forcing the car to a screeching halt as it challenged itself without a care in the world as to who or what else it may inconvenience. The colony of ants all huddled around a large, sharp lollipop chunk on the sidewalk beside you, all eagerly enjoying the sweet treat. It may seem like a clichè, but taking a moment to notice the small things manages to give you a hint of calm as you make your way along the cement path, if only for a brief second before a sudden interruption comes darting your way.

At first, all you can see is a large, dark mass of fur. It seemed fairly far off initially, little more than a shifting blob, which is why you find yourself startled when you find its paws pressing against your stomach in a matter of seconds, suddenly right on you when it had been so far off moments ago. The animal’s sudden contact immediately has your heart racing as you momentarily freeze with shock, but as it quickly becomes apparent that the dog has no harmful intentions and is only angling towards the granola bar stuffed into your bag, the pounding in your chest begins to soothe itself a bit. Its fur is soft and well-groomed between your fingers as you give it a tentative pet, and the way its tongue hangs from its mouth in an almost lopsided grin and it gazes at you with the most eager expression instantly melts any of your remaining worries.

As you gently pet the dark, fluffy canine, you faintly hear a voice that grows louder moment by moment shouting repeatedly. And it doesn’t take long for a man’s silhouette to reveal itself to your gaze, rapidly running towards you with a fairly frantic look clear on his face as he grows closer. It doesn't take long to put together that this is likely the dog’s owner, prompting you to stand as the dog falls back onto all fours at your side, blissfully ignorant to its owner’s approach as it continues sniffing at the bottom of your bag for the tasty treat held within.

“There you are! You can’t just run off like that, you brat!” The strange man hisses out towards the dog once he grows close enough to slow his pace, and even though he had been running quite fast, he somehow doesn’t seem winded at all, nor does it seem like he's broken a sweat from the sudden activity. The subtle scent of vague powdered sugary sweetness makes its way into your system as he approaches, and when he looks up to meet your eyes and offer a confident yet slightly apologetic smile, you're engulfed in a sensation not unlike a bucket of cold water unceremoniously dumping itself onto your head.

He's undeniably gorgeous, completely stunning from head to toe. There's no way around admitting it. Soft, glowy skin, shimmering cyan eyes peeking out from beneath a pair of round sunglasses, and flowy white locks that expertly frame his skin as if each individually placed by the gods. His grin is so relaxed, so simple, and yet it incites that classic rom-com butterfly effect that always seems to signal no good. But his stance seems genuine, if slightly guarded, and his gaze appears relaxed and friendly as you're finally greeted with the sound of his voice up close.

“Sorry about him, he’s like an escape artist or something. I think his leash may need to be sized down a bit.” The man apologizes, his voice only worsening your infatuated stupor with its smooth tone. He's truly ethereal, you can’t seem to find a single flaw on him as he continues to speak. “I hope he didn’t knock you down too hard or anything, are you alright?”

He’s still smiling as he speaks, even with the hint of concern present in his voice. It takes some effort to bite back a swoon, but you know you should respond, to soothe the inkling of worry in his stunning features. Maybe, if luck was on your side, you could even make a good impression. You knew you’d likely never see him again, but even making him smile once would improve your day immeasurably.

“Oh, no, I’m okay. He didn’t knock me down or anything, just jumped up looking for food. I think he smelled a snack in my bag.” You muttered, a slightly awkward smile on your face as you managed to avoid stumbling over yourself or your words. And his smile brightened at the reassurance, only making your legs feel more weak as he reached out to grab the dog’s collar, prompting you to speak once more. “He’s a beautiful dog, by the way. And super fluffy too, he seems well-groomed.”

The man’s grin only brightens at your compliments, a creature of pride even to his core as you feel a flutter in your chest from the sight of the crinkles beside his eyes through his glasses. “Yeah, if I don’t keep up with grooming, he sheds all over my shit.” The man mutters with a small laugh, his eyes bright and vibrant as they meet yours with an almost eager look. “But he’s my kid’s dog, really. He’s young, but I’m trying to teach him to care for the furball himself with what he can.” He continues on, and at the mention of a son, you feel your heart drop slightly even though you knew hopes of any more than passing friendliness from the man were beyond far-fetched.

“Ah, how sweet….. Does your partner like the dog?” Though you feel like you’re being obvious, struggling to hide the disappointment in your eyes even if this stranger was far too radiant to not already have someone by his side, you can’t bite back in the question even as it feels a bit pathetic to ask. But suddenly, you catch a quick flash of what seems almost like concern in the man’s gaze before he quickly manages to mask it, though there’s a titch of urgency in his voice when he speaks again that you feel wasn’t present before.

“Oh, no. No partner for me.” He’s still composed as he speaks, but you think you can detect a slight rush in his words, one that brings the flutters back into your abdomen despite yourself. “Both my kids are adopted, found them in a bit of a… rough situation, so I took them in. I’m not even old enough to be their bio dad, honestly.”

His last comment makes you laugh, the mood lifted at his obvious attempt at self-flattery. But the realization that he’s somehow not already taken lightens your heart and your laugh alike as you look at him with a glimmer in your eyes, unable to stop yourself from wondering if just maybe, he was so eager to correct you because he saw something in you, too.

Before you can question much else, however, you’re drawn back into the realities of your world as the alarm you set for yourself to return home and continue studying sounds off from your phone. Despite how much joy your walk had brought you as a break from your typical monotony, and the way you wished to talk to the handsome stranger until your lips turned blue and your feet stopped working, you didn’t have any more time to waste when your academics lay waiting at home for you.

“Damn, that’s me. I guess it’s time for me to head home and get back to work.” You try to keep the annoyed grumble out of your tone, an apologetic smile crossing your face as his eyes widen in surprise at your words. “It was lovely meeting you, though. And this sweet little guy, too.” You mutter while mentally preparing to walk away from the first person to bring a spark into your life in quite a while, threading your fingers through the dog’s fluffy ebony tufts one last time as you prepared to walk away from the meet-cute rom-com you had built up in your head.

Until a hand reaches out, gently grabbing the fabric of your jacket to halt you briefly.

“Wait, you’re just gonna walk away before even giving me your number?” He mutters with a lighthearted grin that betrays just a hint of nerves. And it’s impossible to care about seeming a fool with the way your heart lights up at his words, an eager smile replacing your mopey one in an instant as he speaks once more. “Maybe one of these days when I’m walking this guy, you can join me. My kids may even come with me to the dog park.”

The subtle excitement in his voice is hard to catch, yet the subtle details give way to the clear mutual interest between the two of you. And as you happily type your number into his contacts list, even working up the courage to add a cheeky heart emoticon beside your name, you feel the melancholy and frustration of fall and school and work all meld into this moment of positivity, showing you a horizon of light and a hope that this may be the change you’ve been looking for in your life. 

A/N: Hi hi everyone, happy Flufftober! I started writing this right at the beginning of September to hopefully get myself started preparing for this month early, so by the time this is actually posted it will have been a while since I actually worked on it. But I just couldn’t resist starting off the month with one of my favs and one of the (obviously lol) most popular characters in my survey! I hope y’all enjoyed this, I’m so so excited to hopefully get through the rest of Flufftober as well with y’all! My requests are also open right now, so if you have any requests feel free to send them over to my inbox :>

Taglist: @flufftober @ace-lavender

If you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, you can fill out this form here! Thank you for your support <3

[pebblethestone]

One Wrong Action ²

Vox x Reader /Alastor's sibling

Summary - going out for a walk what happens when someone shows up and ruins your day?

Masterlist

One Wrong Action Masterlist

part 1, part 2, part 3

Words - 1100

Warnings - swearing

A/n - hello yet another chapter I've made a Taglist so if you would like to be added just send a comment and I'll be sure to add you

─────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹─────────

Your ears twitch hearing Charlie as she starts to rant about the hotel to Vaggie, angle dust nagging your ear off as you try and be patient as you can with him.

“Well, I would never have of guessed that you and that strawberry pimp are even related, I mean you are both deers~~ bu-” As you hear him say strawberry pimp you burst out laughing not that you did that much as Angle moves back a little surprise with your sudden outburst. Wiping the edges of your eyes as you feel tears.

“Oh my I have never heard anyone call him that, it's great, I will be using it at some point” A lazy smile falls on your face as you hear that Charlie has stopped talking, you look at her as her eyes widen as well as Vaggie's.

“What? Can I not laugh at something so stupid? Am I really that scary to you?” you asked as your lips fell back to a line, you know that being an overlord and people didn't trust them very much but you do try and gain the sinner's trust unless you just dislike them in general for example Val like who wouldn't hate him.

“No, no it's just we didn't expect you to laugh, you're always so serious. Plus we've never seen you react like that before.” Charlie explains to you.

“ah I see, it does not mean that am always serious its just a resting face I seem to have. And you all hardly know me” you say to her as she nods at you and then carries on talking to Vaggie.

“So anyway, sugar do you have a tail? Like a little one? Like deers?” he asks as he tries to take a look.

“That for me to know and you to find out, Angle Dust” the corner of your lip moving up.

“Ugh, you're just like your brother with more words than just an answer,” he says to you annoyed.

“well, we are related so would it not come to you, that I may have similar attitudes to him” you say watching him as you give him a little wink. getting up from where you were sitting and started to head towards the door.

“Y/n, where are you going?” Charlie says from behind you turning your head to look at her she looks a little worried.

“Just on a stroll hon, and to get some cooking stuff, since I do want you all to taste my fabulous cooking for tonight's tea” you say opening the door and heading out, not waiting for Charlie to reply to you.

---

As you walk down a street to get your supplies you hear a car slow down to your walking speed you stop and turn your head to look at it as the window of the car rolls down, the first thing you see is a TV head. Your face scrunching up.

“Vox, I would say what a surprise but it really is not when you do this 'every week'” you say to him the tone of your voice deepening as the end of your words. Watching him open the car door and stepping next to you, you let out a pitiful sigh.

“but we haven't talked in days, and you never use the brick of yours to reply” You roll your eyes at him as you walk he walks along with you. As you walk into a restaurant that you own.

“Well, you seem to forget that I am not very good at using technology and all the buttons are too close to each other, it's a real pain to type with.” as you side-eye him, those years ago his TV head was much larger, but now it was thinner much be lighter, still looked good in his suit maybe change a little and the way he walked. Wait what are you saying? Shaking your head as you pin your ears back annoyed at yourself.

“Well, I thought that using an older version of a phone would make it easier for you, how about I make you something easier to use?” he says to you.

“no, am fine with the technology box that I have” you say your ears still pinned back. as you walk into the back of the restaurant where all the supplies are. You see him turn his head towards you.

“ah, I remember those ears, always pinned back when you're pissed as something,” he says his hand moving up to pat than that he once did. As you quickly grab his hand.

“Remember that last time you did that I broke your screen am sure you don't want that to happen again” you say as your grip on his hand tightens and your sharp teeth appear as he takes that sign to step back.

“Well you didn't say that to me when we first meet, I only touch one hair and all I saw was a fucking first punch me, but you did like it when we were together~” he says to you a little smirk dancing on his face. Oh how punchable it looked. As your face turns into a snarl.

“You dare say that to me on my turf?! We are not together anymore you have to let it go vox! I'll be at that meeting only because it's a deal and I have to go!” you half shouted the tone of your voice going funny as it cracked.

“Wait Y/--” Before he could say more you click your fingers together as you appear in the kitchen of the hotel with everything you need as you put stuff where it's meant to go.

You go over to the door to lock it, heading back to the counter in the kitchen leaning your elbows on the counter as bring your hands up to your face and drag your hand down your face unsure of what to do with what's happening with Vox. Grabbing a glass on the side as you throw it on the floor leaving sharp shards of glass on the tiled fool.

--Vox 3rd P.O.V--

“Wait Y/n” before he could finish what he was going to say you had disappeared like you always do exactly like your brother, he let out a sound of anger.

“Fuck, how the fuck do i all ways mess this shit up” he says to as if he's talking to someone his face feeling into all sorts of emotions, all he wanted was to be with you again but he had managed to mess that up as well...

---

Part 3

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Taglist - @hxzbinwrites @22carolina08

[kaciidubs]

KACII BABY COMPOSER CHAN IS STUCK IN MY HEAD i miss him so much, like imagine walking in on him hard at work<3 he's such a genius and so fucking professional :( and and hes so focused :( and and he's wearing his black hat :(

its so hot and i wanna sit on his cock

and that rhymed which is even better :(

anyways, love you kacii baby<3

ESTEE BESTIEE PLEASE, COMPOSING MODE! CHAN IS SUCH A CONCEPT!! Girlie i miss him too it's insane :((

You come by his studio for a surprise visit, ready to offer him a quick lunch date when you hear the rhythmic ticking of the digital metronome and see his hand flexing around his mouse as he edits a track.

He's working, of course.

And honestly you should have called beforehand, but you don't always get the chance to see your lover doing what he does best, and you're honestly excited to watch him now.

He pauses mid-movement and turns to you with a look of confusion, "Baby? Hey, what're you doing here? Did I forget a date or something?" A flash of worry streaks across his face, "I mean- Not that I'm not happy to see you! I love seeing you, it's just-"

"You didn't forget anything, Channie, don't worry," you cut off his rambling with a smile, letting the door close behind you as you walk toward his chair, "just wanted to pop in for a visit and see what you and the boys were up to."

A soft, relieved smile grows on Chris' lips and he tugs you closer into his bubble, his hand wrapped around yours with a light swing. "Ah, well, I'm a little in the middle of making a track so I won't be as entertaining as I usually am - if you wanna find the others-"

"Can I watch?"

"Huh?"

You raise your free hand to twirl a stray curl that's sticking out from underneath the brim of his black cap, "I wanna watch you - I'm not in a rush, plus I can't remember the last time I actually got to see you make the next Stray Kids masterpiece."

His eyes crease as he laughs that little high pitched giggle you've always loved, a tiny squeak accenting the end as he tilts his head away. "Masterpiece is a stretch, but you can watch me if you want to - if you get bored and wanna leave, I won't be offended."

Taking that as your offer accepted, you pull up the spare computer chair and sit next to him, watching diligently as he readjusts his hat and fluffs up his hoodie before hopping right back into the world of tempos and samples.

And, honestly? You love it.

You love seeing the shift from your giggly, adorable boyfriend to the focused, goal oriented leader of the fourth generation; the unwavering focus of his eyes on the computer screen in front of him as he drags and drops various sources with abbreviated file names you couldn't even begin to guess.

Once he's edited the background beat to something you think he may be pleased with - for now at least - he slides his midi keyboard over and plays with a few chords, his long, pretty fingers dancing along the ivory-plastic keys.

It's intoxicating, truly, the way he licks his lips as he finds the progression he's looking for, but struggles to navigate where it ends - the soft huff when he plays it over and over so his short term memory won't forget the notes.

Slowly, you've gone from watching him make music to simply watching him, studying him in his element, observing him and the habits you've seen in other settings. You can't help but squeeze your legs together, your breathing subconsciously slowing as you watch his adam's apple bob when he swallows, the column of his neck stretching as his head moves to search the large monitor.

"I can feel your eyes on me, baby girl." He murmurs, a sideways smirk tugging his lips, "You're gonna burn a hole into the side of my face, you know?"

"Can't help it," you breathe softly, eyes now tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, "you look so fucking sexy when you're making music."

A squeak of confusion resonates from him as he makes a change in the file, "Really? I'm just sitting here, what's so sexy about that?"

Usually, if he were truly busy, he'd pass off your fueled comment with a shy chuckle, but a few hours have passed and he'd gotten a lot further than he expected - a short break was definitely earned.

"The way you look at the screen, like nothing else exists around you, and the way your hands move when you know you've got something good going and you can't waste a single second," licking your lips, you tilt your head slightly, "or the way you bite your lip when you're really into whatever thought's running through that genius brain of yours- just makes me wanna..."

"Wanna what?" He turned to face you, lidded eyes flicking between your own lust-fogged irises and your slightly parted lips. "Wanna what, baby girl?"

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, a rush of heat washes over you under his intense stare.

"Wanna sit on your dick and have you record some sounds of our own."

[ganondoodle]

i have seen people talk about how hard it is to draw anything if you have aphantasia (which is good to talk about and true and valid and also intersting to read and this post isnt to devalue that, two things can coexist etc etc)

i personally struggle with the opposite; i have incredible imagination, i'd say it's my best and only "inate talent", (this is not a brag ..) all stories i think about are movies, i can stop them, change camera angle and poses, rotate ever object however i want, place lighting sound and voices, even styles, i switch from ghibli to botw to fortiches style, even into the style of a comic i recently read which wasnt even animated, the only thing that only works half the time is music-

and that all might sound fantastic, but its a mess, it goes too fast and too quickly, things never play out one way, theres interruption, involuntarily sudden changes to other subjects, i feel like struggling to keep an angry horse on one path, it makes me waste HOURS each day just reversing and redoing a scene like im a movie director wizard in my head, theres no ONE finished version, it changes everytime yet i go back over and over again to make it better, i forget most of it within a few hours anyway; even IRL when someone tells me about a memory and they are not sure if i was with them during it once they start to explain trying to make me remember it instead i will imagine it, in the end i wont be sure if i actually remembered or if i just imagined it too real, it scares me how much i forget and cant remember only for my mind to make shit up, makign me doubt my own memory (its weird how it works, i have horrible geographical memory, when i drive somwhere i have known my entire life i need to remember the path to it by imagining driving it, i remember significant things but not the path to them or how they connect or in what order, i have to go through it in my head every single time)

by far the worst part though is that extreme disconnect between whats in my mind and what i can do, just because i can imagine things like that doesnt mean i can draw it (god i WISH), nothing i have ever drawn is how it was in my head, the few things you get to see are the ones i won the fight against myself with to keep going and say 'good enough' at some point the speed is a problem too, the things playing in my head, sometimes even multiple at the same time, play like, again, a movie, whatever im trying to draw is rarely ONE thing, its a whole scene that plays over and over, i want to draw it all but it wont work bc my mind is too fast and i am too slow, it makes me try to skip ahead and get things done as fast as possible, it NEVER works (also too much, theres so many things in my head, i have almost the entirety of the totk rewrite in my head already, novels worth of lore and story for my other projects, its overwhelming how much is in there that i cannot get out and on paper)

its why comics take me so long to make, why detailed paintings are so rare, its the rare times i can force myself to try and tune out my mind and just work on what is in front of me, usually works for a few hours .. if i can manage to reach that sort of focus at all, its why basic sketches of characters are so much easier to do bc i dont have to fight as hard to just draw a character doing nothing- as soon as i want to make it a sketch page of things and scenes the movies are back and are there to haunt me until i cry and give up after hours of trying to keep up with my mind that i will never be able to catch up to (and this is only about drawing .. )

i know skill and speed increase over time, but i wont ever get to where my mind is, its always ahead and trying to skip and jump towards it only makes me stumble and fall flat on my face- maybe its ADHD, maybe its the autism, maybe its the depression, maybe its just me, maybe its just all of that

what im trying to say is, head full, too much thought, too fast, never able to translate it into viewable things in the way and speed as my head works, i explode

[wildlife4life]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @rainbow-nerdss @loserdiaz @cal-daisies-and-briars @diazsdimples @thewolvesof1998 and @theotherbuckley Thank you so much! I'm super excited for all your upcoming works!

Going to be honest, the biggest reason I have been working on NFL Buck so much is because my favorite team (Kansas City Chiefs) has been doing very well in the playoffs. So fair warning, if they don't make it to the Super Bowl after this Sunday, writing for that fic will probably taper off and I'll switch to another. But until then, here is another snippet from NFL Buck and I'm hopping back to the end of the dosed arc. (All things NFL Buck can be found here)

Eddie gives him a nod of encouragement and Buck takes a deep breath, then releases it along with the majority of his nerves. He turns his full attention to Athena, her head still cocked with curiosity and her eyes gleaming with intrigue. Buck saw no hint of malice and with a squeeze to his hand from Eddie, his tongue finally loosened, "Eddie and I met when I was still in college. He was one of the paramedics on hand when I was knocked unconscious by a cheap shot from an Aggy. When I came to, Eddie was hovering above me and I literally thought he was an angle." Buck chuckles, remembering the moment his eyes opened and seeing the most beautiful man with the softest brown eyes surrounded by a halo of lights. "That was the concussion." Eddie snarks, but Buck can see the light blush on his boyfriend's cheeks from the corner of his vision. After all these years and Eddie still gets flustered by Buck's enamored compliments. "Well despite the head injury, I had a very hard time forgetting him and I tracked his fine ass down at our next home game. Asked him to dinner, and besides a few bumps along the way, here we are almost ten years later." Buck finishes and flashes a small smile towards Eddie, who returns it.

"And you've kept your relationship hidden all this time?" Athena questions sounding mildly impressed, but also a little sad. Buck deflates slightly, he always does when the whole secret part of his and Eddie's relationship is brought up. "We had to, or I had to. By the time Eddie came into my life, I had put in so much work and sacrifice to be where I was. I had dreamed of playing in the NFL since I was little and football was my greatest love at the time. But I also knew that the world I wanted to be apart of wasn't the most accepting of those who don't fit in the typical heteronormative box. Being an open bi-sexual man would lessen my opportunities and could have put my mental and physical health at risk. So I stayed closeted." "Yet you made the decision to pursue a same sex relationship." He gives the police sergeant a wistful smile, "The moment I met Eddie, I felt this amazing connection and then after our first non-date date, I knew I couldn't let him go, football career be damned." Buck looks over at the man who's held his heart since he walked though Red's door, "Eddie is the one person I know will always have my back and he knows I will always have his. He has never made me choose between my childhood dream and my future ones with him and Christopher." Eddie's warm brown eyes soften through Buck's declaration and the gleam of his adoration only brightens. The hand intertwined with Buck's squeezes three times and Buck squeezes back with the same iteration. Hidden I love you's that have no lesser value than visible one's. "I don't want Buck to lose one of the biggest parts of who he is because of bigots. And I don't see hiding our relationship as a sacrifice. Loving Buck isn't a hardship and part of that love is wanting to see him happy. Playing in the NFL makes him happy. Being with me and Christopher makes him happy. He makes me happy. A few lies and secretes aren't going to diminish that." Eddie states his gaze unwavering on Buck and his chest fills tender warmth at Eddie's proclamation.

Their relationship may be a secret but its real and true. Hope you all enjoyed!

Tagging (no pressure): @hippolotamus @devirnis @jesuisici33 @aroeddiediaz @daffi-990 @exhuastedpigeon @lover-of-mine @try-set-me-on-fire @fortheloveofbuddie @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @disasterbuckdiaz @bekkachaos @giddyupbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @spaceprincessem @athenagranted @eddiescowboy @evanbegins @elvensorceress @malewifediaz @911onabc @911-on-abc @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @thekristen999 @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @glorious-spoon @buddierights @prosperdemeter2 @lemonzestywrites @gayedmundodiaz @transboybuckley

[cherrycola27]

Hi, it's me. It's your tumblr bestie, it's me 🖤

Sorry, couldn't help myself with the lil T. Swift jingle.

I'm here to request a Dagger Deities blurb for Mr. Jake Seresin as Ares. This combo really says angsty smut to me (hate fuck, maybe?!), but totes up you—maybe you turn it on its head for a fluffy lil blurb about the god of war. Work your magic, babe—put us on that rollercoaster!

Jay! You know me and my weaknesses so well! I hope you enjoy:

smut below the cut

Battle Plans:

You rubbed your temples with your fingers to try and fend off the headache that you could feel coming on. If you had to listen to Rear Admiral Seresin drone on about the strike plan he had come up with one more time, you were going to lose it.

You were the strategic analyst. You were the one who knew the data. Hell, you were the one who had spent nights and nights in his office with him drawing up these plans.

But yet, here he was, taking credit for it. God, you couldn't stand him. His blonde hair slightly graying at the temples, his strong jaw line, the way he always had a stupid fucking toothpick in his mouth.

What a cocky son of a bitch he was.

He is the youngest officer ever promoted to admiral status, and he didn't let anyone forget it.

He was barely ten years your senior, yet he still treated you like a child when it came to working with you.

You let out a groan that you thought was quiet enough to where he wouldn't hear it, but as if on cue, his head snapped towards you. You made eye contact with him as he narrowed his eyes and flipped that God forsaken toothpick around with his tongue.

"Do you have something to add Commander Grotto?" He asked you with a smirk.

You sat up and rolled back your shoulders. "Actually, Admiral Seresin, I do. I think that the angle at which you've estimated the trajectory of the explosives is off a few degrees. I believe I informed you of that a few days ago." You smirked back at him.

There were a few snickers from the group. You saw Jake's jaw tick. "Well, how about we dismiss for the day, and you and I can go over the plans once more in my office, Commander Grotto." Jake said as he narrowed his eyes at you.

You held eye contact with him as the rest of the people in the room left. You filed out at the end and stormed down the hallway to Jake's office. Being the low admiral on the totem pole, his office was in a far tucked away corner off the main hallway, away from everyone else.

You huffed as your boots made contact with the linoleum tiles. You could hear Jake calling your name, but you didn't wait for him.

He finally caught up to you at his office door. He unlocked it while you tapped your foot impatiently.

The moment it was unlocked, he pushed it open and hauled you in by your elbow.

He pushed you up against the door and crashed his lips to yours. Your hands tangled in his hair as he reached behind you to draw the curtain closed and lock the bolt. He pushed a chair in front of the door for good measure, all while your lips explored every inch of his neck and jaw line.

"You like embarrassing me in front of everyone, don't you? Like showing off how smart you are? I bet you're so fucking wet from showing off. If I put my hand in those lacy little panties of yours, I would find them absolutely soaked, wouldn't I?" He groans against your lips.

You moan in response. "I love it when you show off. My smart girl, gets me so fucking hard." He pants as he pulls you away from the door.

"Nothing to say? I haven't even touched you yet, and I've already got you stupid for me." He snickers as he lifts you to carry you to his desk. With one swipe of his hand, the dark oak surface is cleared.

He drops you down on the surface and you squeak. Sometimes, you forget how strong he his.

He kisses you again before he pulls back to look at you. He's right, you're already a fucked out mess and he has barely put his hands on you.

You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, he pulls your hips to the edge of his desk and pops the button of your uniform pants. He sinks to his knees and taps your hips.

You lift them, and Jake pulls them and your panties down in one swoop.

"Just like I thought, soaked for me." Jake says when he is eye level with your dripping cunt.

He wastes no time surging forward and wrapping his lips around your clit. Your hands fly forward and grip his hair as a wanton moan leaves your mouth.

Jake pops up from between your legs and delivers a slap to your pussy.

"You'd better keep it down Sledge, would hate for your uncle to hear what an absolute slut his niece is for me." He chuckles.

You huff and roll your eyes. Jake loved to needle you about the fact that you were Admiral Cain's niece.

"Just shut the fuck up and do something useful with your mouth for once." You tell him.

Jake cocks his head a looks at you.

"Now, Commander Grotto, is that any way to talk to your superior officer?" Jake teases you.

"I thought you liked our verbal sparing? I mean, you did always say the God of War liked a challenge. Didn't you Ares? Or are you still hung up on me calling you Hangman?" You shoot back.

Jake groans at the sound of his real name, leaving your lips. You were the only one who knew his little secret, and it made the whole interaction between the two of you even hotter.

"Or, would you prefer it if I called you Daddy?" You smirked.

"Fuck, darlin. Say it again." He groaned.

"C'mon, Daddy. Put that smart mouth of yours to work." You say.

Jake surges forward and laps at your center like a starved man. He sinks two thick fingers deep into you and curls them. You can feel the band of his Naval Academy ring against your walls as scissors you open.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the air as he eats you like a starved man.

"Fuck, fuck, Jake, Ares—Daddy! Just like that!" You cry out as your thighs cage in his head. You grind your center against his mouth and arch your back as you cum.

Jake works you through your high before pulling off of you with a wet pop.

He gives you no time to collect yourself before he is flipping you around and bending you over his desk. One of his large hands pushes you flat against the cool wood while the other undoes his belt and fly. He pushes his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself before sinking into you without warning.

He gives you no time to adjust to his size before he is pistoning his hips into you.

Breathless pants and pitiful cries of his name leave your parted lips.

"Love how you sound when you take my cock." He praises you.

"You want everyone to hear how much of a whore you are for your Admiral don't you Sledge? Want everyone to know how good your Admiral fucks you?" He asks you.

You don't respond. That earns you a harsh smack to your ass.

"I asked you a question!" He demands.

"Yes! Yes! Want everyone to know how good you make me feel, Daddy." You wail.

Jake chuckles and digs his fingers into the flesh at your sides. You clench around him.

"Fuck, you were fucking made for me. You're so fucking tight for me kid. You weren't meant to take my cock. Weren't you?" He groans.

"Yes, Daddy. Fuck. My pussy was made for you Admiral Seresin." You babble out.

Jake growls as you start to rock back to meet his thrusts.

He leans forward and grabs a fist full of your hair, pulling it out of its neatly styled bun. Jake pulls you flush against him and wraps a hand around your throat.

He sees your roll back in your head. He lets go of your hair and starts furiously rubbing circles on your clit before tightening his grip on your airway and fucking up into you. He may be forty-two years old, but Jake never missed a beat.

You're overwhelmed by the pleasure, and your mouth hangs open in a silent scream.

While Jake enjoys fucking you stupid, he loves hearing you even more.

He slaps your clit and you clench around him harder.

"Can feel how close you are, baby. Can feel how bad my pussy wants to cum. I wanna hear you beg for it. Wanna hear you tell everyone one this base who you belong too." He whispers hotly against your ear.

"I belonged to you, Daddy! Please let me cum" You whine.

"No." He states.

"It's your pussy Admiral Seresin. All yours." You preen as he drives you close and closer to the edge.

"Still wrong." He says as he ruts into you.

"Ares—fuck—please—pleasepleaseplease!" you plead with him.

"That's it, that's my girl. Now cum for me." He commands.

You heed his words and cum hard for him. He pushes into you impossibly deeper as you spasm around him.

The fluttering of your walls sends Jake into his own release, and he spills into you.

He slumps forward and presses both of you into his desk as he continues to rock his hips in and out of you.

He pulls up and looks down at where your bodies join. He admires the creamy white ring of your mixed release that has gathered at the base of his cock.

He pulls out, and you groan at the loss of contact. Jake steps back to admire how you look. Your core is on display for him, and he loves watching his cum drip out of you and onto his desk.

He grabs a few tissues from the box that was discarded on the floor and cleans you up before sliding your panties and pants back into place.

You help him get his desk back in order before wrangling your hair back into a bun.

He moves the chair from in front of the door, and you slump down into it.

"So, Mr. War God, did you purposely get the angles wrong during your presentation?" You ask him.

"You tell me, Commander Grotto." He teases you as he leans back and kicks his feet up on his desk. You're about to get up and sit in his lap when there is a knock at his office door.

You both jump up. Jake grabs some files to make it look like the two of you were working as you go to the door.

"Admiral Cain!" You exclaim. "What are you doing here, Uncle Chester?" You ask him as your face flushes.

"I came to see if Admiral Seresin was finished with the reports the two of you were working on." He says to you.

"Yes, sir. I have them right here." Jake says as he slides behind you.

"Wonderful. Thank you, son." Your uncle says. He turns to leave, but before he does he looks back at Jake.

"We are having a cookout at my sister's house this weekend. She and her husband are hosting. There will be lots of other officers there. You should stop by Seresin. I'm sure Sledge would be more than happy to give you the details." Your uncle tells him before walking away.

As soon as he is gone, you close the door and sigh.

"A cookout at your parents' house? Now that sounds like fun." Jake smirks.

"We'd have to be on our absolute best behavior. No funny business." You tell him. He rolls his eyes.

"I'll text you the details." You say.

"And I'll start figuring out how I can fuck you in your childhood bedroom while half the Navy is thirty feet away." He grins before you slip out the door.

[lorre-verie]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑 ࿐ྂ

summary: (part 3 of the 'my sanctuary' series) you were falling deeply in love with Neteyam and you didn’t know it. The feelings that stirred inside you made you scared, causing you to avoid him for the next week. When you finally reconcile and apologise to him, Ao’nung starts a fight with his younger siblings. What will happen when your younger brother makes it clear that he detests you growing closer with the oldest son of Toruk Makto?

word count: 6.3k words

pairings: neteyam x gn! Ao’nung’s older twin! reader, lo’ak x tsireya

warnings: family problems, tonowari and ronal scolding Ao’nung, Ao’nung being mad at you and Tsireya, its all really just a shitshow towards the end of this chapter really, CUSSING, this is rlly for the purpose building towards the big problem in the next chapter

dictionary: - queue: the thing the na’vi use to make the bond - akula: the shark thing that almost killed Lo’ak - paskalin: honey (term of endearment) part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5| masterlist

“What’s your dream, y/n?” Neteyam whispered, surveying you. He took in the sight that he saw in front of him; you sitting next to him, the purple and blue lights of the cave illuminating your face and your body. You looked magical to him, celestial, even. You bit back a smile, this man was ridiculous. 

“Seriously? The first question you ask me and it couldn’t be something like "what's your favorite color?"” you turned your gaze towards him, his signature smirk already spread across his face. He spread his legs as he sat on the dark blue floor of the cave, legs submerged in the water. He rested his forearms on his lap and folded his hands together. 

“That’s not a fun question. And I already know what it is.” he chuckles, as you scrunch up your nose and forehead, crossing your arms. “No you don’t.” you say in skepticism. “It’s yellow.” he smiled, amused that you didn’t yet understand how observant he was.

You angled your head sideways, how’d he know? Not even your brother knew your favorite color. “I can see it,” he began, still smiling. “It’s the color of the shell you just placed on the wall. You tend to look at yellow things longer than others. You also seem like a yellow sort of person.” 

You tried to keep calm, to not show obviously that he was right. He noticed the shell? He’d noticed how your eyes brightened up ever so slightly when you saw something yellow; something less common in the area that you took the Sullys diving in. 

“Yellow sort of person?” you said in a stern voice, wishing for him to elaborate yet still not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right, but the way your gaze softened betrayed you. 

He let out a quick exhale, feeling slightly prouder of himself now that he knew he was right. “You know, you are really good at hiding what you really feel inside. You always seem so calm and put together, but really you’re teeming with energy and passion. I can see it in your eyes.” he said, never breaking eye contact with you. 

He could read you so well, yet he’d only known you for 2 days.

“You were much happier today compared to yesterday. I can tell you love the ocean,” he pauses, the calmness in his tone contorting into a playful one, “well, much happier except for when you started attacking me like a–” you slapped the side of his neck where his vocal chords were, preventing him from finishing the sentence to which he threw his head back and laughed.

You couldn’t help but admire him as he did so, his cute smile making you forget what he said just moments ago. His hair was undeniably light and flowy, always shaking around with his movements or whipping wildly in the wind. You felt blood rush to your cheeks, hiding it by looking down at the water pool below you. 

A plethora of bioluminescent algae waved around on the bottom of the pool, the attractive light stretching through the water and shining on your feet. Your ears fluttered, hearing he wasn’t laughing anymore, and you looked at him, meeting his gaze.

He was truly beautiful. Freakishly annoying at times, but thoughtful and kind. A small smile snuck its way onto your face, mirroring his. 

“You never answered the question. What’s your dream, lover of the sea?” he whispered, his thick omaticayan accent yet again causing a slight shiver to run down your spine. You took a deep breath in and sighed, you were really about to spill your guts to someone who was supposed to be a complete stranger. 

But to you it felt like you had already known him your entire life. 

“My dream is to be free,” you breathed, eyes twinkling with longing as you looked at him, whether it was longing for him or longing for freedom, you were unsure. “I want to be able to run wild, go wherever I want without having to worry about everyone else.” 

“I want to explore every inch of Pandora that there is,” you finished, leaning back and using your arms to support your body. His little smile grew into a full blown grin. “What? Too unrealistic?” you unconsciously bit the inside of your lip, worried he’d think you were being absurd. “No. It’s a beautiful dream. I just didn’t realize how similar we are.” he said, placing his hand near yours on the hard rock. 

“We are?” you asked, tilting your head. “Yeah.” he chuckles. “Same dream, same thing holding us back. We care too much about our loved ones.” You look at him, knitting your nonexistent brows together. So he felt like that too? He noticed your worried expression and quickly changed the topic. “It’s your turn to ask me a question.”

“Okay then mighty warrior,” you put a finger to your chin, pretending to think. You were in fact concerned about him, but if he didn’t want to talk about it you wouldn’t push it. “Do you like boys or girls?” you asked, your facial features now wearing a complacent grin. 

His ears turned dark purple, although his face stayed neutral. “What, hm, what would make you ask that question?” he stammered, confident facade faltering before you. “Don’t change the subject Neteyam, just answer it!” you teased. 

You hated when he messed with you, but when it was the other way around, boy did you have fun.

He coughs, “Well, I’m okay with both.” “Both? Why Neteyam, I didn’t know you were such a player.” you playfully hit him on his shoulder, cackling. “You know that's not what I meant! I, I can have romantic interest in either! How about you then?” he asks, huffing and crossing his arms. 

“Hm well, same with you,” you answered, “But my type is tall, strong omaticayans, mainly the handsome ones,” you grin, giving him a look. “Preferably older than me.” 

He smirks at your statements, cocking his head to the side. His arrogant little self was back, but you already knew how you were going to humble him. 

“Oh yeah? I think I know someone who fits that description.” he commented, pleasure dancing around in his eyes, thinking you were talking about him. You decided to indulge in his little fantasy. “Mmm, I think you know him very well,” you smile.

What he did next made your heart stop; he leaned in suddenly, looking down at your lips and then closing his eyes. This was not the plan, he was about to kiss you! But you weren’t going to let him do that, at least not so easily. 

You placed a finger on his lips, stopping his advances. He opened his eyes, looking into yours, slightly confused, and you leaned into his ear and whispered, “It’s your dad.” 

You were clutching your stomach, howling with laughter as Neteyam sat at the opposite corner of the cave to you, glaring daggers and frowning. “You- You should have seen your face– It was so funny–” you said in between laughter, pointing at the omaticayan. His frown grew bigger, then he mumbled something you couldn’t hear. “Wha, what was that?” you wiped a tear from your eye as he got up from his sitting position, a sullen look on his face.

“I said, I’ll show you what’s really funny!” he repeated, and you let out a scream as he lunged at you, pushing you into the water pool. You flailed your arms around helplessly in the water as he started to tickle your sides, sending you into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. His movement was limited, however, due to the water slowing him down. 

Out of instinct, you pulled his hair, dragging his head down into the water with you. The next 7 minutes consisted of kicking each other, trying to get away in the water before being dragged by the foot back to the middle of the pool, as the gill mantle looked on from the corner in absolute terror watching two na’vi seemingly try to rip each other's heads off. 

After a while you both were exhausted, crawling onto the rock steps and back onto the little platform. You collapsed on your back, looking up to the miraculously picturesque ceiling, breathing heavily and trying to regain your energy. He did the same, and you both were just sprawled out, sopping wet and heaving in the middle of the floor. 

You both turned your heads simultaneously, looking at each other. When you both made eye contact, seeing one another equally disheveled and exhausted beyond belief made you want to burst out into laughter. You fought to try and contain the smile that appeared on your face, but your body would not listen. It was happy, and so were you. Neteyam was holding back as well, biting his lip to prevent him from laughing and resulting in a rather ugly face he was making.

You snorted, and then the two of you erupted into little childish fits of giggles. This would definitely be a strange sight to see, you thought to yourself. You wondered for a second how your father would react to seeing you messing around with a boy like little kids, but in the end you didn’t care.

You sat up, still drenched from head to toe, lifting up your arm and holding your hand out. “Truce?” you offered, a devious smile on your face. He took your hand to lift him up from the floor, and he pulled a face as if he was considering your oh so kind offer. “Truce.”

The next few hours you spent with neteyam felt like pure bliss. The unfamiliar feeling of such warmth spread throughout your body, but you welcomed it with your whole heart. You two cracked jokes, teased each other until you turned purple, touching and hitting each other for fun. 

He had taught you some english, more specifically the slang, and in return you had taught him how to properly hold his breath, placing your hands on his stomach and chest to assist. The beating of his heart quickened when you felt his body, and you simply pretended not to know why. “Calm yourself, Nete.” you say in a low voice, and it makes his heartbeat even faster for the use of the nickname.

He was only able to look at you and hear your voice as he sucked in a breath, embracing the feeling of your touch. He wished to take your hand in his and hold it for the longest time, to wrap you in a tight hug and whisper sweet nothings in your ear of how beautiful you were and even more so how stunning your mind was. 

You were a thoughtful soul, akin to his own. He almost cursed Eywa for making a creature with a spirit as effervescent as yours, yet condemning you to be trapped within your cage of responsibilities. If you wanted to run away with him one day and leave everything behind, he would say yes faster than you could say his name. 

You clapped your hands together in front of his face, unknowingly pulling him out of his lovesick trance. “Nete?? Pay attention to me. You don’t just get lessons from the person next in line to be olo’eyktan and just get lost in your own thoughts,” you rolled your eyes, unable to recognize the loving look in his gaze when he looked at you.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to push you out of his mind even though you were right in front of him. He had been interested in you since the day you both met, of course he did, you defended his family in front of a crowd of your people after all. 

But now that he’d gotten to know you better, he was enraptured by your presence. You had locked his heart up in a cage and kept the key for yourself, and he let you do so. There was just something about you that made him feel all tingly and warm and fuzzy inside.

“Mhm.” Why was he so unfocused? “Do you know how long we’ve been in here?” His eyes snapped up to yours and he shook his head. “I’ll check, give me a bit.” you step into the water and disappear, leaving him alone in the dim cave. 

Inhaling deeply, his eyes roam around as he sits in place, closely examining the carvings on the walls, until one of them in particular catches his attention. The carving of a giant sea creature sits in the corner, the grooves gently sparkling because of a paste or paint of some sort. He gets up, indulging in his curiosity. The sea creature had tattoos like your parents, but upon closer observation he saw that it was incomplete, breaking off at the edges near the eye of the creature.

He traced his finger across the carved out tattoo, feeling into the damp crevices. The crevices felt abnormal, rough on the insides and scraping against the pad of his pointer finger, leaving a glittery sheen of moist paste on it. He bent down, eyes narrowing to take a closer look at the indentatio– “Neteyam!” he whips his head around to you emerging from the water in a panic, shaking the water from your hair. “It is almost daytime, you must go now!” 

“Shit.” he mutters, scampering towards the water and swiftly making tsaheylu with the still-traumatized gill mantle. Right as he’s about to disappear through the tunnel, he makes the decision to look at you waist deep in the water, as if it would be the last time he would ever. “What are you doing? Go now! We cannot let anyone know we were together” you shoo him away. “I can’t believe you want me gone so soon, paskalin.” he fake frowns to hide his glee in seeing the way your eyes widened in shock at the pet name. 

You wanted to scold him, to slap him or hit him or punch him, but he dipped into the tunnel with that same old smirk on his face yet again, leaving you shaken. You couldn’t believe the events that happened that day; you showed Neteyam your second home, something you hadn’t even shown to your brother or sister. 

You admitted to him your regrets, dreams and aspirations without thinking twice; perhaps he would tell his whole family? You knew he wasn’t like that, but something gnawed at the bottom of your soul, making you unnecessarily anxious. Worry lines appeared on your forehead as you sat in silence, making a prayer to Eywa while waiting until you deemed it safe to go out. 

For the next week and a half, you’d been avoiding Neteyam, only saying quick greetings to him until you hurried away to help Lo’ak, Kiri or Tuk. But never him. You were scared. He did say stuff to you occasionally but you always ignored it, never giving him a chance to ask you about why you had been ignoring him either. 

You and your siblings agreed it was time to teach the omaticayans how to ride the ilu, and today was the first day. Unfortunately, you had fallen victim to the worst villain of all; oversleeping.

“These are ilu,” Ao’nung explained. “If you want to live here, you have to ride.” your little brother had taken your role of being the main teacher to the omaticayans in your absence, the ilu swimming in circles serenely around him. 

You spotted the group from afar in the sand and raised your hand high to wave at them, Lo’ak noticed you first and elbowed Neteyam painfully in the gut. As soon as you were deep enough in the water, your favorite ilu, Azea, swam right up next to you, clicking in joy of seeing you again. You lit up, caressing her on her forehead lovingly. “Azea, I’ve missed you!” It had been a long time since you’ve met her, since she’d given birth, she had been too weak to be ridden. 

You connected your queues together, feeling her strength and pride surge through your own body after she had successfully birthed 3 healthy baby ilus, as well as her love for them. You smiled, getting on her back and patting it gently, motioning her to move forward towards the group.

Before you could even apologize for being late, Neteyam spoke up. “Well someone’s late. Sleep well?” you sent him an unamused look, brushing away his attempts at interaction with you again.

It was a gorgeous morning like any other, the daylight descended beautifully from the sky refracting into the ocean, making those wonderfully familiar abstract lines of light on the warm sea. You disconnected your queue from Azea’s, signing thank you. You tread through the water and stood next to Tsireya while Ao’nung continued explaining what the correct position was for riding.

A far off look was marked on her face, her eyes pointed downwards to the sand below her and she fiddled with her thumbs. Had something happened that you didn't know of? “Psst.” you whispered, and she snapped out of her daze, looking at you. “Oh! I’m sorry that I haven’t greeted you yet, y/n, I was thinking about something.” she apologized, signing a greeting. She definitely looked distraught, her ears were tense and pointed towards the sky. 

“Are you okay? Did something bad happen?” you put a hand on her back worriedly, it wasn't like her to be so jittery this early in the morning. Normally she would have a bright smile on her face, excited for the day ahead and what adventures awaited her, but now she just seemed conflicted, troubled about something. “No no, it’s nothing like that. But can we talk about it later? I’m sorry,” she sighed, unable to meet your gaze. 

“It’s alright, sister. When you are ready, I will be here for you.” you reassured her, rubbing her back and she gave you a smile, grateful that you were so understanding. “If anyone hurt you, I will make sure to feed them to the akula.” you grin, and she covered her giggle with her hand. 

At last, Ao’nung had finished his explanation, and the omaticayans dispersed with a metkayina each to instruct them. Tsireya went with Lo’ak and Rotxo went with Tuk. You sent Neteyam off with Ao’nung, much to their dismay (but Ao’nung would have been unhappy either way), and you were left with Kiri and a gorgeously light purple ilu that had been swimming around her since she joined Ao’nung’s lecture.

“His name is Kahäì. I noticed he took a liking to you earlier, so I figured it would be best to start with him,” you say, crossing your arms as Kiri happily played around with Kahäì. “He might not continue to like you after you make the bond, though. Some ilus are just like that.” 

“Well I think we’ll get along just fine, don’t you, Kahäì?” she paid no heed to your warning, continuing to playfully splash little amounts of water onto the ilu’s back and fins. Your heart warmed at the thought of seeing a new friendship bloom like yours and Azea’s, observing how Kiri’s eyes had lit up when she realised she would be bonding with an ilu that day.

“Make the bond gently. Try taking what Ao’nung said before and applying it in your own posture now.” you gave an encouraging smile, which she really didn’t need. 

Just moments later, you and Kiri were circling around each other on your ilus inside the ocean having the time of your lives being surrounded by the multicoloured schools of fish, warm rays of light leading the way as you both twirled around under a rock structure shaped like an archway. She spotted her brothers swimming after each other and joined in the chase, dragging you into it as well.

The way the water tried to push back your body as you told Azea to go faster sent your heart into a rush, you were smiling so hard as you tried to catch Kiri’s free hand, swallowing water when you saw Lo’ak almost get flinged off his ilu trying to catch his brother. The female omaticayan in front of you started leading Kahäì up to the surface and breaking off from the chain, and you realised she was out of breath, tailing her just in case.

She whipped her hair around when she resurfaced, taking in deep breaths before you emerged right after her. “You did great, Kiri!” you congratulate her. You hadn’t ever seen anyone as in touch with their ilu on the first ride, much less someone from the forest. She smiled in return, but it quickly disappeared once she saw the pained expression on your face. You felt a sharp stabbing pain in your body, your hand quickly flying to clutch your stomach. 

“Y/n! Are you alright?” She inched Kahäì closer to you, the purple ilu nudging his head gently against Azea’s neck worriedly. You could feel every bit of her pain, disconnecting your queue from hers hurriedly. “I am, but she’s not.” you breathed out, rubbing circles on her back as she grunted in agony. 

“Will she be alright?” Kiri asks as she puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes it, eyebrows furrowed. You suck in a breath. You were both crouching down in the sand in the middle of the day after you led an injured Azea back to the ilu pen where she would receive care from the healers there, and you just felt so incredibly guilty about the whole ordeal. Had you not raced with her, perhaps she wouldn’t have been going through such pain. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “They said she would be fine but I can’t ride her for the time being.” you say, cupping your hands in your face. “You should go, Kiri. Don’t let my sour mood spoil the rest of your day, alright?” you look up to her, giving her a sheepish grin. She nods and gives you space, and you bury your face into your hands again. 

You took a deep breath in, repeating to yourself in your heart that it wasn’t your fault in an attempt to lessen the guilt that was crushing your lungs. 

Another breath. This time you concentrated on the sounds around you; the leaves of the trees behind you rustled in the light breeze, the waves crashed gently against the sand, water touching the tips of your toes. 

Inhale. You heard the fluttering of wings soaring above you and the tiny pitter patters of the little crabs scurrying across the beach. Exhale.

Inhale. You heard the soft shifting of sand; someone was walking, nearing your location from your right. Exhale.

Inhale. You have half a mind to run. Exhale.

Inhale. You don’t have the energy for that. Exhale.

Inhale. They’re coming closer now. Exhale.

Inhale. You turned your head away from your hands, and the first thing you saw were legs heading towards your crouched form, interstellar blue stripes adorning them. You squint, eyes still adjusting to the light, unable to discern which Sully sibling was walking towards you. But you certainly had a guess.

“Y/n?” a low voice asked you, and the accent gave it away. Exhale. 

“Hi, Nete.” you responded, mindlessly putting your arms over each other, blankly staring into the horizon. He sat next to you, crossing his legs. You waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he was gazing straight ahead, looking into the waters. 

“Are you going to say something?” you ask him. “I think it is you who has something to say to me, y/n.” he rolls his eyes, tracing patterns into the damp sand. You kept quiet, knowing he was upset you had been ignoring him.

He turned to you. “The last time we actually talked was that night. You ignored me completely for more than a week, and then you sent me off training with your stupid brother this morning, which is really the worst of it all.” he huffed. You looked at him, astonished. He had a small sad smile on his face as he drew a frowny face in the beige sand.

You sigh, feeling ashamed of yourself. You felt unnerved telling him about your escapades, yet you just ran away from him like you did every other problem in your life. “Forgive me, Neteyam. I did not mean to be so distant. I was just….I don’t know.” you muttered, the sinking feeling in your stomach dropping lower because you couldn’t even find the words to explain to him how you felt.

“No words have to be said.” he gave you a small smile. “But, I must ask you,” he looked into your eyes; it was the first time you’d really looked at him in a week. His golden eyes made a little home in your heart, and you welcomed them with open arms. “Was it because of me?” his voice was barely above a whisper, eyes searching your face.

You bit the inside of your lip, shaking your head. “Of course not. I was just too busy trying to protect myself. And my heart,” you placed a hand on your chest, feeling your heartbeat quicken. “Well that’s good to know.” he nodded, breaking eye contact to look back down at the small frowny face, already washed away by the foamy waves. 

He uncrossed his legs, using a hand to push himself up. “Come. Let’s take a walk.” he extended his hand, a half-smile turning up one side of his mouth. You gaped at him, a flush creeping through your face as you realised how he absolutely towered over you in this position. You took his hand and pulled yourself up, and you both walked in tandem along the beach. You confided in him, telling him about what happened to Azea. 

Your hands dangled close to each other as you finished, voice trailing off. The urge to take his hand and interlock your pinkies together was insane, to the point that you almost did so. 

“I’m sorry that happened. But if Azea is anything like you then she’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.” he smiled to himself. “It already happened, don’t get too worked up about it.” he looked at you, noticing your gaze fixed on the both of your hands. A wry smile appeared on his face, and he was about to tease you, until he heard the mocking voices of others ahead.

Your brothers and his friends surrounded Kiri and Lo’ak, you could hear that they were calling them ''baby tails'' and laughing at them, and before you could even say anything, Neteyam was already stomping towards them, movement poisoned with anger. He pushed your brother away by the shoulder and you walked towards them, arms crossed. “You heard what she said.” he spat, words laced with venom. You hadn’t seen him so angry before. 

“Leave them alone.” he threatened, a finger stabbed to Ao’nung’s chest. One of his friends stepped up behind him, mocking Neteyam. “Aha, big brother coming to the–” Ao’nung raised an arm, stopping him mid sentence. “Back. Off.” he spoke through gritted teeth, and your little brother raised his arms. 

Annoyance was written all over your face. Seriously? What kind of things are your brother and his friends getting up to? You scanned the group, checking if Rotxo was present. You saw no sign of him, sighing in relief. If Rotxo was encouraging this type of behavior you would have to tell your father that he was in fact, not a good influence on his son. 

You guessed Ao’nung didn’t see you with Neteyam, because as the omaticayans stepped away, he and his friends huddled together, blatantly calling them and their whole family freaks even though he knew they were in earshot. Your jaw tensed, what the hell?

Lo’ak turned and stalked towards him, intent hidden. “I know this hand is funny. Look, I’m a freak. Alien.” he wiggled his littlest finger, Ao’nung looking at him with a cheshire smile.

“But it can do something really cool. Watch. First I ball the top really tight like this, okay?” he curled his fingers into a tight ball. Your eyes widened, knowing what he was about to do. “Then–” he punched your brother square in the face, and you audibly gasped even though you knew it was going to come. He punched a second time, and a third, knocking Ao’nung into the sand with a bloody nose. 

You stood there in shock. Watching someone beat up your brother right in front of you was something you never, ever thought would happen, but there it was. “It’s called a punch, bitch! Don’t ever touch my sister again!” you recognized the word from last week, Neteyam had told you it was an offensive and insulting word.

You were in a dilemma. Your brother had been punched and knocked to the ground, so you were supposed to save him, right? But then again, he had done something inexcusable for his age and status, mocking others in front of their face. Perhaps he deserved this. But it was your duty as his protector and older sibling to save him. Ao’nung and his friends hissed back at Lo’ak and a full on fight had commenced, he tackled Lo’ak into the water and the omaticayan punched him in the face.

Ao’nung’s friend pulled Lo’ak’s tail, and you were about to put a stop to it until you saw Neteyam joining the fight. “AGHH MY EAR! LET GO!!” your brother shrieked in pain, Kiri couldn’t help but laugh even though she was shouting at them to stop just moments ago. You had enough. You walked right up to them, crossing your arms and locking eyes with one of Ao’nung’s friends, sending him a death glare.

His ears flattened and he stopped pulling Lo’ak’s tail. Soon enough everyone including your brother had noticed you staring at them with a harsh look in your eye, arms crossed and tail raised. They knew they were all in deep shit.

“How could you say such things!” Ronal stressed, hands massaging her temples. Ao’nung was down on one knee on the floor of your family’s marui, looking down expressionless. You sat on a hammock in the corner, watching with your arms crossed. You had brought him to the healers tent to stop his bleeding nose after the fight finished. Around that time your mother was usually out collecting herbs, but instead she was there when you both walked in.

She interrogated you and your brother about his injury, about to explode in anger at the person who hurt his son. You had no choice but to tell the truth, Ao’nung avoiding her gaze in shame and fear of her reaction. The look on her face was no less than terrifying, similar to her expression now. Your father was there too, angered. “Ao’nung, what excuse do you have for instigating a fight with Jake Sully’s family?” he asked calmly, but you knew that he was fuming on the inside. 

“None, father.” Ao’nung muttered, knowing to look into his father’s eyes when responding. You could do nothing but watch the scene unfold, your lips in a tight line. You truly felt bad for your brother, you cared for him so. But what he did was horrible, and you couldn’t save him past that point. Your father let out a long, disappointed sigh, your brother’s ears flattening in response. 

“What were you thinking? You are the son of the olo’eyktan. You’re supposed to be a role model, not a disappointment.” Tonowari scolded him, Ao’nung’s facial expression unchanging. “Where did you learn this type of behavior? Because I certainly didn’t teach you any of this.” 

The pit in your heart fell deeper and deeper with every word you heard your father say to your brother. You never liked seeing either of your siblings scolded, especially when you couldn’t defend them. You felt helpless, just watching as your parents scolded him for his insolence. They were loving and understanding, but on the rare occasions that you or your siblings messed up, they could make your blood run cold with just one look. 

Tsireya strolled in, face beaming. “Father, mother! I have something to–” she broke off mid sentence, heart plummeting at the sight of her brother down on her knees, parents seething with anger practically radiating off of them. Your father exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes. “Y/n, get your sister out of here. We will deal with Ao’nung on our own.” 

Your brother's eyes flickered upwards, meeting yours. His teal eyes flashed with fear, begging you to not go as you stood up. You gave him an apologetic look, this was out of your hands. You walked, steps heavy with a potent mixture of guilt and regret, towards your sister, gesturing to her to follow you outside. 

You both walked away from the marui, and you explained what happened to Tsireya, her ears straightening down in horror as she heard about the fight. “But how could he do such a thing! I knew he didn’t like them but I didn’t think it was to this extent!” she gasped, worry lines appearing on her forehead. 

“I’m not sure what got into him. But I feel partially responsible. If I had just stopped the fight sooner, none of this would have just happened.” you sighed, feeling horrible for something that yet again was your fault. It seemed to you that you were just messing everything up nowadays. “That’s nonsense. You are not responsible for his actions.” she reassured you, pressing her lips together. 

“But I was there, ‘Reya. I could have stopped all of this.” you wrung your hands together, mumbling. She didn’t respond for a while, and you knew it was because she couldn’t say anything to make you feel better. “How about we go for a swim? It’ll take our minds off things.” she offered, taking your hand into hers. 

You didn’t really feel like it, but her eyes glimmered with hope. She was trying her best and that was all that mattered to you. “Sure.” you smiled. “I’ll race you!” you yelled, sprinting past her into the water. She lept after you. “That’s not fair!” she called out to you, and you laughed, your feet digging into the wet sand below you. 

Swimming with Tsireya was therapeutic in a way. You both marveled at the beauty hidden underneath the ocean’s surface, harvesting some shells for your mother and twirling around nonsensically, the water flowing and carrying you both around. 

Eclipse fell, and you both agreed it was time to return home, hoping that the atmosphere would not be as bad as it was previously. You trudged out of the water, laughing together. As you dried yourself off with your hands, wiping excess water off your body as she did, you remembered that she wanted to tell your parents something. “Reya?”

“Yes?” she responded, a bright smile on her face. Swimming certainly lifted up her mood. “What was it that you wanted to tell mother and father?” you asked, watching her movement carefully to see whether it was a touchy subject or not. “Oh,” she pursed her lips, looking at you. “It’s what I was thinking about this morning.”

You raised your nonexistent eyebrows, egging her to go on. She blinked, mustering up the words to say. “I…I think I like Lo’ak.” she smiled sheepishly, awaiting your reaction. Your jaw dropped. “Really?” “..yes…is there something wrong?” “nononono! I was just surprised, that’s all!” Your smile turned into a smirk. 

“Ooooo my little sister’s got a little crushhh doesn’t she!” you teased, elbowing her side lightly. Her face turned bright purple, lowering her head to avoid your gaze. “I was frustrated this morning because I thought that our parents wouldn’t be accepting. But, it’s what I feel. And if they can’t accept it then so be it.” she huffed, crossing her arms. 

“What?” a male voice said from behind you. You both whirled around, looking at Ao’nung looking at you both with accusing eyes. “Ao’nung!” Tsireya smiled, seeing her brother. “How was–” “Shut up!” he barked, nostrils flaring. She backed up, surprised. Her brother had never said anything like that to her, ever.

You bared your teeth, angered. “What’s gotten into yo–” “You too! I can’t believe you both are betraying me!” he hissed, marching towards the both of you, strides purposeful and daring either of you to say anything to him. “What?” you asked in disbelief. Betraying him? What the hell was this all about?

“You both are seriously falling in love with those stupid forest people? What’s up with that!” his voice rose with each passing word, words barely concealing the rage that simmered just beneath the surface. “What are you talking abou–” he interrupted you again, “Don’t act dumb! I’ve seen the way you look at that skxawng, Neteyam. I’ve seen how he sneaks glances at you during training!” he stabbed his finger towards your chest, words piercing your heart. 

“So what! What’s wrong with that?” Tsireya shouted at him, ears pressed to her head. “What’s wrong?” he growled, tears welling up in Tsireya’s eyes. “They are not one of us! They will never be one of us. Why are you betraying your family like this?” he hissed. “There is nothing wrong with liking them, Ao’nung! What on Pandora has gotten into you!” you pushed him back, infuriated at his ridiculous actions.

“So you’re on their side? Is that it?” his voice was low and menacing, threatening to tear apart your heart. You couldn’t recognise the desperate look in Ao’nung’s eyes, he looked at you as if he was fighting the world with nobody to help him. Tsireya hid behind you, wiping her tears and sniffing. You couldn’t answer him, simply looking at him eyes narrowed  like he was manic. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, “So there’s my answer.” he pushed past you, storming away. You stood speechless, patting Tsireya’s back as she cried into your torso.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5| masterlist

Ok jesus 😭 you would not believe how happy I am to finally be able to post this, it’s seriously been a while. I really wanted to write this reader with a really strong affinity with her family, which is why I tend to include a lot of ao’nung and tsireya moments with the reader. As alwayyssss, feedback and reblogs are appreciated greatly, and you may check my masterlist if you wish to see my other works! I do indeed remember saying that there would be tons of Neteyam headcanons in this part but i cancelled that cause i deemed it would be way too long (sorry omg)

I would also like to add that i am open for requestsss

Taglist: @strawberryclouds22 @assistantquail @st4rrry @neteyamforlife @heaven1oo4 @spicycloudsalad @1ntefly @laylasbunbunny @fanboyluvr @xoxobabe @thecrazyswamp @amortencjja @lynbubble

note: usernames in red are the ones i couldn't tag

[chuckpatch]

Another picture from my upcoming book “Silver Keeps” from Eyeshot Publishing: Patti’s wedding

MAYBE I’m not the world’s worst wedding photographer, but in terms of conventional wedding depictions, I tilt strongly toward the incompetent side. I seem to always shoot from an odd angle, catch Aunt Samantha with her eyes closed and mouth open; forget to photograph really important guests (I’ve never missed the bride and groom, though) and generally stand too far from the stars of the event. Despite that, I love photographing weddings, or more precisely, the parties that follow them. There are few social occasions that bring together groups so diverse in age and background for, what almost always turns out to be, uninhibited, even joyful, playfulness. I just don’t want to be the official photographer. Decades ago, I occasionally acquiesced when friends wanted me to photograph their weddings. I’m pretty sure that I gave Patti and Tom dire warnings of the likely outcome when they asked me to shoot theirs in 1982, but maybe because they didn’t have enough money for a real photographer or assumed that because I was always carrying a camera, I knew what I was doing in all situations, they persisted, and I agreed. I had hardly any equipment – just the Leica with its 35mm lens, and an Olympus OM-1 with a 50mm Macro. I figured I could swap my Vivitar flash back and forth between them “as needed.” The wedding and reception were in a simple banquet hall in rural Wisconsin. It mostly took place on a large, covered terrace next to the hall on a sunny June day. I did my best to take the classic shots, but when I developed the film, I found this one shot of Patti’s friend, Kate, arriving with her children that I simply do not remember taking, and it’s the only shot on that roll where I point the camera down the road. It’s not a wedding picture, and I considered not even including it in the set I ended up providing, but, (along with these other goofy shots that ARE wedding photos, the group shot is a favorite because it features the parents of another friend) it was the best image I caught that day.

[ellieshaze]

Dancing In The Dark

Neytiri x F! reader

- Neytiri and You were close since you were young , you never thought it was anything more than friendship. At first.

Warnings: Use of feminine terms , Blood , slight mentions of death , Fluff , suggestive at the end

Word Count: 2,171

Notes:

I used the terms Pa’li and direhorse interchangeably in the beginning for their horses <3

I also didn’t go too detailed on anything nsfw because i have never written any fan fiction before, let alone anything nsfw. I also just wanted something sweet and romantic <3

This is probably bad and i’m embarrassed but there’s so little fics out there for her i figured i could at least try and contribute <3

[You and Neytiri had been friends for years, but after her sisters death, Neytiri had become Betrothed to Tsu’tey. Afterwards, you and Neytiri became distant, but one morning, she invited you hunting, hoping to mend your friendship.]

It was early one morning that you and Neytiri were walking side by side on your Pa’li, searching for your next meal. Typically Na’vi hunt in groups, but Neytiri prefers to hunt solo, or with you. Since she’s the Clan Chiefs daughter, she pretty much gets to do most things that she wants to do. The two of you had been out for only an hour or so, with no sign of anything, until you both hear a noise from the distance.

Neytiri’s ears twitched, and she glanced at you, nodding towards the direction of the rustling. You simply nodded, and prodded the Direhorses side with your foot to get it into a trot. Neytiri fast at your side, you both made it out of the forest into a large glade. Your eyes widened, it was a massive herd of Sturmbeest, feasting on the lush grass. You glanced at the woman beside you, and she pointed to one of the beasts that was off to the side, by itself and too distracted with the vegetation to notice the two Na’vi women.

Neytiri motioned with her hands that she was to go along the right side, which meant you’d have to go along the left. You nodded, lifting your spear from its holster, and you both set off onto either side of the beast. At this point, the noise of the horses running would be enough to alert the animals, so Neytiri let out a loud call as you flanked the Sturmbeest. Neytiri was about to sink her spear into its side, and you were about to do the same when something knocked into your Pa’li’s side, knocking the both of you to the ground.

You let out a painful shriek when you landed on the ground at an awkward angle onto your spear. Neytiri dropped her spear, forgetting about the sturmbeest and looking at you “Are you okay?!” She yelled as She hopped off her direhorse and sat by your side. You had fallen on the blade of your spear, it was lodged into your side. Blood pooled around your body, Neytiri used her hands to try and stop the bleeding but it was coming far too fast.

“I’m g-good” was all you could choke out, trying to sit up but failing and falling back onto the grass. You glanced over at your Pa’li, she was dead. Your eyes filled with grief, you had bonded with her years ago, and had gone to so many different places and she was always there when you needed her the most. You crawled over to her, Neytiri still holding onto you, her hand trying to stop the blood coming from your side. You wrapped your arms around the horse, whispering a prayer to Eywa, hoping she could hear you.

Pa’li were some of the most gentle creatures on all of pandora, they never hurt a thing. You sobbed, gripping the dead animal, before you began to feel light headed and your vision faded into darkness.

Over the next few days you were in and out of consciousness, the clan was unsure if you would survive. Neytiri was curled up at your side day and night, not leaving for anything. She stroked your hair, and wrapped her arms around you, keeping you warm. You could only manage to stay awake for a few minutes at a time, and you were confused, but you knew she was by your side. You were like that for three days.

To everyone’s shock, you were woke on the fourth day, feeling a lot better. You still felt pain in your side, but you were rested and it had healed up decent from not being moved or touched. When you woke, you felt arms wrapped around you, hers. “You are going to suffocate me” you muttered, the arms around you immediately were gone and you felt shifting beside you. You sat up, glancing over at Neytiri. The woman’s eyes were wide, but you could tell she was happy to see you awake.

“You’re awake” she said, half to herself as if she couldn’t believe it were true. Once she had processed that you were in fact awake, sitting up and talking she immediately wrapped her arms around you. “I was.. worried” she said, her voice muffled in your neck. She let you go after what felt like forever, before getting up and running to get her parents. They were also glad to see you acting okay, but you were told you were on bed rest for a few more days, to be sure you stay in a stable condition.

Neytiri insisted on sitting with you the entire time, pushing her duties on to the other clan members. The only time she would leave was to get food for you. She would bring you the tastiest fruits and meats. It had been so long since you had been like this, after she had been betrothed to Tsu’tey you were hurt. You didn’t know why but it hurt you more than anything to hear that. He was a good warrior and a decent man, but he wasn’t right for her and you knew that. It dawned on you, after spending the past few days with Neytiri, the reason as to why the betrothal upset you so deeply.

During your time with Neytiri, as you recovered, you asked about your horse. She said members of the clan had buried her in a meadow, giving her a peaceful burial.

After four days you were allowed to leave bed, and Neytiri had a day planned for the both of you. You had to take it easy, but she also wanted to be sure you kept up your strength. First things first, you needed to bathe, it had been a long time since you could properly bathe since you were unconscious for days and then couldn’t even leave bed for even longer. The two of you walked to a beautiful lake, close to home tree. It was full of beautiful creatures and even more beautiful plants.

You waded into the water, Neytiri close behind you, as if she was afraid you’d fall. “You know i’m okay, right?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder at the other woman. She didn’t respond, she just smiled softly at you before she swam ahead. You watched her slim body as she swiftly dived into the water, and came back to the surface. “You coming?” She asked, running her hands through her wet hair. You nodded, before diving into the water, probably faster than you should have because your side throbbed at the sudden action.

“Hey! Careful.” She snapped at you, her ears pinned back and her eyes were glazed with worry. “I’m okay Neytiri, It’s gonna take way more than that to kill me.” You said, feeling a bit guilty for worrying her, but you got butterflies in your stomach from the way she reacted. How caring she was. She said nothing in response, as she waded deeper into the water until it was almost up to her shoulders. You followed after her, feeling a bit mischievous after being on bed rest for so long. When she was busy running her fingers through her hair, cleaning it with the water, you splashed her right in the face. She looked over at you, her ears pinned back. You suddenly felt nervous, she looked really upset. That was until she splashed you back, laughing a little.

The two of you spent the next few hours swimming and splashing each other with the lake water. Time went by so fast, when you finally both decided you had enough fun in the lake, you lied on the grass for a while, catching your breaths. “I missed this.” You said, looking up at the sky that was becoming darker every minute. “Me too.” she said, putting her hand onto yours, interlocking your fingers. You glanced down at your connected hands and then up at her. She looked upset.

“What’s wrong, Neytiri?“ You asked glancing over at the woman beside you, She was avoiding your gaze. “I was worried about you, Y/N” She said, still avoiding your eyes. “we have been so distant the past few months, i was afraid i wasted time. If you died I would’ve never forgiven myself.” You squeezed her hand, “I’m okay now, and that’s what matters.”

Neytiri sat up, pulling her hand from yours, standing up and brushing off the grass from her legs. She glanced down at you, “Follow me” She said, her voice smooth and beautiful. You could never get sick of hearing her speak, her voice made you feel warm inside. You stood without a word and followed her. The sky around you was almost completely dark as you ran through the forest with the woman you had known for so long. You began to recognize the direction you were going in. We can’t be going where I think we are, can we? You thought.

You followed behind her silently until you noticed that you were approaching one of the most sacred places of all, The tree of voices. She glanced back at you for a moment before walking up to the tree. She connected her queue to the tree for a moment, and you joined her shortly after. When you both disconnected you looked at her but she avoided your gaze again.

“Have you chosen someone?” She asked glancing over her shoulder at you briefly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it, being with someone for the rest of your life. But you never felt the connection to any man, not in the way you felt connected to her. “I have” You said, “but i’m not sure if she has chosen me” For a while you didn’t know that’s what your feelings were, it wasn’t until recently you knew. That deep down you were in love with your closest friend.

Neytiri turned her head, looking you in the eyes before speaking, “She has” Was all she said, before she moved close to you, wrapping her arms around your neck. You were stunned, not believing this was happening. “What about Tsu’tey?” You asked her, your ears pinned back nervously awaiting an answer. “I never wanted him, I only want you.” She said to you, with her beautiful, smooth voice that you have heard so much before but it feels different now.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you wrapped you arms around her waist, pulling her close to you, your breasts touching one another’s. She tucked your hair behind your ear, before she leaned in, her soft lips meeting yours. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, gently kissing, feeling each other’s bodies. You have never touched one another in such an intimate manner before. It was surreal.

The kiss became more heated, but before it got further she pulled apart from you. She looked you in the eyes, and you knew what was to happen. What always happened between lovers at the Tree of Voices. The two of you lowered to the ground, sitting in front of each other, so close to one another. You looked her in the eyes once more, before nodding. You both grabbed your Queues, looking each other in the eyes as you connected to one another.

You both let out soft moans when you connected, you could feel everything the other could. You had never felt anything like it. You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling for a moment until Neytiri lifted your chin, and you opened your eyes, looking into hers. She smiled softly at you as she leaned in, kissing you gently. The kiss slowly became heated, and you pulled her into your lap, your hands running up and down her body. You intertwined your tail with hers, kissing her deeply.

You broke the kiss, and began kissing down her neck softly. She nuzzled your head with hers, her hands holding onto your neck as you left soft kisses on her neck. “I am with you now, Y/N.” She whispered gently to you, “We are mated for life.”

You had fallen asleep together, arms and tails wrapped around one another. When you woke, you opened your eyes to see her face close to yours. You moved your face just ever so slightly towards hers, leaving a soft kiss on her nose. In turn, her nose twitched, and her eyes slowly opened. You nuzzled your face into her chest, holding her closely. You didn’t want this moment to end. You knew that her family wouldn’t be happy once they found out, because she was betrothed. But it was done. You and this woman were mated for life. Nobody could change that.

[raayllum]

So we are sure as anything that is going to be Callum that releases Aaravos at the end of the day (being terrified of being possessed again? Now the gang literally HAVE THE PRISON? Yeah he’s gonna be possessed and forced to open it for SURE! Poor boy what will that do to him..?)

But one thing that hasn’t happened yet is Rayla losing Callum. Callum has lost Rayla once and nearly lost her twice now, but we are yet to see Rayla do something to get Callum back (maybe we can include the ship scene but I don’t feel like it’s quite to the same extent that Callum has nearly lost her, if you get what I mean)… how do you think this is going to happen?! If at all? I LOVED season 5 and can’t wait for what happens next!!

I forget if I thought Callum would free Aaravos post-S3 or S2 (maybe, ever since the Key was introduced)? But definitely post TTM I thought he'd have a role to play there. I've always leaned towards it either 1) not being under possession, but coercion, or 2) if it is under possession, it's because Callum took a risk (and knew what he was risking being possessed by doing it). The writers always like force characters into being aware of the choices they're making / retaining agency even in the terrible choices they're making (i.e. Harrow being aware of and agreeing to Viren's plan to kill Zym in 3x06's flashbacks, rather than being ignorant and therefore blameless in it, which they easily could've done). I don't think Callum can just have a "whoopsie daisie I'm suddenly possessed again through no reaffirmed fault of my own decision making" since that kinda feels like it's letting him off the hook too much for whatever he does, but if they just want to go full throttle on the "no agency" angle, that would be a valid route of its own kind of horrific (even if it may not be the one from a theorizing standpoint I currently prefer but hey, canon could change my mind).

For Rayla and Callum, I think their arcs (intersecting and circling each other as always) are going to be opened and book ended, most likely, by Massive acts of love for each other for arc 2 (up till S6, most likely). Currently for both of them, they've done their initial, unhealthy "going to dark places is an act of love" for one another:

1) Rayla leaving during the timeskip / through the moon

and Callum doing dark magic about a season later to save her life

The fact the choice is something they both cover up and know the other person wouldn't like, the shouldering it alone, the "I have to. I love you too much not to," etc. I don't think it's a coincidence that a few episodes after Rayla reflects on what inspired her to leave — "I left without him because I couldn't bear to put him in danger. I knew I had to be strong alone" — and trying to be what she didn't want to be (a lone assassin) that we see Callum making a similar decision after he was forced back into a path he also didn't want to take (a dark mage), that Finnegrin got his head enough to warp him: "All that talk about how love makes you stronger" and Rayla making him 'weaker.' And, like Rayla, he keeps a secret to try and shoulder it alone, at least at first.

Which is in line of how he and Rayla were already starting to switch in S4, with Rayla acting more like him upon her return and Callum acting more like her because of her absence, and nicely leads up to them both reaffirming that they are each's strength and each other's weakness, eventually. (Good and bad, light and dark, pain and love. Two cakes!)

I always figured Callum would do something ultimately self destructive in order to save her, just because they tend to be very reciprocal (and he tends to hit her plot beats a season after she does, anyway) so it seems, due to the symbolism and framing and patterns, that Callum doing dark magic for her is his Narrative counterbalance for her leaving him in Through the Moon. (This is very in line with their S2 and S3 patterns as well, where Rayla saves him and Ez in a way from Soren and Claudia in S2, and then Callum saves her from Soren and Claudia over the dragon fiasco; as well as in S3, with Rayla risking her life to keep Sol Regem away from him, and then Callum jumping off the Pinnacle to save her, etc).

So what, you ask, is Rayla's big gesture moment - and what could Callum's reciprocal moment be? Well...

2) Rayla breaks Callum free of the brainwashing + identity reconciliation arc

This has been foreshadowed and set up for a variety of reasons — Rayla showing up in a halo of light and always reaffirming Callum's agency in S4; Callum asking her to be the one to kill him in 4x07, and this according quote exchange from the Book One Novelization ('"Wow. So they look identical, but they might kill you or they might save you,” Callum said. "Exactly," Rayla smiled. "Just like me"); Rayla's role being highlighted in the actual possession scene in 4x04 and Aaravos mocking her for being unable to kill; Rayla's epiphany in S5 about being "stronger together" at all. If you want more details on all of this I would heartily recommend this meta I wrote regarding Rayla's duality as Callum's salvation and destruction, written pre-s4, and then updated post-S5. Now moving on...

Book 6 is gonna be stars, and stars are associated with Destiny. So is dark magic with control. Thus, Callum confronting the destiny Aaravos has given him (and being possessed again by proxy) seems the most likely for this season. We also know we're going to learn about Rayla and Stella's history eventually (and given that Stella means star, and is connected to the Star primal) and it would make sense to get that backstory in S6 as well. We know we're learning more about the Key of Aaravos (rune cube) and most likely Leola (and her last wish) next season as well. Last but not least, S5 reveals that Rayla's parents can presumably be saved by using star magic / quasar diamonds, and that Callum is even more dedicated to freeing them to some degree than Rayla is, at least in terms of Prioritizing it.

Okay, but what does this all have to do with anything? Well...

It seems pretty certain that Rayla's Big Moment, as you've indicated, has to happen, and will be her refusing to kill Callum and instead breaking him free of the brainwashing. The strongest evidence is actually things I haven't touched on yet, which is that this dilemma and plot beat would resolve both of their character arcs that S4 set heavily into motion.

For Rayla, she's been struggling for seasons feeling like a failed assassin / that she can't kill someone, and that this is a weakness. The fact that it's Callum's life on the line vs the world ("my heart for Xadia") is just the icing on the cake and is a trolley problem she's faced before ("You let him live, but you killed us all!" / "No, you have two choices: you all die, or just the wretched, evil human dies"). So her not killing Callum, and instead saving him, would resolve her arc in a variety of ways:

Prove that her good soft heart is a strength and not a weakness

Reaffirm her love, devotion, commitment to Callum and promising to Not leave again

Prove to her that she can save people (4x05's "we can't save everyone") and that she won't always inevitably mess things up

Rayla refusing to sacrifice something, for once, for the good of the world

Her path in this is so straightforward there is little doubt in my mind, like, come on. It's not subtle and I love it

This isn't even touching on Rayla's parallels / thematic opposition to the other person vying for control over Callum, Aaravos, which if you're interested in you can read more about here. <3

Alternatively, Callum's side of things is far more complicated / less clear. This is for a few reasons:

There will be a choice, presumably, that leads to him getting brainwashed. The most obvious of these is him doing (dark? Star?) magic to free the Moon fam and Kpp'Ar from the coins, but it could be something else. Being willing to take a chosen risk opens up the door for him to feel responsible if/when he plays his role in Aaravos' plans (bc he presumably Has to, since S6 can't end well under any circumstances).

If he is randomly brainwashed, he will have to make a conscious choice to play into Aaravos' hands after breaking free from the brainwashing. This will probably be under coercion or due to a loved one (either Ezran or Rayla) being in danger or threatened. I've always leaned towards Rayla because they've had primary conflict for longer and her weird associations with the cube and its foreshadowing, and for a few other reasons I'll discuss here briefly below.

What's not in doubt, to me, is Callum - willingly or unwillingly - continuing on his dark path within Aaravos' clutches. Whether this would include breaking him free under coercion (but not brainwashing) is debatable, but we'll see when we get there I suppose (if we get there). What does need to be answered, here, is what Callum's Reciprocal Act of Love would be. It seems that he'll have to save Rayla back in turn from something, after all.

Likewise, there's a few options in no particular order:

He saves Rayla from having to make a terrible choice regarding her parents, either to have a life without them or for her to do dark magic to free them by taking that on himself.

A lot of Callum's identity changes have been because of her absence and subsequent shut down. Rayla reaffirming her identity by saving him is also the process by which Callum reaffirms his own identity by choosing her / being able to be saved. A mutual identity reconciliation happening simultaneously, if you will. And throwing off Aaravos' control certainly would be an act of love!

He frees Aaravos to save her life after she breaks him free of the brainwashing, since choosing Rayla and defying Aaravos could be choices that cannot be reconciled.

I lean towards something beyond the mutual Identity Reconciliation because I think 1) Callum being able to express his feelings for her is also very important to his growth for this arc and they've teased him saying "I love you" again quite a bit thus far and 2) I think Rayla, as a character and her core of sacrifice (what does it matter to her, after all, if she gets majorly injured saving Callum) would really benefit from being literally, reciprocally saved, but these are the various avenues I think are the most likely. But I do think their S6 (or whenever the possession plot line is resolved, maybe it is only in S7, who knows) arc is resolved, it'll be with a Big Act of Love from Callum as well, with Rayla's being saving him from said brainwashing.

Anyway, I hope this answered your question and that said answer wasn't too long! Thanks for asking & for reading <3

[dragonmasterhiccup]

(nah it was perfect! 🙂‍↕️)

Freya shook her head, resting her chin on the palm of her other hand, still looking in the opposite direction with a blank expression on her face as she spoke: "Yeah, I know you could hold it, but knowing you, it'll most likely get messed up and then Ayla would throw a big fit about it, and I don't want to hear that right now." She rolled her eyes, impatiently tapping her foot against the ground, "Plus, your hands are still dirty. If you want to have a dusty, grimy, tangled braid, then be my guest. Either way, I'm really not in the mood to hear Ayla cry."

She glanced outside, seeing Blaze peacefully nap under the sun's warmth. "I mostly helped Gobber with just passing him the tools he needed, and sharpened a few myself, other than that my hands aren't as bad as yours." Freya hadn't felt the amount of regret she had in that moment for a long time, wishing she had kept quiet about something that shouldn't have even been mentioned.

"I really can't believe it.. the one person that I hold closest to me is braiding the hair of the one I despise. And Blaze seems to like him and his dragon too." She muttered, not once looking at Hiccup as she spoke. With a sigh, she turned her gaze on her boots, "This time, it's actually my fault any of this happened. If I just kept my mouth shut.."

Freya felt slightly embarrassed once again, trying to distract herself with anything in the forge she could lay her eyes on. "It's not like I always think about your hair in that way either, it just, uh, stood out to me in that moment, I guess." She inwardly cringed at her reasonings, knowing that she probably didn't make any sense.

She was about to make a snarky comment to defend herself more, but turning to face Hiccup she had forgotten that she was sitting next to him, causing her to quickly look away again. "Nevermind.. forget it.." Freya heaved a deep sigh, leaning over to rest her head against her other arm, "I told you this before, but forget this ever happened."

Sitting up once more, she blew away the stray hair that made its way on her face. "For the record, I think her first braid could be a little better. This second one is.. more decent.."

"Are they?" He glanced down, inspecting his hands. Sure enough, they had ash and soot in them, despite him wiping them with a cloth minutes prior. "I guess you have a point, there...I don't want to make her cry, either."

He didn't know Ayla very well yet, but he thought she was a nice kid, and he definitely didn't want to hurt her.

Hiccup, being right next to Freya, tried not to react as she said she despised him. It wasn't anything new, he fully knew she hated him, but it still hurt to hear, especially to your face.

Keeping his head still, his eyes darted towards the other end of the forge, away from Freya.

"...It could be worse, you know..."

His brows lowered, then one raised as his eyes made their way back to her. "It stood out to you so much that you had to tell me?"

He angled his face towards her slightly, moving slowly to not loosen her grip on the braid. "Let me get this straight...you utterly despise me, yet it bothers you when I'm hard on myself. You couldn't wait to get away from me, but came into the forge only a few minutes after I did...and you 'don't care' about my hair, and yet, you comment on it. Your dragon and sister seem to like me enough, but even that seems to further ignite your fury towards me. If I didn't know any better, it almost sounds as if you're trying to convince yourself to continue hating me."

His tone wasn't accusatory, and it wasn't irritated, either. Hiccup was genuinely confused.

She hated him, and yet, they've been stuck in close range for a whole day now.

He... didn't hate her, he knew that... he just... didn't know how he actually felt about her yet...

[poison--ivory]

hello! i'd like to request a knb kiyoshi teppei x male!reader fic where reader walks in on kiyoshi trying to relieve himself ifykwim. maybe have reader assist teppei on hitting the right spot

Warnings: masturbation, prostate touching

I'm so sorry to you anon I forgot I had this still in drafts

Its been a while since I watched Knb but I'll try my best

No one came into the boy's locker room after practice Teppei knew this. He's been on the team long enough to know no one else bothered to take the role of cleaning the showers. He took it upon himself to scrub the place clean each day after school ended and it became a ritual to him. After class and practice, he would stay behind to scrub down the showers, mop the locker room floor and wipe down the benches of any sweat or grim still clinging onto the metal.

That's how he noticed. Once he finished working he was the only one left in the gym, and how he knew no one would come to check for him after. Maybe that's why he didn't feel anxious about jerking off against your locker. It was your fault he was horny after practice and it was your fault he got hard after you ground your ass on his crotch trying to block him.

He thought about how soft you felt whenever he touched you and how you always smelled like your sisters' shampoo because your parents found it cheaper to just buy one brand. The feeling of your lips on his neck the first time you fucked him, the way you stretched him out, and the sensation of his body heating up from the sudden intrusion of your cock in his bowels.

On instinct, his arm reached behind his back, pressing his chest against the wall to get a better angle. He grunted as he tried to find a comfortable position. His middle finger shoved its way past his entrance curling to find that sweet spot and slowly stretching his hole out for the next finger. Moaning from the feeling of his fingers he cursed at himself for forgetting his dildo at home. Stroking his dick at a steady pace with his right hand

Too lost in his own pleasure the sound of the creaky door couldn't penetrate the blood rushing in his ear, but he did hear your voice bounce off the walls. "So, this is what takes you so long? Didn't know my boyfriend was such a fiend." He shot around catching the huge smirk across your features.

"Y-y/n," Teppei quickly tried to clear his throat but failed pathetically, "I thought you went home already."

You chuckled, "Yea, but I really wanted to walk home with you today. My sisters were going to go out with some friends and you know my parents work late as fuck." With each sentence, you grew closer til he could feel your breath on his face. "I was going to screw you senseless at my house, I thought I made that obvious during practice, but I can work with this." You licked cheek trailing towards his lips and locking him into a heated kiss. He gasps at you swatting his hand away from his privates and yanking his other hand from his hole.

Two of your long fingers entered his rectum and like spiritual guidance, your fingers prodded his prostate. His cry of pleasure was muffled by your tongue intruding into his mouth. You tasted like the daifuku he saw you scarfing down during the break. Another moan escaped his lips as you attacked his neck.

"Were you trying to reach this," You pressed down his prostate again while you stroked his dick. Thrusting your fingers deeper you smiled at that sweet spot, and with every few thrusts you purposely missed it. A desperate whine traveled with the sounds of the squelching noise of his slick anus.

"God, Y/n! Please stop teasing me." He cried.

You smirked, "I'll get you off just let me enjoy this a bit more." A third finger enters his hole stretching the rim of his asshole, a deep grunt emerged from Teppei's chest.

"I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good."

Again I'm so sorry to you anon. I hope you enjoyed my very late response.