#There are two kinds of people: those who like denim-on-denim and the others

[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.)

[grippingbeskar]

small favours

— joel miller x fem!reader

— warnings: explicit content minors dni, smutttt, dirty talk, very minimal plot sorry not sorry, swearing, needles, mention of injuries/cuts

— a/n: happy tlou release week!! this is set in jackson between the first and second game, i wrote the first part before i saw the show but just imagine with me okay. and it’s literally just bc i saw joel in that denim shirt and went yeah�� i wanna fuck him in that. lmao. also dedicated to @everybirdfellsilent because we have been waiting for this show for so long and it’s finally here and oaoxosoxosox. wow.

You hadn’t asked for much.

It was a simple fix, you were sure of it. Yes, you don’t know anything about how to fix hinges, nor do you have any clue about how you broke it in the first place. Either way, it’s just a few screws and a metal piece, so was it really that hard to find five minutes to fix it?

Leading another one of the horses into the stable, you pointedly step over the gate that now lays on the floor, too heavy for you to move it. The horse tramples it, of course, which is why you had asked for someone to come and fix it before the horses were brought back in from patrol. Clearly, no one gave a shit about your question, but you know they’d all be the first to complain if it was their horse that got out through a broken gate.

It was late now, anyways. Too late for you to get anyone out, and even with the safety of Jackson’s walls keeping you blocked off from the outside world, being out at night still freaked you. When you finally got the horse in your hand settled and fed, you promptly sat yourself on the floor of the stable. Without the front gate, it wasn’t safe to leave the horses alone. With your luck, they’d get spooked and run all the way through town, and the last thing you needed was more reason for the people in here to look at you.

It wasn’t that you weren’t liked— you just kept to yourself. This life was hard enough as it is, and you didn’t see the point in making friends when in five years this place would probably be full of strangers. People die every day out here, you knew that too well. You wanted to save yourself the heartache wherever you could.

All that anti social behaviour certainly didn’t win you any favours though— hence the still broken door. You loved it— you were good with horses, having lived in a farm before the outbreak, so you decided to volunteer to help in the stables, but it was hard work sometimes. It kept you busy enough, though, and horses never wanted to make conversation, so… win-win.

There was only one problem with working in here. Truthfully, it wasn’t so much as a problem and more of a chronic condition. At least, that’s the way it felt every time Joel Miller made some kind of appearance. Most people just left the horses tied up out front for you to take care of, but Joel seemed to enjoy the peace the stable provided— that and you never talked much, which seemed to work for him. On the days he’d come back from patrol, the two of you would share a few hushed conversations as you worked and he hid from the rest of Jackson, and then you’d fall into a comfortable silence, sometimes for hours at a time.

Weeks had passed like this, and every single day you got a little bit more interested in who the man really was, other than his clear infatuation with his horse. Right when he came in would be the time you talked the most, after about forty minutes it would get too busy and you’d work until the sun set. But those forty minutes started to stretch a little longer, and he seemed to gain interest in you, too. Maybe you were grasping at straws, but hearing Joel’s low voice rumble a few more words every time he spoke to you was doing wonders for your self esteem, and even you couldn’t deny the way your face warmed when he smiled at you.

“Hey, you still— damn. What happened here?” Joel calls from the gaping hole that is the stable door, and only because it’s his voice calling you do you look up.

“It’s been broken all day. I asked someone to fix it, but…” You shrug, sighing and leaning your head back on the small gate that was the only thing holding the horse behind you from leaping out down the main street. “I guess they had other shit to do. I can’t move it on my own.”

Joel considers you for a second, how your frame is backed against the gate, conveniently placed at the closest point to the open door. Then, he looks back to the door on the ground, and back up to you. He smirks.

“So you were plannin’ on sitting in here all night?” The weight of the day makes your shoulders slump forward, and for the first time you really consider your plan. “You gonna body check a horse when he makes a run for it?”

“Okay, it was a dumb plan. But, it’s that or let them all out and get stuck cleaning up the bar floor or something.” He smiles again, the setting sun behind him washing over his shoulders in a pretty orange colour. A tilt of his head in your direction has you standing up, taking the lead of his horse that he offers to you.

“You take him, I’ll go get my tools. Fix it up before sun down.” Before you can protest or tell him he doesn’t have to, he’s walking off to the right up the hill where his house sits.

You’d always been a bit jealous of the spot his house is. It’s far away enough from everyone that you get some real privacy, but close to the stables if you need a quick exit. He had a porch, too. One you spent a little too much of your time staring at during your work hours, when he spent his off days strumming a guitar right in your line of sight. He was just… peaceful to observe. He brought a calm to you that no one else seemed to be able to do, almost enough that you could forget about the world outside and just exist in that little bubble for a while.

You lead Joel’s horse inside, hearing it trample the door again, and hang up his saddle next to the stable. Joels horse is much like him— quiet unless provoked. You found it out the hard way when you first led it in with a routinely aggressive horse, thinking it’s demeanour would calm him down. The next morning you woke up to two very angry horses and a half bent gate of steel.

“Saved you your favourite spot.” You say to his horse, Old Beardy. You never asked how Joel picked the name, but for some reason it worked so well— at least, he was definitely older than most. “See? He’s right up there.”

The stable at the back was angled just right so that the small window at the height of a horses head pointed directly towards Joel’s porch. Not close enough to see anything other than the outside, but enough that you know it’s there. You don’t come in here often, Joel always taking his own horse in, but when you do you can’t help but notice the instant calming effect it has on Beardy— you might have more in common with this horse than half the people in Jackson.

When you find your way back to the front, Joel’s footsteps are trudging back down the hill. You’ll be fairly useless as anything other than company while he fixes the door, but you can’t seem to stop your heart from racing a million miles a minute as he gets closer and closer. Yes, he makes you forget about everything on the outside, but that’s mainly due to how insane he drives you. All those conversations in the stables and too long looks in town are just all too consuming, and now, when you see him come into sight, you have to put some physical difference between him and you.

“You don’t have to, Joel. Really, I’m sure someone’ll—“

“No, they won’t. Knowin’ the people around here, you’ll be sleepin’ on the floor till next year.” He bends down, and you drop yourself back to the floor and stare in some kind of mesmerised silence as he runs his hands over the broken hinges of the door.

In a few passing thoughts you’d never admit to yourself, you have an obsession with his hands. He was just so…capable. He could do so many things so easily— and some kind of backward wire in your brain fizzled with electricity at the sight of him in his element. He starts fiddling with tools, first starting to remove the broken hinge, muscles flexing as he tears off the old bolts.

“What happened?” He says, the words muffled by the screwdriver in his mouth.

“I have no clue. When I woke up this morning it was blown in. I spent a good hour trying to move it but it’s so—“ With one arm, he pulls it up to stand vertical, a fist wrapping around the edge of the gate. It doesn’t even look like he tried. “—heavy.”

“Come ‘ere and hold it straight.” He says, keeping one arm out in front of him, the other still holding the door up. “I won’t let it fall. Come on.”

“Like this?” You say, staring down at him as you finally reach the door and take a little bit of the weight. He flicks his eyes up, nodding and shifting on his knees to get a better angle on the door.

“Perfect.” He says softly, looking up at you for another split second before clearing his throat and screwing on a new hinge.

“You really didn’t have to do this, but thank-you.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers fiddling with a latch.

“Least I can do. Everyone should be up here helpin’ you anyways.” He stands up, and with only a barrier the width of a gated door, you can feel his body heat keeping you warm when he towers over you. “Keep holding it still.”

“Yeah.” You manage, eyes fluttering closed. “People help, though.”

“Oh, I bet.” He says, sarcasm dripping off his words as he laughs dryly.

“They do! Sometimes… I mean, it’s not their fault. I’m kind of a hermit up here. I don’t really make an effort, so I can’t blame them.” He stops working, his knuckles white over the railing of the gate, and looks to you.

“You’ve trained all these new horses to track better than those guys ever could. They’d die out there without ‘em. Carl doesn’t know his left from right— he got lost eight times last patrol. It’s cause of your horses he got back safe.” Joel’s face is more serious, his eyes sharp but still with a hint of softness that he often looks at you with. “Doesn’t matter if you ain’t makin’ friends. This ain’t middle school, and people should be helpin’ you no matter what. Least of all fixing a door.”

“That’s why I keep you around, Joel.” You smile lightly, his voice getting lower the angrier he gets.

“Good. You tell me next time, and I’ll come round and help. Avoid the whole town all together.” You hum, letting go of the gate as he hauls it up in the air and shuffled backward, setting it against the hinges. “How do you know so much about horses?”

“I lived on a farm, way back when. Besides, they’re easy to navigate once you get to know them.” Joel puts the screwdriver back in his mouth, and you can’t help but stare at him. The small scars on his face, peppered around his cheeks. Some are older, worn and faded, while the one across his nose is new. It’s not even scarred yet, still fresh

“You okay?” He says softly, tilting his head.

“Your face.” His eyebrows furrow, and you shake your head. “Sorry. You… did something happen on patrol? You have a cut—“

“Just a few clickers. Real old, hauled up in a caravan out west. Nothing we couldn’t handle.” The door drops into place, and he swings it out towards him. It sounds less squeaky than it usually did. “Good as new.”

“You should clean it.” You say, worry edging in your voice. “If it was clickers.”

“I’m fine.” He shrugs it off.

“Come on. It’s the least I can do. I have a first aid kit in the back, and then we can call it even.” He relents, locking the door behind him and stepping further into the stables. ��Sit. I’ll get the kit.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You can hear a small smirk on his voice, and you roll your eyes, turning around to find the kit. “Why you got a first aid kit in here anyways?”

“You’re using it now, aren’t you?” You turn around, raising your eyebrows. “You’d be surprised how many people come here before going to medical. I started to stock up a little, do what I can. It’s not much, but I can clean it off and do some botched stitches until they see a real doctor.”

“And none of those guys came up to fix the god damn door?” He was getting angry again, and you tried to ignore the shiver that went up your spine when he spoke like that.

He was sitting on a small stool, putting him about waist height. When you stepped closer, shuffling your feet on the floor, he tilted his head up. His open legs invited you closer, nearly drawing you in with a magnetic field he was completely unaware of.

Armed with a cotton ball and disinfectant, your fingers were light enough to breeze along his jaw to hold him in place. He stares up at you, watching your eyes as they flit between the cut on his nose and his wandering gaze. His face is warm when you work up the courage to place your palm on his cheek, thumb gently smoothing over the salt and pepper flecks of his beard. He doesn’t flinch away when you press the cotton ball to his face, swiping across the bridge of his nose.

“Does it hurt?” You whisper, feeling the need to keep your voice low.

“No.” He does the same, the heat of his body making you shuffle slightly closer. His hands are in fists on his knees, like he’s straining to keep himself still. “Told you it was fine.”

“And I told you I wanted to help.” When you’re satisfied with the results, you take a fresh cotton pad and dry it up. “You might need stitches. It’s deep.”

“Go on.” He says, and you lean back, eyes wide.

“You want me to stitch your face together?”

“Good practise, and I trust you.” The simple words have your heart slamming against your rib cage, but instead of showing it you kneel in between his legs and search the contents of the kit for a needle.

“If I mess up your face, you knew what you signed up for.” When you find what you’re looking for, you straighten, Joel’s face is right in front of you. It takes you a second to realise just how close he is, and the position isn’t lost on him either. It’s probably the most emotive you’ve seen him, his jaw going tight from how hard he’s biting down.

“It’s already messed up. You’re fine.” He manages, his voice strained.

“Hold still.” Whispering the words, you lean closer and bring the needle to his skin. His eyes close, and it’s when you press the point into his nose that his hands shoot out in front of him, holding your hips gently.

“Sorry. Shit—“

“It’s fine. Are you okay?” He grunts in a way you think is affirming, so you keep threading the needle. You only need one stitch for a spot this small. “Your face isn’t messed up.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not. Messed up.” You feel his thumbs stroke along the bone of your hip just once before he stills again. You tie off the stitch, and his eyes open. “There. You’re pretty again.”

Your breathing was rapid even though you didn’t have a true reason for it, but neither of you moved. His hands— strong and so fucking capable, holding you still on your knees in front of him. His eyes were pools, inviting you in with a gleam of something shiny, and where you were nearly gasping he was calm and collected. In his element, like he was right where he should be.

The whole stable was a dull orange now, the colours dusting through the strands of Joel’s hair. It’s never really sitting right, wind whipping it out of control on patrol, but you have the urge to run your hands through it anyway. You let yourself explore one small piece of him, like he has to you, and your fingertips run back over the shell of his ear, tangling in his hair. He sucks in a short breath, leaning into the hold of your hand.

“Joel.” You say, voice so soft he would of never heard you if you weren’t so close, but you call for him and he leans closer. Your foreheads nearly touch, and his hands tighten their hold on you.

“Thank you, darlin’.” You sigh deeply, unable to keep yourself upright at the nickname. It rings through you, his accent strong and adding an entire other layer to why he’s so easy to fall into. You don’t even really notice how dark it’s gotten— you usually have sprinted home by now. But Joel’s here, and with him this close, you can’t think of anything else. He leans closer, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Can I kiss you?” He says, the brush of his lips against yours sending a tidal wave of need from your head to your feet.

“Only if you hurry up.” You answer helplessly, voice cracking, and he smiles against you and finally brings his mouth to yours.

It’s anything but calm. That peaceful energy of the stables is completely shattered and sorted into something electrical and sizzling. He yanks you forward, bodies pressing together as you use the leverage of your hand fisted in his hair to kiss him harder and deeper. It doesn’t take long before his tongue is swiping along your bottom lip, seeking permission.

You let him in— you’d let him do whatever he asked for if he kept pouring himself into you like this. He tasted good, which should be impossible but when you’ve been starved of something for this long it doesn’t matter what he does it’s just that he’s giving it to you. He moves his hands to the small of your back, pressing your hips right in the middle of his open legs, his other hand on the back of your head.

You feel him groan when you press together, the sound waking up parts of you that had been dormant for far too long. It was like he had access to each nerve in your body, and every little sound or touch had them blaring red and sparking.

“Fuck, darlin’. Come closer.” He groans into your mouth before kissing you again. You smile for a moment, not entirely sure how you could get any closer, and then it’s wiped off when he hauls you upward, hooking your legs around his waist on the stool. “Yeah. Right here.”

Your arms cling around his neck, his own searching up and down your body. Your shirt rides up with the movements and you moan every time he grazed along your skin. There’s something equally hard and soft about his hands— rough from years of work but soft with the way they hold you up, how they’re careful not to dip too low or high. You arch your back, giving him wordless permission, and he groans into your mouth again.

At some point you have to breath— both of you gasping for air in the quiet of the darkened stables. He brings his hands to your face, holding you against his forehead so he can look into your eyes. He was smiling too— like actually smiling, not that half smirk you’ve seen so often.

“What are we doin’?” He laughs, kissing you again.

“I don’t know, but can we keep going somewhere that doesn’t smell like horse shit?” You whisper and he laughs again. It’s sounds so good— like the sound of the beginning of your favourite song. It makes your heart sing, melting you into the tune. “Please, Joel. I really want…”

“Tell me, baby.” He moves, angles your head with swift moves of his fingers so he can kiss you lower. Under your jaw, and then he drags his mouth down, along your neck, teeth nipping softly… “Fuck knows I wanna hear you say it.”

“You. I really want you.” He hums against your skin, one arm hooking under your ass as he stands easily. You squeal, muffling the sound in the mop of hair on his head. As you walk outside, there’s only a few people still mulling around, and they turn their heads towards you when they hear your soft laughter mixed with Joel’s— two sounds that seem to alarm them more than clickers.

For the first time since you’d been here, you really don’t care if people are looking at you, or what they’re saying. When Joel locks the gate behind you and slides you down his chest to let your feet touch the floor, you are reminded once again of his ability to remove every single thought from your mind except him. Just him, and his hands on your hips, spinning you around and leading you up the hill towards his house. How every so often he’ll bend down, pressing his lips lightly to the back of your neck, and how you can feel his smile on your skin.

He guides you easily, your body on auto pilot to his small gestures, and when you finally rush up the few steps of his porch— one you’ve spent way too much time staring at from afar, you’re both attached to each others face like horny teenagers. He fumbles with the doors lock, jamming keys with aggressive force while his other hand stays soft and sweet on your waist, holding you against him. When the door gives out behind you he never lets you stumble, taking you in his stride with practised precision. You’ve seen the inside of his house, but never the layout, so as he guides you blindly through the hallway, your shut eyes and occupied mouth never see it coming when you fall backwards onto a bed.

“Let me take this off.” He mumbles against your lips, tugging at your shirt and jacket. In a tangle of limbs you both shove at the material, finally hooking it over your head. He presses you flat against the mattress again, hanging over you and running his hands up and down your sides in long, soothing strokes. “God damn gorgeous.”

“Your turn.” The blaze in his eyes dulls slightly at your comment, and he just bends to kiss you again. He links your hands in his own, pulling you away from where they were tugging at his shirt. “Joel.”

“Nothin’ there you wanna see, baby. Just let me look at you.” As sweet as his voice sounds, and as much as you want him to continue, you pull away from his greedy mouth.

“Please take your fucking shirt off.” You say harshly, biting at his bottom lip hard enough for his eyes to open again. He looks over you, taking in the sight of you under him with your arms pinned above your head, back arched towards him. He’s clearly contemplating how difficult it would be to ignore you, smirking a little when he looks up at your hands again.

“Or what? You gonna make me stop?” He kisses under your jaw, his free hand skating along your side, only stopping when his fingers reach the hem of your jeans. When he hears you gasp as his hand disappears under the fabric, he laughs. “Nah, you won’t make me stop. Want it just as bad as I do, don’t you?”

“But I want—“

“Shh, shh. I’ll give you what you want.” His mouth his dizzying— words and movements hot against your skin as his hand bypasses your underwear and drags slow circles against your clit, immediately drawing his name from your lips again. “There you go, darlin’. Feels good?”

“God— yeah, faster. Please.” Your chest was rising and falling so fast, trying to pull the air he was punching out of your lungs with every quick movement of his fingers. He hums at the praise, and you feel him shift above you, sitting up so he could slip one finger inside of you. “Fuck, Joel!”

“I know, baby.” He tilts his head up to kiss you again, tongue matching the fast and unpredictable pace of his hand. You can feel it building— pleasure rippling up your spine and fizzing low in your stomach, and your hands tug under Joel’s unrelenting grip.

He seems to forget he was meant to be holding you, his groans and concentration all focused on the way he was fucking you with his hand, so he lets you go, his hand going to hold your face. It makes you smile under him, but it quickly gets lost when you moan his name again, rolling your hips against him.

Now your hands are free, you have a moment of clarity when your eyes flutter open and see him staring at you; eyes flitting between your face and your chest. You want to have that— to see skin you’ve only thought about in the late hours of the night when you were alone, never admitting it to yourself when you woke the next day. You grab onto the hem of his shirt, ripping the denim up as far as you can, getting your hands on the bare skin of his back.

He doesn’t help you— too obsessed with the way you are writhing and moaning so loud the poeple down the street will know what your doing. Neither of you care about anything else than this, right here, and the fiery hot spark that’s lighting you up inside.

“Shirt, Joel.” You tug at the collar, then card your fingers through his hair and pull. He grumbles something, and then you whimper when his hand leaves you and he sits up on his knees. He was out of breath, towering over you and keeping you caged underneath him as he tore the shirt over his head and threw it behind him. When he leans back down, he doesn’t give you the time to admire him that you’d like, but you take what he gives you. He shoves your own jeans down, shaking them off you in one tug, and your eyes hardly have time to open before you feel the backs of your calves press against the flexing muscles of his bare shoulders.

“Perfect.” He says, speech almost slurred, and the look he gives you reminds you of the one he gave you in the barn. Before you can think enough on it, both of his hands hold your hips down and he gives you one last look before he buried his face in your pussy.

It doesn’t take much to have you screaming his name again, that sweet hot pleasure that was building so quickly comes rushing back with the wet heat of his mouth. He eats you out like he’s fucking hungry for it— pulling borderline shouts from deep in your chest, like something is bashing against your ribcage, only awoken by his complete and utter devotion. His tongue swirls and fingers curl, and you lose sense of direction, clawing at his hair and feeling his groan when you pull him into you.

There’s no where to go, stuck under his weight as he dives into your taste, at his mercy entirely. It was so different to see him undone— a sight you wouldn’t be able to forget next time he came into the stables all soft eyes and short words. No, here he was holding your eye contact, groaning your name as if you were the one doing this to him. He gave you no choice but to hurtle towards the edge of consciousness, knowing you wouldn’t be able to hold out under him much longer.

“Joel. Joel— fuck.” His lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently while his fingers curl inside you in a spot that has you seeing stars. “Oh, god—“

He doesn’t say anything when you cum, just groans into your pussy as he guides you through it. He sets pace and intensity, both of which are hard and almost unbearable, and he only drags himself away when you beg him to. Your legs shake, his hands smoothing over your thighs as his mouth presses wet kisses up your skin, over your stomach and chest, finally reaching your mouth with an overwhelming force.

You hum, tasting the combination of you and him together on his tongue, taking everything he needs to give you. He shuffles up, and you feel his cock pressing hard against your thigh, still straining in his jeans. You let him kiss you lazily, let him explore you this way while your hands busy themselves between your bodies, unzipping his jeans. When your palm brushes over his length still covered by his boxers, he hisses and his eyebrows furrow, like the pleasure is almost painful. You do it again and he shudders, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You’re so soft.” He murmurs past your ear when you slip your hand under the waistband. When your fingers wrap around him, you stay true to his word and stay light with your touch, not wanting him to finish just yet. You want to make it good for him— draw it out. Pay him back for everything he gave to you; not just tonight, but every night. “So fucking soft. Sweet.”

“You like that?” You ask innocently, stroking him again. Your thumb brushes over his tip and he shudders again, nearly shivering. “I can be gentle. Want you inside me, though.”

“Whatever you want. Fuck— anything you want to do to me. Please, baby. Not gonna last long if you keep doing that.” A single please was enough to grant him a thousand wishes, but you’ll settle for giving him just one.

He helps rid himself of the rest of his clothes, no insecurity in sight with the lower half of his body. There was no need to be… he was big. It made sense— he was a big guy, but it wasn’t just that. He was just… perfect.

“Eyes on me.” He says, pulling your gaze away from where your bodies are about to meet. “I want to see your face when I…”

He trails off when his tip lines up with your entrance. You bite your lip in anticipation, feeling the soaked pleasure coating him as he finally slides himself further and further. You both sigh, like a weight is being lifted from both of you. As if this was the way you were both meant to be.

He bottoms out, head buried in the crook of your neck as he chokes out your name. You feel full— the weight and stretch holding you to the bed, your arms strung lazily around his neck. Your fingers wander down his spine, keeping that soft lilt to your touch that he seems to thrive under. For all his hardness and strength, it’s the lightest touches that seem to crumble him the most.

“Fuck, baby. Feel so good around me.” Joel never speaks for the fun of it, but he says these things like he needs to. Strained and focused, like it’s a compulsion to tell you how good it feels. “Needed to fuck you for so long. You gonna let me make you feel good, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Joel. Please, I need— need you to move.” You whine like a spoilt child, and you are now that you’ve had a taste. He laughs once, a breathless sound, and then pulls out nearly all the way, only to slide back in with that same trained pace.

“Good girl.” He groans, and then picks up the pace.

It’s devastating. It’s the only way to describe it. He fucks you hard and slow, slowly etching himself into parts of your being you aren’t entirely sure he didn’t just create himself. Like he’s forged apart of you just for him, something low and hot, and he hits it with every, perfectly timed thrust. The bed rocks under him, but he doesn’t seem to care. Its creaks and groans are drowned out by his words and both of your moans.

You are incoherent— overcome by pleasure that shocks even the nerves in your fingers and toes, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Joel. He doesn’t fucking shut up— and it’s about the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced.

“So fucking tight around me.”

“God, you feel good.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“Gonna fuck you for days.” Is the last one you hear before his groans turn to borderline whimpers, his pace stuttering as you feel the coil in your stomach tighten and snap all at once. “Oh, fuck that’s it. Cum again for me. Jesus Christ—“

“Joel.” You can only whisper now— voice so strained that nothing could come out but his name. Your eyes roll back and you feel him fuck into you one or two more times, and then he pulls out and replaces himself with his hand. You ride out your pleasure on his skilled fingers, another wave of heat numbing you when you feel him spill onto your stomach, your back arching off the bed.

The room is suddenly dead quiet, nothing but panting breaths filling the silent house. He is still hanging over you, you can feel both of his forearms next to your head as he leans down to kiss you again. The warmth of his body is lifted just enough for him to use something soft to clean you off, and then he collapses beside you, tugging you onto his chest.

He runs his hand through your hair, stopping at your jaw to tilt you up. He kisses you again, the lack of oxygen making you giddy and dizzy, and you break the kiss only because your smiling so wide.

“What’s so funny?” He says, trying to be serious, but even in the dark you can see his matching grin.

“Just happy. Can I be happy?” It’s meant to be light hearted, but you feel him stop for a second, and then he tugs you a little closer.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can be.” He tucks you under his chin, sighing deeply as the rest of your body turns into him and tangles itself with him. “I am.”

You open your eyes a final time, seeing the pitch black dark outside. If it was light, you’d be able to see the stable from here, but it’s black out there. Usually it would make you uneasy, but tucked up under Joel’s safe arms, there’s nothing in the world that could make you feel more at peace.

[penny00dreadful]

So does anyone remember that post that was like "Robin and Eddie meet when she does that thing that's like 'hello, please pretend you know me so I can get away from this person' then Steddie happens?" Because I do. I cannot for the life of me find it. If anyone knows the post I'm talking about please let me know so I can link it, this is very much not my idea, it's that persons idea but the brain worms got me so here we are. 🤷‍♀️

We found it! It's this post by @wynnyfryd Thank you Anon! Obviously I went in a different direction with it but this post was 100% my inspiration so thank you for helping me find it!

AO3 link for those asking! 🖤

Robin should be royally pissed off with herself right now. She would be if she wasn’t so damn scared.

That guy was still trailing behind her, no matter the twists and turns she’d taken down different streets trying to lose him and the only thing she’d gained from it was to get totally and completely lost. It could be something completely innocent, the guy might be coincidentally going in the same direction as her but she wasn’t willing to give him the benefit of the doubt if it meant keeping herself alive.

The distance between the two of them was slowly closing as she was followed through the dark and empty streets of the city, hoping, praying for some kind of shop or restaurant or something to make an appearance so she could hide inside but apparently Robin was able to find the one street in this city where everything was either closed for the night or boarded up.

Her heart was pounding in her ears and the beginnings of tears were starting to sting her eyes and all she could think of was how sick with worry Steve was going to be in the morning when he woke up to no missed calls, no missed texts and no Robin. She’d scoffed at him hours earlier when he’d offered to go to the ‘work thing’ with her but she'd told him she was a big girl and she could look after herself and not to be such a worrywart mom.

And now she had no idea where her phone had gone, if she'd left it behind or dropped it somewhere, no idea where she was and no idea of what she was going to do.

If she’d been a bit more present in her head she probably would have noticed the loud, braying, male laughter coming from just ahead of her and crossed the street to avoid them before it was obvious she was avoiding them. But as it was she could barely see straight through her tears and panicked tunnel vision while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the slowly encroaching guy behind her. She was practically already in the group’s space and one of them had definitely already seen her though he didn’t pay her any attention.

But even through her blurred vision and panic, she finally registered what exactly she was looking at. Four men standing around the entrance to what looked like the diviest of empty dive bars, chain smoking and being as loud as humanly possible, but that’s not what caught her eye.

Long hair, chains, leather, denim, tartan, rings, tattoos, subculture. If Robin had to choose a group of men to approach, any kind of subculture would be the best option. They knew what it was like to be other. There was no guarantee these guys were safe, but they were probably safer than a group of frat boys.

The next thing that caught her eye that nearly made her cry in relief as she got closer were the patches and pins.

A rainbow ‘A’ against a black and white striped background pinned on one guys collar, a yellow-white-purple-black patch on another's arm, a pink-yellow-blue patch over the third guys heart and a progress pride flag pinned to the largest guys pocket.

Her people.

Without a second's hesitation she made a bee-line for them, planting herself firmly next to yellow-white-purple-black patch person who had a mess of thick light brown curls that reminded her of Steve’s hair. They fell painfully silent at her arrival.

The four of them blinked down at her, with her tearfilled eyes and wild aura of panic around her they were probably, understandably freaked out.

“Hi guys!” She called out to them, probably a little too loud, hoping her voice carried back to the fucker following her, tensing as she could actually hear his footsteps approaching now.

The guy with the longest hair and the pink-yellow-blue patch standing directly in front of her glanced quickly over her shoulder before returning his gaze to her. His face split into a wide warm grin, tapping her shoulder lightly.

“Hey girlie. We thought you weren’t coming, we’ve been waiting.”

The footsteps behind her audibly slowed down. Robin laughed, a little maniacally, keeping her frantic gaze on him, not daring to turn around. “Yeah, I uh- g- got sidetracked.”

“Eddie, what-”

Pink-yellow-blue patch guy, Eddie she supposed, slapped ‘A’ patch guy lightly on the stomach with the back of his hand, shutting him up as her pursuer passed them by, giving the group a wide berth.

“Hey, no worries. You’re here now, right?”

Pride patch guy kept his eyes on the guy who’d been following her the whole time, only looking away when he eventually turned the corner, disappearing into the night.

Robin immediately felt her posture slacken now that he was finally gone, the full weight of everything coming down on her. Her tears began to spill over and her whole body shook as hysterical sobs started to pour out of her body.

“I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I think I left my phone behind and I don’t know where I am. We only moved here a couple of weeks ago and I got lost trying to get away and- and-”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Yellow-white-purple-black patch person squeezed her shoulder lightly, keeping their distance. “You’re okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“We can call someone for you, if you want?” Eddie asked, crossing his arms tight like he was trying not to reach out to her, probably worried it would freak her out more. “Boyfriend or girlfriend-”

“Or romantic partner.” The person with their hand on her shoulder interjected lightly.

“Alright Baron from the Baronies.” Eddie snorted. “But fair point, Gareth. Romantic partner or friend or whatever?”

“Um,” Robin’s voice was still shaking. “I don’t… I’ve never been good at memorising numbers…”

“Me too, terrible at them.” Eddie smiled again, pulling his phone from his pocket. Robin’s fear and panic was almost entirely gone now even though she was still hiccuping and sniffling underneath their concerned gazes. They were all firmly keeping their distance, keeping any touches short and fleeting, not moving too suddenly, trying their best to make sure she knew they weren’t a threat and it was really helping her to start feeling safe again. “But we could try to find them online? Instagram or something?”

“Yeah. Yeah we could try that.” She wiped her eyes roughly against her sleeve as she shuffled over to Eddie’s side. “My best friend, Steve, he uh- he’s probably asleep and I don’t think you can call him if you don’t have him added…”

“You can send him a message.” Eddie replied easily, handing his phone over. “And if he doesn’t wake up, we’ll try something else.” 

“Don’t worry we’ll get you home.” ‘A’ patch guy smiled down at her while pride patch guy nodded along.

Robin sniffed again. “Thanks.” She was able to conjure up a small watery smile as she opened the app and found Steve’s profile, shooting off a quick message begging him not to freak out and explaining the situation as concisely as she could.

“Here.” She handed Eddie back his phone who glanced down at it for just a second before his eyes widened slightly as he scrolled through Steve’s profile.

“Oh shit. This is your friend?”

Robin nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“He’s… he’s really pretty.”

That managed to pull a startled laugh from her. “Oh god, don’t tell him that, you’ll give him a big head.”

“Let me see?” Gareth asked, whistling low when Eddie turned his phone around showing a photo of Steve and Robin at their last pride parade cheering with the crowd, Steve with the pink-purple-blue of the bi flag smeared across each cheek and Robin with the pinks, oranges and white of the lesbian flag draped around her shoulders. “He is really pretty.”

Eddie snatched the phone back, cradling it to his chest. “Fuck off, Gare. I saw him first.”

Robin smiled again. “Any response from him?”

“Hm?” Eddie asked distractedly, scrolling through Steve’s photos before pride flag guy punched him in the shoulder. “Ow! Wh- oh, sorry!” Eddie frantically scrolled back up before clicking into his messages again and shaking his head. “Nothing yet.” He held the phone out to show her.

“Okay.”

“What’s your address? If he doesn’t respond, we'll find a way to get you there.”

“Uh…” Robin was drawing a complete blank, only able to remember her parents home address hundreds of miles away.

“Or tell us something nearby.” Eddie added, not missing a beat, clearly picking up on Robin’s lack of an answer. “What’s on your street?”

“Um,” she closed her eyes, trying to picture it in her head, “there’s a couple of Chinese take outs, Asian food store, paint store… there’s… I think it’s a tattoo parlour? There’s designs painted on the window, a tower on either side. I think they’re from Lord of the Rings?”

“Inklings? Is that the place?”

Robin opened her eyes. Eddie was grinning at her conspiratorially. “That’s it. You know it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I work there?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Hope was starting to grow feathers inside Robin’s chest. She could go home, she didn’t have to stay out all night waiting for Steve to wake up and never let her out of his sight again, she could hug her best friend and drink coffee out of her favourite mug and curse at their finicky fridge and steal his hair products again. She could go home.

“Is it far?”

“Nah, only a few streets away. Ten minute walk, tops.”

“D’you- I mean… do you think you could-” Could she really ask them to walk her home after they’d already done so much for her? Would she be asking too much? Could she be putting herself in more danger?

“I can take you there if you want? Let you get back to your… Steve.” There was a slight blush dusting over Eddie’s cheeks. Maybe he did have an ulterior motive, but it wasn’t an ulterior motive involving her. If she wasn’t so wrung out and aching to crawl into her own bed she’d be thinking up teasing material to lambaste Steve with. But as it was, she was desperate to get home.

“Would that be okay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie replied, bright and easy. “It would just be me and you though,” he held his hands up in surrender, “and you can totally say no, like if you're uncomfortable or whatever. Gareth is Grant and Jeff’s ride home and you’re still on the clock, right?” He turned to Gareth towards the end of his sentence.

“Yeah, but I get off shift in about an hour so could come in if you wanted, wait around in the back room until then if you wanna go as a group?” They answered. 

“I think… I think I just want to get home.”

“Okay, cool. No worries I’ll get you there safe and sound. Here,” Eddie pulled his phone out again, “I’m gonna message Steve to let him know we’re on the way in case he wakes up,” he showed her the short message only sending it off when she gave a nod, “and I’ll get you to navigate just so we don’t get lost.” 

He handed his phone to her with the maps app open, directing them towards Inklings tattoo parlour. He was playing it off like an easy joke, instead of another way to assure her she was safe. He was making sure she knew exactly where he was taking her at all times, he was making sure she had the ability to call the police or whatever if he turned on her, he was making sure she knew he didn’t need or want her address if she didn’t want to give it. 

This fucking guy.

He definitely wouldn’t be the worst choice Steve had ever made if it did go that way.

“I don’t know how to thank all of you, seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Grant smiled at her before hesitating. “Uh, I just realised we don’t have your name.”

“Oh!” She laughed at herself, feeling lighter. “I’m Robin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Robin.” Grant held his hand out, shaking hers once she took it.

“Likewise.”

“And don’t worry about thanking us, just pay it forward, yeah?” Jeff said.

“Plus.” Gareth took on a nonchalant tone even though they had a smirk plastered over their face. “We’ll see you again at Steve and Eddie’s wedding.”

“Shut up!” Eddie scowled but didn’t hold onto it for long in the wake of Robin’s giggles.

She sighed once the giggles subsided, a weight lifted off her shoulders. “I look forward to it.” She raised her hand in salute as the three of them headed back inside, turning to Eddie as he held his elbow out.

“Shall we?”

Robin tried to suppress her smile but took Eddie’s arm anyway. They only made it down one street and around one corner, Robin clutching tight to Eddie’s phone before he finally asked.

"So."

"So."

"Best friend Steve." Eddie twirled his rings around his fingers. "Is he…"

“He’s single.” She answered lightly. “But you might be arriving into his life at the wrong time. He’s recently sworn off men.”

“Well we’ve all sworn off men once or twice. Men are terrible.”

“Agreed.”

“Is it because of a bad ex?”

Robin threw her head back with a groan remembering the giant breakdown that had finally finally ended it. “Tommy was the worst. He’s the reason we even moved out here, there’s nowhere to get away from an ex in a small town, you know? They’re everywhere. I’m not going to go into what happened, it’s not my business to say but it was bad.”

Eddie nodded, his eyes down on the ground, running through everything in his head.

Robin could see the tattoo parlour up ahead, the glorious sight of their apartment building just a few buildings away.

“Do you think… with time… he could open himself up to men again?”

Eddie had such a tentative hope in his eyes, it was adorable really. Looking over him, she thought about the type of people Steve would constantly thirst over, blip in the matrix Tommy Hagan notwithstanding.

Lithe bodies with full lips and giant eyes, hair he could run his fingers through and something unusual about them. Something odd.

He’d never explicitly gone for someone so heavily into a subculture before but he’d never turned them down either. And based on Eddie’s job at the tattoo parlour and the way he was dressed, he almost definitely had some ink on him. That alone would be enough to make Steve swoon.

“I think he might. Will you walk me up?” Robin asked, holding the door to the building open, offering Eddie the same kindness under the guise of doing a favour that he had offered her so many times tonight.

“Yeah, sure.”

They’d managed to make it up to the third floor, walking down her hallway before Eddie’s phone started to ping incessantly.

She turned the phone over in her hand, looking at the screen. “He’s awake.”

Robin, where are you?

Are you okay?

I’m on the way.

Please be okay.

Their apartment door was flung open just as they reached it. Steve was standing there panting and terrified, his hair a mess, his glasses askew, his jacket and shoes thrown haphazardly over his pyjamas.

“Robbie.”

Steve slammed into her, holding her tight before immediately letting go to inspect her face and running his hands over her body, checking to see if anything was wrong.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened? What do you need?”

“Steve.” Robin caught his fluttering hands in hers and squeezed, nearly crying out in relief just to have him with her again. “I’m okay. Eddie and his friends helped me.”

“Eddie-” Steve looked to the side, noticing her saviour for the first time. “You’re Eddie.”

“I’m Eddie.” Eddie gave him a short little wave and a dazzling smile that quickly dropped in shock as Steve pulled him into a crushing hug, his blush returning with full force.

“Thank you, thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve-” Steve took a big breath in and loosened his arms from around Eddie’s shoulders. Robin saw his eyes slowly trail over his face before very briefly flicking down to the pink-yellow-blue patch then back up. “Come inside, the two of you. Can I get you anything? Tea? Decaf coffee? A glass of water? Like, literally anything to say thank you.” He asked, ushering the two of them into the apartment.

Steve caught Robin’s eye behind Eddie’s back and mouthed ‘oh my god he’s fucking gorgeous!’

Robin snorted and thought to herself ‘sworn off men, my ass.’

[unclewaynemunson]

After Eddie and Max were brought into the hospital, the waiting room was packed with people. But as time passed by, it got quieter. One by one, worried parents came by to pick up their kids.

“Are you sure you don't wanna come with me?” Robin asked Steve when her mother arrived.

Steve nodded. “Go home, Rob, it's okay. Just wanna make sure Max's mom and Eddie's uncle get here.”

She shot him a worried look, but she knew him well enough to recognize when she wouldn't be able to persuade him – and Steve in turn knew that there was no way Mrs. Buckley would leave the hospital without Robin, after all that had happened that night.

So Steve stayed and waited with Lucas in Max's room for Mrs. Mayfield. When she arrived, he decided to give them some privacy and wandered over to Eddie's room a couple of doors down the hall.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if Eddie would already have returned from the operation room – and if so, if it would be good or bad news waiting for him on the other side of the door.

He swallowed. Waiting motionlessly in the corridor wouldn't change what he'd find. So he raised his hand and slowly pushed the door open.

Eddie was inside, leaning against a pillow in his bed. He was as white as the sheets around him and he had large stitches in one of his cheeks, but other than that, he looked – alive.

“Eddie,” Steve breathed out while an overwhelming wave of relief washed over him.

It was only then that he noticed the other people in the room and stopped in his tracks.

Eddie's uncle was sitting at his bedside, wearing sweatpants and only an undershirt underneath his denim jacket. He looked exhausted, but just as relieved as Steve felt.

But that wasn't what had sparked Steve's surprise. No, the thing that Steve couldn't make sense of, was the man who was sat in the chair next to Wayne Munson. It was Steve's old middle school science teacher, Scott Clarke. He was dressed in a plaid flannel that seemed more Mr. Munson's style than his own, buttoned askew on top of a pair of striped pajama pants.

“Mr. Clarke? What are you doing here?” The question tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Who are you?” Mr. Munson asked Steve before Mr. Clarke could say anything. It sounded defensive on the verge of being aggressive, but Steve couldn't really blame him for that, considering what the majority of Hawkins currently thought about Eddie.

“Steve Harrington,” he said, holding out his hand.

The lines on Mr. Munson's forehead deepened.

“He's my friend,” Eddie said. His voice sounded hoarse and weak, but Steve still felt a rush of warmth course through his whole body because of the words he said. “He saved my life.”

“Oh.” Mr. Munson's eyes widened slightly and he finally took Steve's hand. “Wayne Munson. Eddie's uncle. Pleased meetin' ya.”

“It's good to see you again, Steve,” Mr. Clarke remarked. “You've grown a lot since the last time I saw you.”

“I didn't expect to see you here, Mr. Clarke,” Steve noted, still trying to make sense of what exactly his old science teacher was doing in this room.

“Uncle Scott is also my uncle,” Eddie explained.

Steve looked back and forth between Mr. Munson and Mr. Clarke, trying to find any kind of resemblance between the two of them.

“You're brothers?” he couldn't help but ask, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice. He would never have guessed that those two men were related to each other.

“Steve, no...” Eddie's voice was almost a whisper and had an undertone of something that sounded an awful lot like exasperation. Steve knew that tone all too well; he had never been good at restraining himself from asking stupid questions, after all.

He noticed how the two men exchanged some kind of meaningful glance with each other.

“Um, I think we should go get some coffee, Wayne,” Mr. Clarke said. “Leave the boys to catch up.”

Mr. Munson nodded, but before he got up, he looked at Eddie. "You'll be alright?" he asked, a worried frown on his face.

Eddie nodded. "It's fine, Uncle Wayne." He said it softly, like he was trying to reassure his uncle, and only after Eddie gave him another emphatic nod, Mr. Munson started following Mr. Clarke out of the room.

Just when Steve realized Mr. Clarke must be Eddie's uncle from his mom's side while Mr. Munson had to be his dad's brother, Wayne let his hand linger on the small of Mr. Clarke's back. It was a tiny moment, that only lasted a second right before they went through the door, easy to miss if one weren't paying close attention. But it was still enough for Steve to understand the exasperation in Eddie's voice and the unease on his uncles' faces. That one touch told Steve all he needed to know: there was this casual, easy kind of intimacy behind it that only long-term partners shared. He had seen his parents act like that, and Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair...

“No fucking way,” he breathed out at the moment the door quietly shut behind Mr. Munson. He turned back to Eddie with wide eyes and his jaw dropped.

“Your uncle is – and he's with Scott Clarke?”

Eddie's jaw clenched. “You got a problem with that?”

In his pure astonishment, Steve barely even registered Eddie's question.

“That's impossible!” he all but exclaimed. “Here – in Hawkins? How?!”

Eddie looked slightly past Steve's face, to the bare white wall behind him. “Jesus Christ, Steve,” he said. “You've seen dozens of hell monsters and walked through an alternate dimension to fight an evil sorcerer, and this is what you decide is impossible?”

“Well, it is,” Steve stubbornly said.

He remembered how he once felt about his teammate Thomas, back in his freshman year, remembered the ache in his chest exactly because of how impossible it was. He remembered Robin talking about Tammy Thompson in that bathroom stall filled with the scent of their puke. But Tammy Thompson is a girl, he had said, in his instinctive and perhaps naive confusion - not because he deemed it impossible for Robin to feel that way about a girl, but because up until that point, he had deemed it irrelevant. He knew better than anyone that those kind of feelings would flare up from time to time around certain people, but as far as he was concerned, it didn't matter. There was no way to act on it, no point in lingering on something that was impossible to have anyway.

“They've been together for over a decade,” Eddie said. His voice suddenly lacked its usual warmth; a warmth that Steve had gotten used to over the past few days; a warmth that left a weird feeling of loss behind in Steve's chest now that it wasn't there. “They make each other happy. They don't hurt anyone with it. So don't fucking tell me it's impossible, man. They love each other, and if you're gonna be a dick about that, I'm gonna have to kindly ask you to fuck the hell off.”

“Woah, woah, woah, wait,” Steve hurriedly sputtered. “I'm not – I didn't-” The words got stuck in his throat, somehow. He didn't quite know how to explain the storm that was raging inside of him, the many emotions he felt upon discovering that there were two men happily sharing their lives together, who lived in the same town as he did. Two men who were just like him, who had figured out a way to not hide away, who had somehow found their way to each other, and who had fallen in love without it being something they needed to repress.

“I didn't know – that it could be like that,” he finally managed to stutter. “I never even imagined a future like that for myself. I didn't know – I thought we were just supposed to pretend like those parts of ourselves don't exist and marry a woman. I never met anyone who did it differently.”

Finally, Eddie averted his gaze to look at him again. His eyes were a little bit wider and he was staring at him so intensely that Steve felt something stir deep in his stomach.

“Stevie,” he said, his voice quiet and so much warmer than before in a way that sent a shiver down Steve's spine. “Jesus, I'm sorry, I had no idea. I thought you were saying..." He cut himself off and inhaled deeply, slightly shaking his head. "Listen, man, there's always a choice. I'm not saying it's easy; my uncles have to hide a lot of what they mean to each other when they're in public. They're risking Scott's job, and maybe even a whole lot more if the wrong people find out about them... But there is always a choice. They're much happier together than they would've been if they had chosen to hide and marry a woman, or if they'd spent their whole lives alone.”

Steve had to take a moment to let Eddie's words sink in. Eddie merely kept looking at him, not making a single sound, patiently waiting for him to get his thoughts straight again.

“Are there more people like them, here in Hawkins?” Steve finally asked.

“Not many,” Eddie answered. “Most people who are different move to the bigger cities, where you're a bit more free to be yourself. But they're friends with this lesbian couple who lives a few streets over. And they know some people in Indy, but Wayne refuses to move there. He's too much of a small town boy, he says.” Eddie rolled his eyes at that last part, as if he could in no way comprehend the thought of preferring Hawkins over a big city like Indianapolis.

But Steve did comprehend it. Hawkins was his home. Even after everything that happened to him here, it was where he belonged. It was where everyone he cared about was. He wasn't naive, he knew that that was bound to change at some point, but he had never dared to dream about going someplace else himself. He had never even dared to dream about being someone else. Yet here he was, sitting at the bedside of a boy whose eyes he hadn't stopped thinking about for days.

Maybe it was about time to change his perception of what was possible and what wasn't.

“I know one person who's like – like me,” he admitted. He wanted to tell Eddie about Robin. He knew that there was nothing to worry about – but he also knew it wasn't up to him to share her secret. “I don't know if this is a weird idea," he continued, "but maybe we could all, like, get together sometime. Your uncle, mister Clarke, their lesbian friends...” The idea of it made him feel weirdly excited. He couldn't really imagine what it would be like, to spend a whole evening surrounded by people he had this one thing in common with.

“Not a weird idea,” Eddie told him, that soft look still shining in his big brown eyes. “Sounds awesome, actually.”

“If we do something like that...” Steve hesitated for a moment. “Would you be there too?”

Despite the stitches in his cheek, Eddie managed to smile, dimples and all. He raised a pale hand and pulled a strand of his hair across his face, like he was trying to hide something written on the skin around his lips. “I thought that was obvious,” he said with a chuckle.

Steve chuckled as well. “Just needed to be sure,” he admitted.

He stretched out his hand and put it on top of Eddie's, where it was resting on top of the sheets. It only took a few seconds: he gently squeezed Eddie's hand, then pulled back again, still nervous and not quite knowing what exactly they were headed towards. But no matter how short, the touch still sent sparks through his whole body.

“I'm glad you're alive,” he said, softly.

Eddie's smile became just a little bit wider, and a faint blush colored his pale cheeks. “Me too, big boy. Believe me, me too.”

(I wrote this bc this post by @boldlyvoid refused to leave my brain for literal months)

[lovelettersfromluna]

Hanahaki

summary: Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love.

an: trying something new with this one, I hope you all like it. Love you mwah mwah (thank you to the anon who inspired this!!)

Warnings: MDNI!, 18+, eventual smut in future chapters, ANGST (when I mean angst, I mean angst girl), loser!Ellie if you squint, reader is oblivious, mentions of fictional illness/disease, mentions of alternative love interest, alcohol usage, marijuana usage, mentions of death, mentions of vomiting (it isn’t graphic I promise it’s literally just flowers), let me know if I missed anything!

You can read part 2 here!!

The sound of different voices and loud giggles replaced the music that was once filling up the old jeep with music, the two sounds dominating each other, creating something that could only be recognized as a group of young, dumb people. The car was dark, and Ellie couldn’t really see anything, not when you were settled on her lap, blocking her view from the outside through the car windows.

She wasn’t complaining, of course she wasn’t. Her hands were wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to her, squished between two other people in your friend group in the back of the car. She was drunk, and high, and she could faintly smell the ocean with each passing moment, the sea breeze growing closer and filling up the stuffy car.

The wind filling up the car blew your soft hair into Ellie’s face, giving her a whiff of your floral shampoo. She couldn’t help but lean in, giving your hips a gentle squeeze as she pressed her nose to your neck, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin against her lips.

You were always her favorite feeling.

She couldn’t even feel it entirely, but the car has stopped. The only reason she knew, was because she felt the spaces next to her become vacant, her friends laughing loudly as they tumbled out of the car and booked it for the beach, sand kicking behind them, nearly falling over their own feet.

She felt you shift in her lap, a soft smile on your lips, pretty eyes just as hazy as her own.

“You comin’ El?” You asked softly, your words like honey on your tongue, music to Ellie’s ears.

She was in a trance, not having seen your pretty face since you and your friends had left the party you were at, all of you packing yourselves away in a jeep and heading to the beach. Every time you looked at her, giving her that soft smile, and those kind eyes, it was like it was the first time she was seeing you all over again.

And you never failed to leave her speechless, even on the simplest occasions.

A loud bang on the roof of the car made her jump slightly, earning a giggle from you.

“C’mon love birds! Or else I’ll drag you out myself” Ellie could decipher the voice to be a friend of both you and her who was the one who’d driven you all out to the beach in the first place.

You giggled softly, scooting off her lap, taking her wrist in your hand and tugging her out of the car. Ellie could barely feel her feet carrying her behind you, watching as you dragged her out to the beach.

The moon was so bright, illuminating the white sand, and the dark, calm waters. Ellie remembers hearing the waves crashing against each other, and the sounds of your friends arguing, giggling with each other as they tried setting up a bonfire, which she hoped wouldn’t get you guys in trouble. She remembers the feeling of your soft hands wrapped around her wrist, she image of you in front of her in nothing but a pair of old denim shorts and a faded out band t shirt that was probably hers.

She recalls the way you tugged her away from everyone else, it was always like that. Somehow, no matter the situation or the occasion, you and Ellie ended up strayed away from everyone else. At parties, sleepovers, any general outing, it was you and her, and no one else. It was like everyone simply knew to leave you two, that your disappearance with one another was inevitable. You were the ring leader, always grabbing Ellie and pulling her away from everyone, wanting her all to yourself.

It made Ellie’s heart swell every single time.

Your small hands would interlock with hers, and she’d know that she was done for. She was yours entirely, whether you knew it or not.

The sand was cold beneath Ellie’s body, her hands sinking further into the powdery substance, deep inhales coming in through her nostrils, the spinning she once felt in the world around her slowly stopped. Her eyes were on the ground, and yours were up at the sky as you sat next to her.

“Do you think there’s anyone out there doing the exact same thing as us right now?” You hummed out softly, palms settled behind you on the sand as you stared up at the stars.

Ellie raised her eyebrows at your question, a soft chuckle leaving her as she moved her green eyes up to stare at the stars with you, mimicking your position.

“Probably…none are like us though” she sighed out softly.

She’d never say anything like that sober. You were always the bold one between you and her. Ellie was shy, and quiet and she’d always blush like an idiot whenever you’d say things like that, or compliment her, or when you’d do anything, really. But it was true, no one, no matter how similar their situation was to you and her, would never come close to what you and Ellie had.

What you and Ellie had was special, it was like buried treasure. It was something that was hard to find, and it was a connection like no other that had ever existed, or ever would exist, and you and her both knew that.

You were Ellie’s treasure.

You giggled softly, nodding at her words. “I agree…none like us…” you agree, eyes still trained on the blanket of stars above.

Ellie felt your hands wrap around her arm, and tug her down to lay back on the sand. She didn’t make any attempt to stop you, allowing you to do with her as you pleased.

You were both laid down, staring up at the stars in silence, simply enjoying each others company with one another. There were no thoughts, no worries, no overthinking, it was just you and her.

And Ellie loved that most about being with you.

Ellie could hear your breathing slowly evening out, the sound of sleep overcoming was familiar to her in you. You’d always been the one to fall asleep first, Ellie took note of that very early on in your friendship, remembering the many sleepovers you’d have where you’d fallen asleep in record time, making Ellie envious of you.

A soft, sleepy hum left your lips, and she could feel you scoot closer to her, tucking your body into the side of hers, your hand going down and interlocking your fingers with hers, pressing your cheek against your shoulder before you looked up at her.

Ellie felt like she’d break when you looked up at her, eyes big and glossy, lashes webbed together. You’d always had the pettiest eyes she’d ever seen, making her heart stop every single time you looked up at her.

“El…” you whispered softly, barely loud enough for her to hear.

She swallows thickly, nervous to keep eye contact with you, or to even speak, fearing that her voice should deceive her and crack, letting you know just how much of a hold you had on her.

She took a deep inhale before giving you a nod. “Yeah?” She replied softly, her voice shaky.

You simply gave her a soft smile, one of your hands coming up and gently tracing over her features. You traced over the outline of her lips, her nose, her eyebrows, her freckles. Ellie sighed softly as you did so, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into your touch.

A moment passed of this, of you gently touching her face, Ellie close to passing out at any moment from the soft, feather-like touches.

“M’gonna marry you someday….know I will…” you hummed out, your voice dripping with that dreamy, sleepy sound that made it clear how far away you were.

Ellie’s eyes opened at this, her breath hitching in her throat at your confession, your promise. She felt her freckled cheeks burn when she looked down at your sleepy face, a lazy smile on your lips as your eyes grew heavier and heavier with each passing moment.

You had a habit of saying anything that had been plaguing your mind whenever you were tired, in between that blissful state of sleep and wake. It got even worse when you were high, Ellie knew that. You’d admitted the most outrageous things when you were like that.

But never anything like this.

She didn’t even have time to respond, because your eyes were already closed, lips parted as soft snores escaped.

She inhaled deeply, turning her head back to stare up at the sky, trying her best to ignore the burning feeling in her stomach, in her chest, in her heart. It was everywhere, eating her up and demanding to be acknowledged.

You, her best friend that she’d been in love with almost her entire life, had promised to marry her someday.

It was something Ellie knew would follow her for the rest of her life, for as long as she lived. She didn’t know whether to hate you for it, or to love you for it.

Ellie had know about her feelings for you for a very long time.

She’d go as far as to say it was something along the lines of love at first sight, but she didn’t want to be dramatic.

It was a classic story of playground love, the two of you meeting at a very young age, practically babies, and becoming inseparable from that point on.

Maybe it was the way you had no problems with tugging on the little girls pigtail that kept bullying her. Looking back at it, the kid probably had a crush on her in all honesty, but you had a zero bullshit tolerance policy, even at the age of six years old.

Or maybe it was the way she didn’t hesitate to punch the kid in the nose that pushed you off the swing during recess. It seemed she too had a zero bullshit tolerance policy.

It was always like that. You protected each other, you from idiot boys that picked on you, and her from dumb little girls who were still navigating their feelings, and in that came the bully’s that they grew to be.

So yeah, you and Ellie were stuck to the hip from the moment she could remember. In all of her earliest memories, you were there, a big smile on your face, always rooting for her.

Ellie was a shy kid. Sure, she had a mouth to tell off an idiot whenever she needed to, but she liked being alone. The only person she really liked spending time with was her dad, and what’s wrong with that? Her dad was fucking cool.

You were the complete opposite. You were bright, and loud and confident. You brought colors to Ellie’s life. You talked, and she listened.

And Ellie didn’t want it any other way.

It was like this all throughout school, and into college. You two followed the same education path of course, refusing to be without one another during the cruelest times of a persons life, the disgusting transfer from the life of a child to the life of an adult.

She figured if she was going to be miserable, she’d be miserable with you by her side.

It was like a dream, having you so often? She has the privilege of keeping you by her side all throughout her childhood, and now she had you by her side through her adulthood.

Ellie wanted you all to to herself. She was selfish, she knew that, but how could she help herself? You’d been hers for so long, there was no chance she’d give you up now.

Ellie recalls a rainy night in her car. It was cold, and it was so miserable out that she had no choice but to wait it out a bit before taking you home.

It was a routine night for you two. She didn’t have class that day, so she’d pick you up from your last one, and you’d sleep over at her apartment for the night since it was the weekend.

She looked over at you, soft hums to the quiet music playing in her car coming from your body, your head resting against the window as you drew little patterns with the condensation that had grown on the window.

“What’s on your mind, babe?” Ellie questioned softly.

You weren’t usually that quiet. You always had so much to tell Ellie when she picked you up, or any case for that matter. You were a little fireball, always beaming with something knew you’d learned that day, the grade you got from your professor, or the latest class gossip that you just had to share with Ellie.

But not that day. You were too quiet, made Ellie feel strange.

You hummed softly in response, turning towards her with raised eyebrows. The hoodie you had on framed your face cutely, a few strands of your hair poking out and laying against it. Your eyeliner had bled out a bit throughout the day, Ellie thought you looked pretty either way, though. Your head was resting against the seat, a soft smile on your face as you shook your head.

“Nothin…I just…” you tried, finding it hard to explain yourself.

You let out a gentle huff before turning your body towards Ellie a bit more. The car was dark, the only thing illuminating your face was the street light in the parking lot that you two were in. She could see that your features were soft, tranquil. You looked so genuinely happy, and that expression alone made Ellie’s heart burst with a warmth that consumed her so much, it was almost too much.

“I’ve met someone, El” you admitted, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you bit back and excited smile, eyes twinkling in the dim light of her car, glimmering with a kind of happiness that Ellie had never seen before in you.

She felt her chest heave, pain suddenly blooming throughout her body.

It’s something she’s never felt before. It’s ugly, and nasty, and raw. It feels like when you have a cold, and your lungs are in a constant state of disgust, that gross sore feeling spreading throughout them. She feels exasperated, like you’ve just broken the worst news she could’ve ever received on a rainy Friday night.

You frown softly, a gentle pout on your lips as you reach over, grabbing her arm gently and giving her a shake.

“Ellie? Did you hear what I said?” You ask softly, trying to break your friend away from whatever has a hold on her.

But she’s frozen, and she can feel her eyes burning from a lack of blinking, and from the tears that are prickling at the back of her throat. She could feel the way you grabbed her, shaking her gently, it almost isn’t enough to bring her back from her own personal state of hell that your words have sent her to, a place where you’re gone, taken away by someone else.

Someone that isn’t her.

It does anyways. She blinks her eyes a few times, clearing her throat as her eyes focused on you. She gives you a nod, green eyes big and wide like she’s seen a ghost.

You giggled softly, moving back to rest your head against the seat as you stared at her.

“Been meaning to tell you…she’s…she’s so great, Ellie…she makes me feel…” you let out a dreamy sigh, your eyes drifting down to look at your hand, which is toying with the bracelet around your wrist, a shy smile on your face as you practically beamed down at it.

Ellie’s eyes silently follow, catching eye of the way your sweater pushed up a bit to reveal the little pink rope that’s around your wrist. She’d never seen it, and it’s perched right under the bracelet that Ellie had made you when you two were kids. Hers is blue and purple, and far prettier in her opinion.

Her heart hurts at the sight of someone else’s bracelet on your pretty wrist.

She stared down at it for a while before her eyes drift up to your face. She could see the warmth spread across your face, radiating from your chest, from your fucking soul. It’s like the you’re smiling down at the fucking bracelet is making you so warm, that it’s warming up the car and wafting Ellie in the face.

It’s love. Ellie can see it.

And you deserve it. God, you’ve always fucking deserved it. You deserve a great big house, someone who loves you dearly coming home to you every night, showering you in all of the love and affection that you have ever wanted and needed. You deserve someone who shows you off, someone who’s proud of everything you do, even the small, stupid things that don’t fucking matter. You deserve someone who cherish you every day as if you’re a fucking gem, a one of a kind gem that only appears once every thousand years.

But fuck…Ellie always wished that person would’ve been her.

She knows she can’t dwell on it, because you’re simply doing what any young person looking for love does. You went out and found someone else, you found someone that makes you smile like that, the way you were smiling across from Ellie in her car.

She can’t be selfish, not now.

Ellie inhales deeply before she puts on her best, most believable smile, freckled cheeks rounding out as she gave you a nod.

“She sounds great…you’ve gotta introduce us someday” she sighed out softly, putting on her best cover up to hide the disappointment she felt deep within her soul.

It’s the way your face beamed even further when you looked up at her, eyes twinkling like the brightest star, the most expensive diamond in the fucking world, that makes Ellie weak in the goddam knees. It’s like all you’ve wanted was her approval, like the main thing holding you back from telling her about the lucky girl that has her heart, is fear that she wouldn’t approve of her.

And that look, further cemented Ellie’s decision in swallowing down her stupid feelings, and ignoring the hammering pain in her lungs.

“Yeah…yeah I will” you promised, giving her a nod, that big, beautiful smile still on your lips.

Ellie can barely bring herself to indulge in the pain she feels, because you looked so fucking happy, and that’s all she’d ever wanted, was for you to be fucking happy.

She smiled back at you, giving a nod before she craned her neck down a bit, looking up at the sky and seeing that the rain had gone from a heavy pour, to a subtle drizzle.

Ellie gave soft hum, nodding to herself as she turned the key to her car to turn it on.

“Looks like it’s let up a bit…let’s get you home-“ her words were cut off but a nasty cough ratting through her lungs, worse than any cold or any blunt had every brought to her. She brought her fist up to her lips, covering it up. It brought tears to her eyes, made her cheeks red. You frowned deeply at the sight, bringing your hand up to rub her back gently.

“Shit…you catching a cold, El?” You questioned softly, concern laced in your words.

Ellie cleared her throat, shaking her head as she straightened her back out.

“Nah…all the smoking I’ve done is probably catching up to me” she joked with a soft chuckle before she looked at you, giving you a soft smile.

“Let’s get you home” she hummed out softly before she pulled out of the parking lot and began making her way to your apartment, not hers.

At first, Ellie didn’t really think much of it.

She assumed that she was simply coming down with a cold, or her excuse to you was right. Maybe all the blunts she’d smoked had finally caught up with her. Her father had always told her they would.

She had thought of everything. The flu, pneumonia, bronchitis, everything in the goddamn book, but every time she went to her doctor with the concern of any of them, he simply shrugged, gave her a gentle smile and told her she was as healthy as could be.

But the cough never got better.

It was annoying at first, her throat was scratchy, and most days she’d be able to simply clear her throat to alleviate the discomfort. Cough drops would help, a cup of tea her and there, soothing the ache she felt her and there throughout the day.

But then? Came the flowers.

Ellie almost keeled over and died when one day she was having a particularly violent coughing fit, forcing her to stay in from class. When she looked down into the her tissue and she saw a few pieces of…something? Little pieces of something pink and white, a bit withered. she flinched, throwing the napkin on her coffee table.

At first, it looked like she’d coughed up a peace of her fucking lungs. She wasn’t sure who to call, her dad? 911? Fucking poison control? She wasn’t even sure that it was even possible to cough up an entire piece of her body.

After a few moments, she figured she had to further inspect the foreign objects to figure out just what it was that had exited her body. She reached down with shaky hands, her eyebrows furrowed with concern, picked up the tissue and opened it up.

She squinted her eyes a bit as she looked down at the little things, trying to figure out what the fuck could leave a persons body that looks like it. Her eyes went wide when she touched it, realizing what they were.

Flower petals.

Ellie thought she might’ve been hallucinating at first. Maybe she took an edible and forgot or something, or maybe the cough medicine was making her trip balls, because flower petals? There’s no fucking way, right?

Apparently she was wrong. There was a way, and a quick google search was filled with something that Ellie didn’t want to find.

All she had to do that night, was look up her symptoms, and she was finally faced with why her lingering cough had been so lingering, and what had caused it.

Hanahaki disease.

It was an illness that affected those with a broken heart, those who experienced unrequited love, which resulted in a painful cough that brought up a never ending supply of flower petals. It would explain the constant lingering taste of perfume that Ellie had suddenly found was impossible to get out of her mouth, and it would explain the fact that this so called ‘cold’ of hers that she had wouldn’t go away, and only had a cough with no other symptoms.

It made Ellie realize, that the night that all of this started, was the night that you told her you’d found somebody else, and it suddenly made so much sense.

Ellie was coughing up fucking flowers, because you didn’t love her.

After finding out what it was that she was diagnosed with, the second step was to find a cure, which she found to be much harder than finding the disease itself.

Finding a cure only came with various medical articles of people who had suffered from the same disease that she was suffering from. All people experiencing the same pain and heartache that she’d been carrying for so long.

All of which, had died.

Each and every other person who had this disease, had passed away from the disease, ultimately dying from a lack of love from the person they wanted.

This scared Ellie.

However, recent study had shown a new surgery that was available with those who suffered from the disease. One that would remove the flowers from the lungs and stop the cough entirely.

But it would also remove any and all feelings that the person with the disease had for the person they loved.

So, Ellie had two choices. Either she let the disease linger until she fucking died, or she could get the surgery, live, and never have you in her life again, not like before at least.

She had a big decision to make.

That night, Ellie cried. She curled up in a little ball in her bed, her pillow pressed against her face as she muffled out her noises, and she cried. She was in pain, and she was hurting, and she wanted it all to go away.

She wished you’d love her, she wished you would’ve just noticed how much she wanted you, how she was the right one for you all this time. It made her angry, and confused and annoyed, because what did she do to deserve this? To deserve this godforsaken illness that she had never fucking asked for.

And as she cried, and screamed and groaned out for the pain to go away, she heard her phone go off. She grabbed it, a soft sniffle leaving her nose as her tear filled eyes stared up at the bright screen of her phone.

It was you.

Loser!!! I rlly hope you didn’t forget to come and get me

I’m sleeping over tonight remember???

Come and get me soon hehe :p miss u

And although Ellie was in pain, and her heart was hurting. She’d never, ever say no to you.

She could live with the cough for a little bit longer, as long as it meant she got to be with you.

Ellie was only getting worse.

Months had gone by, and before she knew it, it had almost been a year with this goddamn disease that she had.

Her doctor had put her on some medication, which basically suppressed the cough only slightly. She still experienced handfuls of flower petals hacking up her throat every time she coughed. He urged her to get the surgery, telling her that without it, her condition could become life threatening.

But she couldn’t. She needed more time with you.

That’s the deal she had made with herself. She would get the surgery after she’d had enough time with you, allowing herself to make lasting memories with you when soon, she’d feel nothing for you at all.

But it was never enough time.

She wanted you always. Day, night, morning, evening, whatever the time she wanted you.

And things were fine. She had hoped you didn’t notice her health slowly deteriorating, she’d hoped you didn’t notice the bags under her eyes or the way the color had been sucked from her skin. You never questioned it, so she hoped that was all true.

She ignored the girl you’d met. After that night in her car, you and that girl never separated. You tried telling Ellie about it from time to time, and Ellie had even met her a few times. Her name was Jen, and she was the furthest fucking thing from Ellie, which only further solidified how unrequited her love was.

It hurt, because Jen was great. She was so kind, and beautiful, and she clearly treated you the way Ellie knew you needed to be treated. Ellie wished she could’ve hated her, she wished she was a shit girlfriend so that she could talk you out of being with her.

But she couldn’t, because Jen was perfect for you.

Ellie ignored it all, treating the times that she had with you as if it was only you and her in the world. She always had, but now it was different, now it was pretty crucial that she had these moments with you, even if you didn’t know the half of it.

You never pulled away, or became distant due to the new aspect of your life that was your relationship. You made time for everyone in your family, and you made time for Ellie. It was all too perfect, the way you handled it all. You never abandoned her, or made her feel left out.

Your friendship had never changed with Ellie, it stayed the same throughout everything.

But her condition was getting harder and harder to hide. She had to constantly rush to the bathroom when she felt the burning in her lungs, and the smell of flowers fill her nose and her mouth, muffling her coughs with a towel. She had gone from coughing up a few petals to what could only be described as an entire fucking bouquet.

It was hard, having to hide it from you. She knew that if there was anyone that could help her through this, through one of the hardest and most painful times of her life, it was you. You would’ve been there by her side, staying up every night that she was having coughing fits to help her, nursing her back to health. You always had, whenever she was sick, you were there, playing nurse while Ellie groaned and pouted for you. She became so needy when she was ill.

But she couldn’t, not when you were the one that caused this.

She knew you’d drop everything for her, and abandon everyone else for a lost cause, because no matter how much medicine you gave her, no matter how much you held her in her sleep, the disease that plagued Ellie had no cure that you could bring.

Other than loving her back.

Ellie sighed softly as she walked through the door of her apartment, pushing her headphones off of her head and letting them rest on her neck. The weather was finally warming up, and she could only hope that the warmth would treat her cough a bit kinder than the cold did, which she knew deep down was merely wishful thinking.

She meant to text you that week, having not heard from you in a bit, which was very unlike you.

She bent down, picking up the mail that laid on her entrance way mat, sifting through the bills and various envelopes that had her name on it. She was quick to toss them to the side, perfectly fine with waiting until she had the energy to read them all properly.

But she stopped when she saw a pretty, powder pink envelope with your writing on the front, her name written out so perfectly.

Why the hell were you sending her a letter?

A nasty cough rattled through her chest, and she almost laughed because it had gotten to a point where any mention of, even in the confides of her own mind, brought on a coughing fit these days. Even the sight of your writing made the ugly sound rake through her lungs.

Pathetic.

She sighed softly, moving to her couch and tossing her backpack to the side. She sat down, ring clad fingers turning the envelope around to tear it open.

The paper inside is thick, it feels expensive, like those fancy cards you get for birthdays from old people that don’t know any better but to buy their grandkids the best shit.

It has little embroidery’s on the edges, and it’s lined with the smallest strip of silver. It’s all written in cursive, and her eyes scan over it for a moment, eyebrows furrowed at whatever the fuck it was that you had randomly sent her in the mail.

But her heart is stopping, and her eyes are going wide once they finally focus on the bigger words at the top.

It’s a wedding invitation.

It’s your wedding invitation.

In her hands, Ellie was holding yours and Jen’s wedding invitation.

And she suddenly can’t breathe. There’s a burning in her chest, and she’s faced with the most intense coughing fit she’s experienced in her entire fucking life. It doesn’t stop, and it isn’t even giving her a chance to breath. She can feel her lungs shaking at how violent it is, and she suddenly throws the invitation down and she’s rushing to the bathroom, hunching over the toilet where her coughing turns into vomiting.

Her vision is blurred with tears, but she can make out the image of the familiar petals filling up the bowl, rattling through her body and making it hard to breath. She’s choking, and crying, and heaving, and it’s the worst thing she’s felt in her entire life.

She feels like it won’t end, like she’ll die right then and there, but she doesn’t. It stops, and she’s left sobbing as she falls back, her back hitting the bathroom wall, knees coming up as she holds herself, her sobs and cries bouncing off the bathroom walls, loud enough to surly be heard throughout her entire floor.

It’s that night, the night where she received your wedding invitation, that Ellie scheduled the surgery date, because she can’t do this anymore.

She needs to let you go.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it? 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen PT I & II. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

TWO: G & G.

You know that there are those in the world who strike fear into people’s hearts and souls.

But you’ve never seen anyone react to a single human being the way they do the duo that struts into the bar in their leather cowboy boots. 

You’ve never seen the saloon so quiet and still before then when the duo steps into the scene. A tumbleweed could blow by with how silent it is.

Everyone’s eyes stay planted on the tall, handsome men oozing with confidence and intimidation standing among the swinging doors, appearing like sexy phantoms in the night.

There stands Geto Suguru, the 6’4 long-haired gunslinger with the perfect, black locks that cascade down his broad shoulders and back, seductive eyes, and skillful hands that he hides behind two riding gloves.

He usually is seen riding a black Bronco that is just as big as him and sporting a black cape with black riding pants, boots, and a low-brim cowboy hat. Black fits him so damn well. The only thing that isn’t black on him is the red vest that is so low-cut that you can see the outline of his pecs. 

Beside him is his partner (and lover as it’s rumored) Gojo Satoru, the lean, confident, cocky, blindfolded bandit standing at 6’3 with snow-white hair, a sly smile, leather gloves that hide some skillful and deadly hands, and a blindfold covering his eyes that have never been seen but are said to make a man go cold with fear where he stands.

In contrast to Geto, the white-haired cowboy is doused in colors: a denim jacket that matches his slacks where a star-shaped belt buckle hangs from his crotch; brown boots with spurs; a red bandana wrapped around his neck; and a white cowboy hat sits low on his head. He, too, has his own horse: a brown Bronco that is recognizable from its hooves clicking across the ground.  

They are a match made in heaven and hell. Handsome, skillful, and deadly. They are known for their impressive yet terrifying speed when it comes to cocking and shooting their pistols. You’ve heard of them killing all kinds of wanted criminals and even other gunslingers in other counties.

Everyone knows them and so do you. 

If a record was playing, the damn thing would be scratching by now with the way the saloon reacts to seeing the gunslingers in the flesh. Whispers begin to rise from the silence, including from Yuki, Mai, and Maki who have wandered over. “Oh, my God,” Mai gasps. “It’s the Gunslingers!” 

“What the hell are they doin’ here?” Maki wonders aloud, peering at them from behind her spectacles. “Are they lookin’ for someone? I thought they had been arrested!” 

And they did, last year. At some point, the articles of gunslingers, corporation owners, and high rollers found dead with bullets in them and a note from “G & G” left at the scene stopped when they were arrested after that train heist. And you know it has everything to do with their connection to your boss. 

“Who cares?” Yuki dreamily sighs as she stares at the gunslingers with heart eyes. “I get to admire them in person now! Aren’t they delicious?” 

“Keep it in your pants, Yuki,” Choso grumbles, tugging on a lock of the blonde’s hair as she giggles. “They ain’t even all that.” 

“Of course not,” Yuki purrs, making Choso blush. “Not above you, Chosi, but a cowboy hat would do you so well!”

Even you will admit that the “wanted dead or alive” posters don’t do them justice: they are fine as all hell, straight out of a woman’s wet dreams. But they are also outlaws. And you despise outlaws…for personal reasons. 

The duo begins to look around the silent saloon, Gojo’s head slowly turning despite his blindfold. When his head turns toward you, you feel as if the air has been stolen from your very lungs. Despite the fabric covering his eyes, you feel as if he sees you. All of you. 

Gojo nudges Geto with his elbow before waltzing over to the bar, his boots thudding across the hardwood floor. Geto follows, ignoring the whispers and stares in their wake. The piano has begun to pick up again, but it does nothing to ease the tension swimming in the air. Quickly, you turn to face your drink while the girls scatter to work, leaving you to fend for yourself. 

Geto sits on the stool beside you while Gojo takes the one beside him. You feel the air around you become stiff and tense as the cowboys settle into their seats. “So what’s a cowboy gotta do to get a drink round here?” Gojo asks with a smirk. “Can ya help a guy out, miss?”

He gives Shoko a flirty look, not knowing that this girl is gay as hell. “I could damn sure try,” she replies, barely giving him a smile. “What will you fellas have?” 

“I’ll take a Long Island iced tea,” Gojo says then laughs. “Just kiddin’! A beer, please.”

Geto takes a moment to examine the shelves of alcohol behind Shoko. He then looks at your pretty drink. “I’ll take what the lady is havin’,” he answers. “Actually, what is that you got there, miss?” 

His dark, enchanting eyes meet yours and you ignore the butterflies they invoke inside of you. “Whiskey smash,” you blandly reply.

He hums thoughtfully at the name. “Hm…is it good?” You tick your eyes at him briefly, secretly admiring his features. “If you like your whiskey with some sweetness to it, sure.”

A slow smirk appears on his face. “Oh, I definitely do,” he drawls. “I like sweetness with my everything.” 

You swallow hard, so sure you have a cherry pit in your throat. Gojo chuckles from beside his partner, flashing you a white-toothed smile. “Oooh, me too. I’ll third that order, ma’am!” Shoko nods and shoots you a look before wandering off to fix the drinks. 

You do your best to keep calm and act normal, sipping your drink and trying to relax. At some point, the silence becomes thicker, prompting one of the gunslingers to speak on it. “Welcomin’ place,” Gojo sniggers. “I feel so at home.”

Geto quietly chuckles from between you and Gojo. “Let’s just settle, Satoru. We won’t be here long.” 

‘Settle what?’ you wonder, but you know that they are here for Kento. Shoko comes back with the frothy, red drinks, lowering them in front of the gunslingers. 

“Thank you kindly,” Gojo chirps before taking a sip. Geto nods his thanks but doesn’t drink his right away. Instead, he goes into his pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and slides it across the bar to Shoko. “I don’t suppose you know who this guy is,” he says. 

You peek down at the paper, finding it to be a “Wanted” poster with your BF and boss looking back at you. Kenzo aka “Valentine” looks much different than when you met him. On the poster, he is clean and shaven, has longer, shaggier hair, and has a distinguished scar on his left eye.

But of course, this is the gunslinger who robbed people blind and just pulled a train heist and massacre in the town of Cherrywood a year before with his crew, Geto, and Gojo. The man who takes his place now is Kenzo, a humble saloon owner who sometimes dabbles in illegal activity to fund his saloon.  

Valentine, a criminal on the lamb and your outlaw boyfriend, is known for using his looks, charm, and violence to get what he wants. He is a man who loves money, women, and jewels. As a notorious criminal and outlaw, he has bounced from place to place, county to county, robbing folks and then laying low before starting again. 

He was arrested for robbing the Cherrywood regional train and having his crew massacre all of its employees and riders before you met him. Originally, he was given a fifty-year sentence but escaped after serving five weeks just by seducing a male prison guard and then knocking him out to steal the cell keys. 

You were hot on his trails when he showed up Blackwater a year later and met you in a whorehouse that you purposely took a job in since he frequented those. He took one look at you and immediately fell in love with you (and your body), proposing you a job at his saloon. “You could be mine,” he told you. “My girl.” You agreed and the rest is history. 

“I’ve heard of him, yes,” Shoko replies as she cleans a glass. 

“Is it possible you’ve seen him around?” Geto ponders aloud. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but he escaped Cherrywood a year ago after robbin’ a train and massacrin’ everyone in it. He’s wanted in about nine different counties.”

Shoko takes another brief look at the poster before someone flags her down from down at the bar. Saved by the bell. “I can’t say I have seen him, fellas,” she apologetically says. “‘Scuse me.” 

She hurries off, leaving you with the two cowboys. “How about you, ma’am?” Geto asks, passing the poster to you. “You recognize this face by any chance?” You look down, studying Valentine’s face.

You have, but first, you need to read these guys. “I’ve seen him in the posters, but not in person. May I ask why you two are here?” 

You keep it casual and curious, making sure you don’t sound too suspicious. “We were paid by a private source to track down Valentine for his crimes,” Geto vaguely explains. 

“And for personal business,” Gojo adds with a smirk. “You see, we were in, uh…business with Valentine some time ago and never got our cut.”

He doesn’t need to go any more into detail than that. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “We don’t like bein’ played with,” he says, his voice dipping an octave, sending a chill down your spine. “Or when someone’s money is funny, so we came here to exchange words with him.” 

‘Words or bullet?’ you want to ask, but you instead bite your tongue and sip your drink. 

“We’ve been told he was last seen in this town,” Geto explains. “We figured everyone comes to saloons so why not check here?” He slides the poster away from you, a kind yet flirty smile crossing his beautiful face. “But even if he isn’t, we can still enjoy a drink with a pretty lady.” 

You roll your eyes, having heard that line before. “Does that line work with all the girls?” you scoff. Gojo coughs up his whiskey as he laughs, but Geto doesn’t take it to heart. In fact, he chuckles.  “I see not with you,” he replies. 

“I like that,” Gojo states once he’s recovered, his blindfolded eyes set dead on you. “You’ve gotta be the first person who isn’t scared of us or tryin’ to jump in bed with us.”

You passively shrug, twirling your tongue around the rim of the glass. “I’ve been around gunslingers in my time.” 

At this, the duo share a look unbeknownst to you, quite interested in the pretty thing sitting with them at the bar. “Oh, really?” Gojo drawls and you realize your mistake. “Any of these encounters you’d care to share, little lady? I’m quite interested.”

Geto nods, his gaze like molten fire. “I am too.” 

You suddenly feel your mouth grow dry and your cheeks become hot. Your body reacts in a way it never has with any man you’ve been with, not even your first love! The way they continue to stare at you, giving you their undivided and unwanted attention, is even worse.

What is wrong with you?

Luckily, your boss comes to the rescue, barreling up to the bar like he wasn’t watching the duo from afar and shaking in his boots. 

“Oh, gentlemen!” he shouts, giving them both a hard, eager handshake. “Welcome, welcome! Can I offer you two another drink or a dance free of charge?”

Gojo ignores him like he isn’t even talking, leaving Geto to handle this. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, plastering on a kind smile. “We’re here for some information about him.” 

He passes Kenzo the poster and you watch in real time as the color in your boyfriend’s face drains. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?” Geto asks, squinting at him.

Gojo peers at him from under his hat, his stare intense even with the blindfold covering his eyes. Kenzo clears his throat and leans in to whisper to Geto. You pretend to ignore them though you secretly strain to hear. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers. “Even the walls have ears, I’m afraid.” 

Geto nods and nudges to Gojo who sighs and downs the rest of his drink. To your shock, Geto puts a hand out to you for a shake. Though hesitantly, you take his hand and feel the room grow hotter than a sauna when he places a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It was a pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am,” he softly says. “Hopefully, we’ll cross paths again.” 

His eyes gleam as he tips his hat at you, leaving Gojo to follow Kenzo upstairs. Gojo doesn’t follow right away, instead digging into his pocket for some coins and placing them on the bar in front of you. “For your drinks and yours,” he says with a crooked smile. “Have a good night, little miss.” 

Then, just like Geto, he leaves as if he didn’t just steal the air you breathe with it. It takes a moment to get your head back, but once you do, you down the rest of your drink and get up from your seat. Shoko catches your eye and gives you a look, her eyes telling you a message: 

“Don’t get caught,” she warns you. “And don’t get killed.” 

You nod, blowing her a kiss, before following your boss and the duo upstairs.

[blackdollette]

idk if youve already done sum like this buttt, fem reader is a pole dancer and jack or euro pay for a private lap dance or sum and reader gives him a lil somethin more when they alone 😝

since yall voted for euronymous!

"i drop it like it's hot on the pole." | euronymous

midnight dancer girlfriend. - lana del rey

✮⋆˙ [tags] @faesucksass @lustkillers @mayathepsychic1999 @josibunn @si1nful-symph0ny @vanlisbon @livingdead-reilly @oliviah-25 @lankysimp @auggiethecreator @livingdead-materialgirl @monkeyfart

stripper!female!reader x euronymous

word count: 1.6k

contents: pole dancing, striptease, teasing, masturbation, fingering, public sex, unprotected sex, squirting, slight overstimulation, a little aftercare

euronymous’ eyes were locked on you from afar. you could feel the burn of his stare along with at least one hundred pairs of other eyes that couldn’t remove their eyes from your body. you effortlessly slid down the pole, your hair flowing and perfectly covering your illuminated face as your black leather skirt lifted a little, leaving almost nothing to the imagination of all those who gawked at you from the crowd. awestruck men couldn’t help but throw dollar bills onto the stage as a token of appreciation for the show you were putting on.

euronymous sat at the bar in the corner, slowly sipping from his beer, the cold glass bottle chilling his pale fingertips. he had ended up at the club on a late saturday night, craving a different kind of excitement than his usually rowdy concert scene. and boy, did he get exactly what he was looking for. he had been lured in the second you walked onto the stage, and decided to make himself comfortable as you discarded your pieces of clothing one by one until you were left in your lacy black bra, matching panties, and a tight skirt to keep the crowd thirsting for more.

he watched a bead of sweat drip down your neck, rolling in your cleavage before disappearing into your bra’s fabric. he wanted to lick those droplets while you had your hands in his hair, moving up and down on his cock as you screamed out moans of ecstasy. he began to feel extremely overdressed in his leather jacket and dark jeans, especially as his manhood pressed against the tight denim. 

the lights in the club went red-tinted magenta as you flipped upside down on the pole, spreading your legs in a perfect split before getting yourself back on your feet, kicking off your heels as money rained down onto the stage. your stage. the undeniable flush in your cheeks from the thrill made you look all the more enticing. like a succubus on earth that was delivered as a blessing to whoever laid eyes on you. you were glowing underneath the electric pink light. truly a tempting sight that implemented sinful thoughts into the minds of everyone who saw. you got on your knees, running a hand through your hair. 

you held a hand out to the crowd, silently asking for a drink. mulitple people held out their beers, desperate to have their bottles touched by your lips. you snagged a bottle, throwing your head back as your took a greedy gulp from it, a waterfall of liquid pouring down your neck and chest, earning a roar of cheers as you handed the bottle back to the lucky man, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim. he took it, hugging it to his chest as his face lit up like he had just won the lottery. you had seen people sell things you’d touched outside the club. you knew they went crazy for shit like that.

euronymous’ body trembled as you crawled across the floor, saying your hips in a way that was enough to make him run mad as you collected all the cash, stuffing the bills into your bra and a few into the lace of your panties, just barely peeking out. his eyes trailed down your curves, starting at the tops of your breasts and trailing down to your hips. he wanted to run his hand down your body while you were lying on your back with two of his fingers shoved deep inside of you. you brought your hands to the back of your bra, and that did it for him. he called the bartender, trying to get the words out of his tightening throat.

“what can i get for you, sir? another beer?” the bartender spoke loudly over the music while he cleaned a glass. euronymous cleared his throat, trying to sound like the “terror incarnate” that he’d forgotten he was. “i-i wanna book tonight’s dancer for some alone time.” his voice sounded more squeaky than he’d like it to. “alright then, sir. ill just need you to sign this sheet.” the bartender pulled out a leaf of paper and placed it on the counter in front of him, handing euro a pen. the paper had the words “private sessions” in bold at the top of the page with the price right below it. €100 per session. but he was too horny to give a fuck. he saw your name and an open time on a line at the bottom, a space for a signature. he picked up the pen with his clammy hand and messily scribbled down his signature, slamming the money onto the counter and returning the sheet. the bartender looked at him with a satisfied smile before pinning the paper in the wall. so euronymous was finally going to get you alone. perfect.

~ ~ ~

that was 30 minutes ago, and now euronymous found himself in one of the club’s backrooms, sitting on a little bed as he fidgetted, waiting for you. his scheduled time was 9:30pm, and it was currently 9:29. he mindlessly studied the mattress, a variation of cumstains littering the blanket. now he really knew what he was in for tonight, and his mind raced with disgusting thoughts that would be frowned upon if he was anywhere else. the sound of the door closing interrupted his thoughts, and there you were. you were all sweaty and tired, but somehow that only made you more alluring to him. you had slipped a jacket onto your skimpy outfit, granting you a little more modesty.

you locked eyes with him immediately, frozen in place by his appearance. you had never seen someone like him at a place like this before. his long, midnight black hair contrasted his snow white skin that made way for crystal blue eyes. he was like a fairy tale mixed with your darkest nightmares. he sized you up hungrily, and you felt heat pooling in your core. you broke the silent, a grin tugging at your lips. “so i’ve got you for the night…” euro’s groin sizzled at your hint of possessiveness, which he instantly found he liked. your voice was low and smoky, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would sound like when he pounds into you, making you cum for the umpteenth time as you whimpered out his name. you walked around the room, lighting a few candles before glancing at him once again.

“i don’t see many guys like you around these parts.” you come to sit on the bed beside him, checking out his body from a closer distance. he was jacked. you could easily make out his defined biceps through his leather jacket, and you could see his nipples sticking from his thin black tank top. you seemed slightly amused at his silence. “you dont talk much, huh? that’s fair. what’s your name?” he cleared his throat. “euronymous, lead guitarist of Mayhem. call me oystein.” your expression grew sly at the mention of this. you casually crawled into his lap, slipping off your jacket and his. you sat down with your legs on either side of him, resting yourself right on top of his aching boner.

a barely audible groan slipped from his lips as his eyes instantly fell to your tits. he so desperately wanted to tear the bra off of you and take them into his mouth, pinching and biting at your nipples until they were all red and sensitive. you held his hands, bring them to your hips so that he was gently straddling your ass. you brought your lips to his ears, whispering softly enough to turn his bones into putty. “you know… i don’t think i’ve ever been fucked by a rockstar…” as his hands touched you, you felt the callouses on his fingers, and you pussy throbbed at the thought of those fingers curling inside of you, making you squirt over and over again. 

the room fell silent as you turned around, your head by his feet and your ass pressing right against his knotted stomach. you unbuttoned your skirt, adding it to the pile of clothes on the ground. and there it was. those curvy hips, plush thighs, and round rear that had caught his eyes at the very start. goddamnit, he would cum right now if he couldn’t get himself together. you start to grind your hips against him, your clothed pussy coming into contact with his boner every now and then. he leaned back onto the bedframe, starting to really enjoy the show. he didn’t even realize his hitching breath growing louder.

you kept your back in a perfect arch as you continued to tease him, rubbing your hard clit against his belt buckle as he gave your ass a squeeze, followed by a firm slap that make your ass jiggle. the movement made his heart jump. he began to get touchy, slipping his thumb in between your legs as he gently rubbed your pussy through the fabric. he was instantly coated in your juices as a quiet moan slipped from your lips. then you started to pick up the pace.

you sat back up, turning to face him. you backed away a few feet before reaching your hands to the clasp of your bra, unclipping it in one swift movement. your tits were revealed to him in an instant, your nipples brushed to stiff peaks by the cold air. you tossed your bra to him and he caught it effortlessly, starting to unbuckle his belt. he tossed it to the side, unzipping his jeans. his cock sprung out and slapped the base of his stomach, leaving a drop of precum behind. he wrapped your bra around his dick, starting to pump it as quicker cum dribbled from the tip.

“o-oh, fuck…” heat coiled in his gut as you slipped your thumbs underneath the band on your panties. you kicked them off your ankles, now sitting completely nude in front of this hungry predator. “y-you’re fuckin’ perfect…” he brought a hand forward to start pulling you to him, bringing you to sit on his lap once again. he wasted no time connecting your lips in a dirty kiss, his tongue tracing your teeth and locking with your tongue as he brought his fingers to your swollen clit, using your cum as lubricant as he rubbed quick circles onto it. you moaned into the kiss, bucking your hips into him as you covering his fingers with your liquids.

he flipped you around so that you were laying on your back. he was now face-to-face with your perfect little pussy. he dug his teeth into it, hungrily lapping up every single droplet that your folds produced. he shoved two fingers into you, them sliding in with ease as he curled them. he hit your cervix within seconds, and you completely lost it. you were screaming, crying out his name as you rutted your hips against his nose, the tip bringing more stimulation than anything else. your hands were tangled in his hair, digging into it as your sensitive bud began to pulsate. “j-just like that, oystein..! i’m fuckin’ cumming!” he forced your legs apart even more, his hips helplessly bucking into the mattress as puddles of cum formed underneath him. his face was covered with your nasty fluids, but he had never been happier. as his fingers hit your g-spot once more, the floodgates broke open. you screamed as water rushed out of you, drenching his hair and face. he stuck out his tongue, drinking you up and not letting a single drop go to waste.

he flipped you over again, making you sit on his lap as he locked his lips with yours, backing into the headboard. he lifted up your hips and set you onto his cock, finally granting himself some relief. “s-so fucking tight!” you began to ride him, holding onto his shoulders for dear life. he grinned as he groaned breathlessly, growing needier by the second. he began to take off his tank top, revealing himself to you. but your eyes were screwed shut as they filled with lustful tears. he grabbed your throat, hungrily kissing your neck as your body started to shake. “...all fuckin’ mine, baby…” his words made your skin vibrate as you felt that familiar feeling polluting your insides.

“g-gonna cum again..!” your words were cut short as another powerful orgasm tore through your body. your cum poured out like a waterfall, covering his as hot strings shot out from his tip. he growled like a wild beast as he filled you up, stuffing you with warmth. you collapsed onto your side, panting heavily as cum leaked out from your hole and onto the bed, adding to the collection of stains. you were tapped out in less than 2 minutes. euronymous sat up, looking at you as he twirled your hair in between his fingers. “all fucking mine.”

author's note: in my flop era 😝😝😝

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Cassie: Friend, Soulmate, and Self-Regenerating Muse

One of the ongoing themes of my multi-book series is The Muse: the consciousness, archetype, and ways of moving and being of the Muse, who is the Muse and why this energetic matrix is important for every femme to embody for her aliveness and manifestation potential. I made a major edit in this chapter after randomly meeting someone one warm day in Amsterdam recently. The chapter now opens with a story about her.

Cassie is her name and she is stunning. I don’t know what it is about Amsterdam but I rarely—meaning—never —meet people I feel a deep soul kinship with. To be fair, I spend more time biking in Amsterdam instead of walking because the weather is often trashy. But walking is my favorite exercise and I tend to walk a whole lot more in other cities when I’m traveling because, hello, beautiful weather. But on this warm beautiful Sunday in Amsterdam, I joyfully walked everywhere. That’s how I met Cassie, an Indonesian and Surinamese (Black) 38 year old Goddess as she was lightheartedly and confidently sashaying down the street in her short denim dress with peak-a-boo air holes cut out on the sides which illuminated her waist.

She was alone with no cell phone or bag, casually strollin' to her own rhythms while licking a vanilla ice cream cone and delighting in her own innocence and pleasure after walking through the city for hours I would later find out. That is so me—walking for hours in a city and getting lost without a cell phone on me. It was like seeing myself and one of my favorite Minnie Riperton album covers come to life in full-size, "Perfect Angel," the one where she is holding a dripping ice cream cone while smiling so sweetly. Suddenly Cassie made a u-turn and sat on the bench directly across from me. I knew I had to say something to her.

The first thing I said was “you must tell me what you do to have that kind of body.” She responded “you must tell what YOU do to have that kind of body.” She reminded me of me so much—it was dreamy and surreal as watching a Maya Deren “black and white” film yet it was as real as human flesh and a beating heart. You know what her answer was?! “I don’t workout my body. I just workout my mindset and emotional body.” I responded with all manners of celebration “you magical neuroscience quantum theory Gawddddd.” We both laughed! We ended up talking for 4 whole hours— nerding out on everything from quantum physics and metaphysics to speaking about our dreams, love, farm life, and why high-quality, non-extractive penetration (when mutual love and reverence are present regardless of the 'relationship status' between the two) is essential for the healthy shape of a woman’s body and to liberate the deeper coiled wisdom living in her female tissues that no male guru in India could ever possibly understand or teach. It felt like Cassie and I had only been sitting there for only 30 minutes. She was my muse and I was hers. We went on a real journey together.

To open yourself up to The Muse and allow this regenerative consciousness to be your lighthouse in the world requires devotion and a kind of playful endurance and resiliency where you begin to hold a quality of self-worth that does not allow you to give up before the miracles start to happen in your life. Being able to follow a dream -your heart's desires and big visions, capable of trusting the process of what is being divinely asked of you to do and not give up, truly embodying the mindset of a divine being, yield a greater energy of pure power. And what I know about energy is that everything is sourced from it, even though it appears physical to our eyes.

Of course, if you desire to work through the physical/3D world/matter, those things you can logically track and measure, you can. But the truth is that you access more infinite power to shift your body and whole life when you begin to tune into E-N-E-R-G-Y, the subtle, immaterial, and invisible, the spirit that lies beneath the surface, like blessing your food and directing it to travel to the parts of your body you’d like for it to energize or nourish, to make more shapely or healthy. Also, getting into energy work and metaphysics, the essences of your chi, makes you prettier like a beauty ritual, more naturally attractive, magnetic, and wiser. I can’t wait to finalize this chapter and share a snippet here. Yum!—India Ame’ye

[wmarximoff]

𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: because only you can make Wanda feel at home.

warnings (18+): smut, strap-on sex (r receiving), name-calling, spanking, daddy kink, slight breeding kink, choking, weed consumption, mental health issues. MINORS DNI.

pairing: stoner!emo!Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 5k

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

In the light of Wanda Maximoff's gaze the stars did not twinkle in flashes of silver that night – but neither they did during the night before that, or even the other night before that, one colder on the skin than the other, the light slowly fading into the dull, aged silver of the big city sky. There was no sparkle in those eyes that stared at the dark sky above her head.

The noise from the street below, the cars and passers-by and that sound of life, didn't reach up there on the seventh floor – everything blended into an amalgamation just down there, a distant and reserved experience. The sky vault was vast and absconding like a black hole that swallows everything that orbits it, and the apartment was closer to the sky than to the earth. The stars were there as they always were, but each twilight was duller than the previous one.

Not that Wanda wasn't used to a kind of internal calluses, but even the unlit night sky reflected the mood of those dead eyes in a somber emerald green, which didn't see the brightness of the world around her – eyes that didn't see anything else, as in a kind of trance, a willful blindness of blurred faces.

Even if the night had been serene and peaceful, a veil of moonlight draped over the metal of the rings spread across the lengths of her fingers, there would still be no glow that could pierce the shrouded bubble around Wanda's hunched silhouette, who smoked a long, white cigarette with a yellow filter, placidly seated in a chair with withered legs made of dark and solid plastic – the apartment's balcony was as modest as a boat that can only hold two or three people, and a group of four people would not fit there even squeezed against each other, with their elbows and shoulders touching as if inside a crowded elevator.

The Bronx apartment was small, the best a couple of college students with a part-time job could afford on the lowest paycheck. For a pair of twins like that, it was almost like sharing the visceral walls of the same uterus again.

Sokovian literature accompanied her open just above her pale thighs joined together, who was only wearing light denim shorts on that tragic New York summer night, warm and dry. This one, however, was a small book in a soft cream cover, scarcely more than a hundred bound pages—a crowded metric of Cyrillic letters in uniform stanzas; poems in a language reminiscent of her native tongue, her mother's favorites. Wanda hated poems and she hated her mother as well.

But sometimes, as if in a sardonic torture, it was necessary to conjure up that ghost of the past, foreboding and restless, struggling at its core, because the shroud of monotony was too much in the bosom of the newfound adult life in the big city, so far from home as Wanda was. She had gone to study, away from war and famine and her mother – but poverty has to be a constant specter in a young immigrant's life, like a hidden tumor, sucking little by little.

Sometimes homesickness visited her at night, when the world was too much to bear outside her comfort zone. And then came the urge, the chest pulsing hard, crackling under her skin, seeking refuge in the idea of that creature who primarily should offer her some kind of comfort, however Wanda did not actually taste that source of support as primigenous as Pietro Maximoff, her twin brother, had done, drinking it straight from the fountain.

Pietro was sweet, a good boy and a fine son, but their mother hated her as much as only a mother can love a daughter. And Wanda loved her as much as a daughter can hate a mother.

And so she read, traced with the tip of her peeling black-painted fingernail each line of that little set of Sokovian poems, looking for comfort where she thought she could find it in those withered lines. But it didn't do any good, not when Wanda hated poems, thought they were boring and pointless. And even the cigarettes didn't help her enjoy them with an active air of a condemned intellectual, despite the fact that she loved the sweet, harsh death that smoked down her throat, quieting her since the beginning of the immature nerves of adolescence.

But it wasn't the infuriating poems or the countless cigarette butts pressed against the hollow bottom of a metal ashtray one after the other like a handful of unlit candles stuffed into the top of a birthday cake, or the memory of a monotone childhood in the Sokovian province that would fill the void in her chest, and that Wanda had always known.

Poems were boring, cigarettes were rotting her insides, and from the bosom of youth she'd yearned to pack up her things and leave Sokovia behind for good, without a kiss or a goodbye. But the dream died still in the womb – there was, far from home, a certain depressing monotony, so different from the monotony of living a life in a place where you don't want to be, imbued in the action that was occasionally crossed by long sleepless nights, in the company of stress and intrusive thoughts.

She didn't feel at home in New York, but Sokovia had never been her home either. But finding a certain degree of depressed boredom within her dream seemed worse to Wanda than the monotony of living in a house where everything looked the same. There was something wistful for her to discover that everything she'd ever wanted could be just as depressing.

There was just something wrong, something wrong with her spirits, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit together. Maybe the world didn't spin for her the way it did for others. Maybe she just expected too much from a world that always offered so little.

“Are you smoking on the balcony again, Wanda?”

The voice came rumbling from within the walls of the small apartment, from the back of her head – a high, masculine tone and charged with that hard-talking rhythm of south-eastern European accent still limiting the pronunciation of the English words, sanding them harshly, as in a solid chant.

“I am,” was her reply, the dull tone of a corpse still harboring a soul that struggles to shed its shell, her accent sounding just as strong as his, “I kind of needed this right now.”

“Dude, you know you need to stop doing it.”

Towards Wanda then, from the profuse darkness of a living room with lights out and gushing dimness that swallowed the hand-me-down furniture placed there, the figure of a young boy halfway to finish performing the thrusting motion his elbow into the right hole of a dark blue denim jacket, new and clean, freshly pressed and still smelling of lavender fabric softener.

Wanda looked at him with emerald irises tired by poetry, from under her long lepidopterous lashes laden with smoke – Pietro, tall and strong, had tresses of his poorly bleached hair cut short, a mane of unruly hair soft to the touch, and a beard with wisps of unmade dark threads carpeting his square jaw and around his thin lips. There was something herculean about the boy; he had always been something of an athletic, if even dour, type, a hit with the young ladies their age, the twins. The Fast Jock and the Weird Girl.

“You smoke all the time too, don't be a hypocrite now, Piet. Isn’t fair.”

“It's not because of that,” snapped her twin brother in bad manner, creasing a patch of fur between his bushy brows, then adjusting the cut of the jacket to his broad shoulders as he grabbed her by the lapels in his big hands, pulling the garment forward.

Although not so close to her brother, separated by the distance of an outstretched arm, Wanda was quite capable of distinguishing the aroma of woody cologne and fresh and striking deodorant, like a walk through the men's cosmetics section in a corner pharmacy.

“The neighbors will complain about the smell again and you know we don't have the money to pay another fine. Miss Harkness will be the first to complain, you know she always does. I'm not going to pay anything now, I don't have a penny left in my pocket. You'll have to manage to pay that fine if she complains again. And you’re the one doing the talking this time, not me.”

“Miss Harkness hates me,” Jadish eyes rolled in their sockets, a twirl of scorn, “She will complain about me every chance she gets.”

“Just put this shit off, c’mon.”

“No.”

“Wanda.”

But Wanda yielded to the stern blue gaze of her older twin brother, and with a single flick of her right wrist, she pressed the burning end of her cigarette against the bottom of a red tin ashtray placed just above the small table next to her, imagining that that piece of metal blurred by ember ash and toasted smoke was the pointed face of the middle-aged landlady, owner of profuse brown locks and a big pearly smile, who was always carrying in her arm a white rabbit, old and fat, almost similar to a puffy domestic cat.

“Okay, are you happy now?”

“My pocket certainly is, yeah,” the boy with the unnaturally pale hair muttered under his breath, before turning on heels shoved in white sneakers and turning his back on his sister, sitting in the high chair on the balcony.

“And why is this house so dark, eh? Turn on some lights every now and then, Wanda. We’re not animals living in a cave. This looks like one of those vampire movies... you're in your vampire phase again, is that it?”

The single lamp on the ceiling of the room had been turned on by Pietro's indicator pushing the plastic switch up, a beam of pearly white light coming from inside the house, passing through the tall sliding glass doors and bothering Wanda's irises, acclimated to the darkness of a dull night, in a corrosive ardor that incited her to squint her eyelids and crease her brow like a nocturnal animal exposed to the artificial light of a car lantern on the road, hiding her face behind a curtain of thick long, dark hair in a back-necked motion.

Then Wanda, her pale face exposed to the plastic light of the ceiling lamp, suddenly became aware of her brother's state – the newly acquired jacket still smelling of the clothing store, the sneakers clean with soapy water, the collar of the shirt all perfumed and his hair well combed, the ends of his beard well trimmed, he all spotless and smelling good. And a crease of curiosity crept between her dark brows, because Pietro's usual state consisted of basketball shorts and an alternation or two between a pair of baggy shirts that he didn't wash all that often.

“Why are you so dressed up like that? That jacket is new,” she got to her feet then, the soles of her bare dusty feet hitting the cold balcony floor before stepping onto the warm floorboards inside the house, “Are you going to some job interview or something?”

“Job interview on a Saturday night, сестричко? Pff, yeah, I'm going out with a girl. You know, like actual normal people do on their free weekends.”

Pietro looked at her with a mischievous little smile broken at the corner of his thin lips, calling her “little sister” in his native language as he always did when he was purposely teasing her, treating her like a little girl, a silly girl and so ignorant of the lives of adults they should have at the end of that time in life, in a youth encapsulated in the advent of adulthood, which in all its layer of social shyness could never have considered the fact that the brother was going on a date.

And Wanda's brows furrowed for a bit, a thin squeegee of embarrassing embarrassment tugging at the pit of her stomach, her ego vaguely insulted by that childishness insinuated by Pietro – because indeed it was Saturday night, a hot and sultry night of summer in the Big Apple, and the young twin had organized no program for herself but reading pages of Sokovian poetry until her brain became an overworked illiterate while she smoked the ashes of her meager existence, interspersing the two actions between sips here and there of red tea that would eventually cool down and spill all over into her cup. College life hadn't been as kind to Wanda as it had been to Pietro, after all.

“But,” she muttered in a tight voice, brows still pinched together, “But I thought today we were going to—”

“Man, to tell you the truth I'm already well short of time,” the guy then pressed the pad of his right thumb against the side of the cell phone he fished out of the back pocket of his dark jeans, unlocking the device's screen in a flash of white glow next to his apollonian nose, which kind of hinted at the structure of her own.

“Damn it, it's almost half past eight – Monica will kill me if I'm late again. Just... you don't have to wait up for me, right Wanda? If anything, just give me a call,” and Wanda followed him with her eyes, her mouth still half open in a dead sentence, when Pietro's right fingers closed around the tin handle of the front door.

“Побачимось.”

And so Pietro was gone, the door closing with a metallic click behind him without the real expectation of a not really necessary answer from his sister, the parting word already echoing from the corridor outside. He never expected a comeback, it's true. And once again Wanda found herself alone, prostrate like a dead plant in a red clay pot in the heart of that apartment with its withered bare walls and warm floor, sulky and damp during the sticky seasons of heat and cold and bitter in the seasonal blows of winter.

Before the height of her stomach, her right fingers fit into the crooks of her left fingers, her fingertips fidgeting with the handful of silver rings dotted there, twirling them, pressing and pulling them around the spans of her fingers. The dark nail polish on her thumbnail was scratched, but she didn't care about it that much.

Pietro didn't come back for something he hadn't forgotten, but Wanda continued to stand at the door like the most faithful of dogs, as if he were going to open the door and say he'd changed his mind, opting for an evening washed down with salty buckets of popcorn and classic American sitcom along with his little sister's company. But there wasn't that. Nothing happened minutes later. From the kitchen faucet, dripping water trickled into the aluminum sink at a broken, faintly vertiginous rhythm. A fly tinkled its little fluttering wings around the lamp above her head of dark hair.

And then isolation took hold in Wanda who caged the oxygen inside her lungs, as if that house and its walls were nothing more than a bulwark that segregated her from the outside world to that door through which her brother had left her, as if the small apartment in the Bronx was her own cocoon of the social, an abode that harbored a being unworthy of sunlight, a being similar to her.

Wanda found herself trapped in a dilemma as much as she was trapped inside her own home, her body and her mind. She was tired of being hemmed in by the ceiling and floor of the apartment, and she could no longer bear the thought that with Pietro far away, as far away as he was now, being the social animal he always was, Wanda would have to be haunted by the company itself.

Without him there was just her, alone and aimless, like a shipwrecked man floating on an old, swollen piece of wood in a vast ocean where sky and sea met on the horizon, no sign of life nearby, the water so deep and dismal that you couldn't see the sand at the bottom. Just her, floating alone in the dark.

And, together from the pillars of their maternal womb, that primary cradle shared between the two twin children, Wanda did not feel that in fact she had been born to be just her, to live a life as reclusive as the experiences of today's hermit that were available before her, and despite her assertion to her brother that solitude was good for her reclusive spirit, the caliber of her involuntary anthropophobia gave an anxious squeeze to the core of young Wanda Maximoff's chest.

Solitude pleased her, but she only evoked a profuse disgust at the idea of loneliness, of isolation. Wanda feared being alone with her own thoughts.

“Fuck it.” Her peach lips curled into a long thin, taut line.

With the fingers of her right hand, Wanda searched for something in the pocket of her thin burgundy knit jacket, her black nails cut short, then slipping lightly over the half-dented pack of cigarettes also placed inside to, finally, hook against the material of her phone with which cigarettes shared space inside the cut in her pocket. She picked up the device with a certainty born of the anxious restlessness that gushed in the walls of her pharynx.

Wanda then reached for it with a movement of her elbow, bringing her phone close to the round tip of her button nose, unlocking the device's screen with the help of her right thumb. And, without hesitating to dive into that cluster of digital apps, she did what she had to do – what everything in that pitifully withdrawn situation in which she found herself in her own social exile compelled her to do, the digits of her fingers pressing the glass screen, typing on the digital keyboard.

hey can you come over?

piet is out

And then, after a second or two, a new message typed by her quick fingers flashed.

i don't wanna be alone tonight

The emerald eyes, profuse and dull in their clear irises, screwed up in anticipation of the answer like a faithful waiting for a sign from their god, staring at that little speech bubble as long as she could.

The folds of Wanda's fingers pressed against the edges of the poor phone, the loops of her rings scraping against the dark plastic. Just waiting, anticipating, fingers curled, anxiety bubbling in scarlet bubbles inside her stomach. And then, a prompt response popped up in the chat shared with that other number.

Of course I can go.

I'll be there soon, Wands .

She took a long, deep gulp of oxygen that rushed in and inflated her lungs in a refreshing release, excarcerating it right away. The muscles in both her shoulders softened into the red hooded jacket she wore – there would be no more loneliness to swallow or tears to shed. Soon you would be there for her. And it only took an interval of fifteen minutes for Wanda to open inwards the door that Pietro had closed behind him twenty-five minutes before, with a hard movement of her right elbow taut against her ribs.

That was how her gaze moved in midair so that, in such a way, it clung to your expectant eyes, which intuitively sought her greenish irises as soon as the door was opened to the inside of the apartment – and there you were, you, standing in front of her door, standing in the long, deserted hallway, staring in mutual care at Wanda's grim-faced face; the chiseled arch of her brows, the delicate lines of her button nose, the well-defined arch of her mouth and high cheekbones.

Opening the door at that moment was like opening the way for all loneliness to go away, because then you were there, there for her.

“Hey,” your lips curled into a chaste smile, “Hey, Wands.”

“Thank you.”

And then, desperate, tormented by a ghostly worry, Wanda, speechless from any verbal response to her affable greeting, walked towards you with a long-winded expression on her pretty, lightly made-up, cigarette-scented face, wanting nothing more than her girl in her own arms.

And she cupped both sides of your face between the warm palms of her hands, bringing her lips to you which she padded with her own mouth in a necessary clash, feeling you uplifted against her body, overwhelmed with her own miseries, just trying to feel nothing but you.

Your lips collided then, her hands holding you close, her rings feeling like little cool spots on the skin of your cheeks, such a disparate awareness of Wanda's warm, caring touch. There would be no better touch in the world for you than the one that displayed all the affection you knew Wanda had for you – a symbolic pair of hands on your cheeks, not only to feel you, but also to hold you and worship her. To prove she knew you were there for her like no one else would be.

“Thank you.”

Wanda muttered in a breath of hot air brushing against the pulps of your lips, still feeling the ghost of your warm lips against hers, a delicious tingle running across her tongue, tasting of ecstasy – lids closed, your foreheads touching almost shyly.

“Thank you, Y/n.”

“I'm here now, Wanda. I am here for you.”

Her warm fingers caressed the skin of your cheeks, instilling a placid serenity in her body. Short nails, coated in black nail polish, traced invisible lines across your cheekbones. Wanda reeked of melancholy and fear like the back of Marlboro cigarettes. And she kissed you once more, and then again and again, interspersing the kisses between little whispers of thanks, declarations for the void to hear. She continued until the automatic lights in the hallway went out.

ᗢ

Puddles of fabric were the pieces of clothing abandoned on the bare wooden floor like helpless stray animals. When Wanda looked up, the movement was conducive to her becoming aware of the erratic pattern where one fold of wallpaper stuck to another on the wall in front of her. It was a rather threadbare wallpaper, derived in the most accurate sense of the word from a faded red wine red that had been there before she moved into that apartment. Her orientation perspective was choked and restrained at that point – her fingertips seemed to enjoy the feel of warm flesh pressed against them, soft and firm at the same time.

Even though her vision was clouded, splattered on her lepidopterous eyelashes by drowsy droplets of a soft intoxication, she saw herself, as if able to smile to herself, lightheaded, her eyes dark green like moss – she was high because you had smoked a joint together some time ago, on the balcony (your elbows brushing and she looking at your glow under the starry sky, because no star would shine brighter than the twinkle inside your irises when Wanda looked at you, hiding the world around you two behind a foggy layer of smoke).

A thick bead of sweat formed above her temple, in her dark hairline, pouring down the length of her pale face until it dripped from her chin, just past the sharp bulge of her left cheekbone. A drop that landed on the arched back below her.

“F–fuck, daddy! Daddy!”

A high-pitched sound vibrated through the room's four red walls—the crack of a slap delivered against your skin, a smack that Wanda made sure to mark on your bottom in euphoric readiness, her fingers in pink welts on your skin, because something in her always delighted to press the bruises with which she bestowed you, ever making your flesh her possession. She loved to mark you, to make your body her perfect picture, the masterpiece of those hands that yearned for her warm skin.

“You're a fucking bitch,” she snorted in a hint of a harsh accent, “My bitch. My favorite bitch.”

“Daddy's favorite,” you repeated in a voice choked with weed and pleasure, and an electric shiver runs down Wanda's spine.

The shudder cost her a break in her rhythm and roughness and rhythm, that long scarlet silicone strap sliding to reach inside the wet folds of your pussy, but you didn't realize it, not how she did it – after all, your face plunged into the pillowcase that emanated the sweet aroma of Wanda's shampoo, the folds of your fingers hooking on the sheets that reeked of her woody perfume, as if submerging in a red mist that she referred to so much, you wouldn't have noticed that her hips wobbled once.

It was like being swallowed by her everywhere, and so you screamed, howled like a bitch in heat – and Wanda appreciated how loud you could be. Claiming her name, how good she, only she, was able to make you feel, and that you were close. Definitely close. In muffled pleas begging daddy to go faster and stronger, deeper and harder towards your womb – and behind the strap she felt her own clit every time the tip of the toy thrust into your cervix.

An indecency was arranged in your closed eyelashes when Wanda looked at you from behind, both of you being without any clothing to cover the length of your bodies as you were, as naked as the day you were born as she fucked you from behind. And at that moment, a welcoming warmth radiated from your broad-shouldered body, and for Wanda, it was like seeing herself integrated into a puddle of torrid sunlight, fulfilling her need to have you close; her arms wrapped around you from behind, her bare breasts pressed against the pale skin of your back, her feeling you there, belonging to her, moving with her.

“Daddy– please! Please wanna cum– I wanna–”

Entranced in a flash of wild desire, feeling Wanda's deft hand move across the skin of your abdomen, being smoothed by the eager digits of her left hand's clever fingers wandering southward down your body, into your tasteless hips, your mouth throbbed lewdly.

“Daddy!”

Her face was hidden in the contour of your neck, in the shoulder joint sprinkled with sloppy bruises, so that Wanda would be able to nibble, from there, a fresh patch of warm skin, easing the burning and tingling that came from the act with the tip of her tongue; her greedy nose tangled in a few profuse locks of your sweaty hair.

Your throat flexed, spilling out a breathy needy moan that pulsed against the line of your teeth. In sync your bodies moved on top of the mattress of her bed, back and forth.

“I wanna come on you,” she gasped, “I wanna mark you as mine. I'll paint your fucking womb white with my load, baby. I’ll break you until no one can use you but me. You're my fuck hole – mine, mine, and nobody else's.”

“Y– yours! I’m yours, daddy, yours!” But there was a hitch in your speech, words squeezing into your throat when Wanda's five right fingers closed against the outline of your neck, screwing into your skin like a thick rope. Saliva seeped from the corner of your lips, down into your chin.

 The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur. As her right hand was busy squeezing your neck, her left was busy plucking the pulsing nerve between your legs—so needy, an urgency growing in your bones and flesh, yearning for the ardor of her figure. Wanda, who unfolded to you with such care and mastery, her inhuman touch burning over your skin.

Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, rough pubic hair, and Wanda took a deep breath, her chest rising heavily and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air against the hollow of your ear—the scorching skin of her torso girding itself against your spine, who saw yourself as being able to feel the two swollen nipples pressed against your stinging shoulder blades, her thick her cock still straining your insides in a continuous, harsh back-and-forth.

“Fuck,” her tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth, followed by a curse in her native language, “You are mine, Y/n, you’ll always be mine. Mine. No one else is going to have you but me, fuck, I– I'll make sure of it, I, I'll come on you. I'm going to stuff you so everyone knows you're my bitch walking around with my cum leaking out of you.”

Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a groan coiled in your throat, and at Wanda's speech you rolled your hips back, fucking yourself in her cock, begging for more, as debilitating when against something as simple as a touch, a simple touch of ethereal fingers, despite the strap that widened you from the inside. Wanda was the only one capable of tearing your brittle body to pieces if she wanted to, and even the vaguest idea made her blood boil in her veins.

“W-Wanna cum,” was a moan from you, your brows meeting furrowed across your peach flushed face; you sounded a little dizzy in your rambling speech, pressing your fingers against the sheet.

“Wanna cum around daddy's cock, wanna–”

“Fuck, I'm gonna come inside your greedy little cunt, gonna– fuck, Y/n!”

Before her you came in a rush of nasal groaning – harsh and confused. Screaming for Wanda, pressing your ass against her hips, shaking. But she buried herself back in you one or two more times before she did it on her own – your walls quivering and tight, familiar and pleasant enough before Wanda plunged her orgasm inside you. And in such a way that she did it, as if just being inside you was what was needed to untie the knot at her primordial apex, then a hand below her navel.

“I'm fucking coming inside you!”

She couldn't actually do it, not the way she really wanted to, but it was enough to feel that familiar tightening in the pit of her stomach when she was there, in that position, that characteristic sting of orgasm digging in her belly. Wanda withdrew from you, your glittering liquid glistening around the strap that the dark harness fastened to her waist, and, with her head seeming to weigh more than the rest of her body, Wanda toppled forward, landing on the slats bed next to you panting, in which the chest rose and fell with an impressive weight.

“Fuck… fuck.”

Her lids squint over the heavy gaze, the world dimming for a second, awareness slipping away. Eyes closed, the room immersed in a puddle of accentuated silence. Then a minute passed. And two and three. There was a click of the spark wheel of a lighter rolling against the stone, gas coming out and paper burning. Wanda's nostrils were filled with a hissing odor of burning grass, smoke reaching her. Her eyelids fluttered open.

With your spine leaning against the wallpaper behind the bed, you, sitting there, were lost in the red – the remnants of the summit ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of your thighs, like a ghost of what was once the climax of the carnal act in which they were so vividly engaged. Swallowing a lit joint between your fingers, Wanda never found you as beautiful as she did at that moment, high and fucked, light for the orgasm and the weed.

“You… are really mine, aren't you?” she asked in a grim voice thread, that accent rolling between the words she alluded to.

You looked at her, “Of course I'm yours. Just as you are mine, silly.”

She just looked at you, silent as she could be.

“Give me a hit,” one hand reached out, reaching for what you held. To disconnect from the world and just feel you.

But, holding the rolled cigarette between the extension of your fingers, Wanda realized that an idea took place behind your empty eyes. You then pressed the commission of your lips around the joint, inhaling that dense smoke to the core of your lungs before, then, reclining your face in front of Wanda, who was still lying down.

The ends of your hair grazed her left nipple as your wet lips met, and you let the smoke trapped in your lungs slip into her open mouth before finally kissing her, her tongue slipping between your teeth, her left fingers tangling in the hair above the nape of your neck, holding you close. When you broke apart, Wanda blinked in ecstasy – your noses were almost touching again.

“You're not going to leave me, are you?” was a sigh against your lips, “You won't abandon me, Y/n.”

“I won't,” you smiled, “Because I love you, Wands. I love you. You know I'll always come when you call.”

And then Wanda looked at you. She looked at you as if it were the first time she had seen you in her life – as if she were discovering you again, understanding you once more, realizing that with you there was no loneliness. In the same way she did every time you surprised her. Wanda understood that as long as she had you, you to indulge her, you to love her, there would be no homesickness left to feel.

“I love you too,” she whispered, “I love you too, Y/n.”

She knew she loved you, in that moment, because she didn't belong in New York or Sokovia - in that moment, she just belonged in your arms.

[jinwoowoo]

Untitled- StayC Isa

After busy days of stressful work in the company, you and two of your colleagues decided to go out and have fun at the newly-opened club few blocks away from the office. While it is heavily promoted by influencers known for being party animals, you don't find such fun hanging out in a rowdy dim place with blasting sounds and blinding laser lights.

"Come on, man. There's no harm in dancing with us. There are lots of girls out there waiting for us." One of your colleagues said after you refused to go with them to the dance floor.

"Let him be. We all know how much YN hates dancing because of his stiff body." Your other colleague retorted, making you all laugh. There's no point on going mad at him since he is telling the truth, not that you are offended in any way. He just gave you a pat on the shoulder, grinning "Guard our seats and table, okay?"

You gave them a firm nod and salute as they go out to dance. Watching them from your seat, you can't help but chuckle when the bunch of girls they were talking about and trying to flirt with moved away from them as if they are some kind of people infected by an incurable virus. In the end, your colleagues are separated from the crowd, surrounded by an invisible dome of force that secludes them from the others.

Still laughing at your colleagues' absurd situation, someone suddenly goes to your table and sat on the same couch as yours, giving off a chummy aura that puts your guard down.

"Hi there. Are you drinking alone?" The gorgeous woman asked as you refill your glass with some alcoholic drink you ordered.

Shaking your head, you pointed to your colleagues who are still dancing frantically in their own space. "I'm with those idiots over there. And you?"

"I came here alone to support my friend. He's one of the bartenders of this club. You should try his cocktails, they are great."

"It sounds like you are here to promote your friend." You giggled so thus did the girl. "I'm YN, by the way. And you are?"

"My name is Isa. Nice to meet you, YN." Isa offered her hand which you gladly took and shake.

Isa's beautiful smile under the dim light of the club feels so surreal. It is so magical- the little peace and warmth you could feel in such places like this. Trying to be close and befriend you, Isa scooted closer, occupying the space where your colleagues are sitting before until there was not much space left between the two of you.

You got flustered, especially when you just realized Isa was wearing a denim crop top that shows her plump arms and a matching denim skirt that exposes her thick bare thighs. The sweet relaxing fragrance coming from her intoxicates you more than the alcohol, making you gulp hard after feeling your tongue salivating inside your mouth.

"Did you come here after work? Your job must be stressful to unwind in clubs like this." Isa asked with a little pity, trying to strike up a conversation and break your silent treatment.

"Not really. I'm just here to babysit those two." You replied as you look and scan Isa's body. "They are quite mischievous, you know? A little pain in the ass that frequently makes trouble, more likely when alcohol is involved."

Isa laughed with you and took a spare glass from the table, pouring herself some of the alcohol on the table. Some people would mind if there are strangers trying to take a sip of what they ordered, but since a pretty girl like Isa is there to accompany you against your boredom, you didn't mind. After all, you can say you are treating the beautiful lady with a drink.

"Won't your boyfriend be mad if you hang out in places like this?" You asked nonchalantly, trying to test out some water.

She only shook her head and chuckle, giving you a little slap on the shoulder right after. "I'm single, YN. If I have a boyfriend, I will be having dates with him instead."

"Bullshit." You gasped, acting shocked by her answer. "With that pretty face of yours, it is impossible for you not to be in a relationship."

"I really am! But thanks for calling me pretty though. You are also not bad for yourself, either. Charming, easy to approach, and most importantly, not a douchebag."

"Well, I will take it as a compliment then."

You held your glass and tapped it on Isa's, cheering a little as the barrier between the two of you dissipates. The time passed without you knowing as the conversation with Isa bore fruitfully. Getting to know each other, you learned where and what kind of work she has, even her little hobbies during her free time. Isa also shared her past relationships with you, giving you hindsight of her life.

As the talk deepens, with the slight influence of alcohol, Isa is getting closer and becoming touchy. She frequently leans close to your ear when she whispers her secrets, giving you a little taste of her lips when they touch your skin. She also slaps your arm from your jokes, giggling even if they are that shallow, showing you signs of interest on you.

While talking to her, you can't avoid looking at her wet luscious lips and beautiful face. She sometimes shifts her ass on the seat, adjusting her overlapped legs that make her thighs plumper. You want to touch those thighs only if your mind doesn't stop you.

"Do you want to touch them?" Isa asked between her sentence when she caught you staring at her thighs, catching you off guard. You stuttered as the words you want to say got stuck in your mouth, entangling your tongue. Isa giggled seeing your flustered face and took your hand, placing it above her exposed thighs.

The softness of Isa's plump thighs upon your touch is beyond your imagination. Her skin is so smooth and unblemished, almost comparable to a newborn baby's buttocks. You gave her thighs a firm squeeze, groping the succulent flesh that earned you a moan from her.

"You know your way to touch a woman, YN... You are making me wet..." Isa breathed out as you caress her other thigh, giving it the same attention it deserves.

"It's just pure instinct, Isa. Anyone can do the same if they feel how soft your thighs are." You replied, trying not to brag or take credit for Isa's pleasure.

"You really thought they are soft, YN? Hmm?~ I thought my thighs are firm and hard like this..."

Isa placed her hand on your chest, firmly pressing her palm down to feel your muscles. Good thing you are working out diligently every week to maintain the shape of your lean body for this kind of interaction. You exhaled softly as you feel Isa's fingers unbutton the top buttons of your shirt, gaining herself access to your bare chest and caressing it directly.

"You have a good body, YN... It makes me want to see you naked in bed..." Isa moaned out on your neck, planting her soft lips on your skin right after.

You honestly feel the same. Isa's advancement on your body and touches are arousing you greatly, making you want to pounce and fuck her right away. But, just like before, Isa beats you first again and swiftly straddled on your lap, resting her legs astride your thighs. Leaning her forehead on top of yours, Isa looked at your glistening eyes, staring directly at your disturbed soul with a wide grin on her lips.

"You are so handsome, YN... No matter what happens, I will make sure we will sleep on the same bed tonight" Isa whispered coquettishly.

"Don't worry, Isa... I'm sure that will happen..."

How would you guess that in a place you thought will bore you and waste your precious time, you will find a hot girl who will make your heart beat rapidly? Your chest pounds hard, almost audible as undescribable heat courses throughout your body.

Isa leaned down to kiss you, easily finding your lips to latch with hers under the dim light. Nibbling and sucking, Isa licked your lips and asked them to open. You didn't let her for that long and spread your lips apart, giving her access to slither your tongues together.

Holding Isa by her slim waist, you pulled her closer to your body until you can feel her ample boobs pressing against your hard-beating chest. Isa unbuttoned the rest and open your shirt, completely exposing your upper body to her gentle touch.

Isa then moaned to your lips as she felt your hands from her waist travel down to cup her big butt, groping each cheek firmly with your palms. She lifted her body a little, scooting harder and grinding her hips down to dance on your lap out in the open.

Living in your own world right night, neglecting the loud blasting sounds of EDM music and cheers of the people around, Isa's body rubs her goddess-like body on you, dry humping you. She didn't mind your fervent kisses, even moaning explicitly when you suck her wet tongue. She wrapped her slim arms around your neck, pulling you closer and deeper as she doesn't want you to pull out of the kiss- not that you will part away soon.

Your whole body feels hot, the bulge on your pants aching and begging to be released. Isa is bringing the lust out of you, corrupting your mind to touch her fuck her. Taken over by the heat of the moment, you wrapped your arms around Isa's waist and lifted her, placing her back against the steamy couch you two are sitting on for minutes. Your hand reached between her legs, pushing her wet panty aside to meet her wet hot core. About to push a digit inside her pussy and feel her walls around your finger, Isa held your wrist and chest to stop you, shaking her head calmly.

"Not here, YN... Bring me somewhere else." Isa asked with lust over her eyes.

She's right. You wouldn't want to spend the precious moment of fucking her out in public that may result in ruining the night. You buttoned back your shirt and stood up, feet walking at a fast pace out of the club while holding Isa's hand.

The tension and lust in your body are up to the roof. Isa could feel the same, and she can't stop stealing kisses from you while you are waiting for a damn taxi to arrive. Finally, after waiting for what feels like an eternity, one came by and stopped in front of you. Isa went first and you followed after her.

After giving the driver your home address, Isa goes back straddling your lap, kissing you hungrily while grinding her body on yours. You saw the driver smiling in the mirror and turned the radio on, blasting out some music to cover the lustful noises coming from the back seat.

"Fuck Isa... I'm so horny right now I might not show mercy fucking you..." You moaned as Isa's lips goes down to your jawline and neck, marking you hers already.

"That's the plan, YN... I want you to fuck my brains out until I can't walk for days... Make me stay in your bed and keep making love to me..."

Hearing those words coming out from Isa etched into your mind, reminding yourself not to go easy on her when you two reached your house. You grabbed the hem of Isa's denim skirt and hiked it up, accessing her soft butt once again which you are slowly falling for.

Massaging each cheek gently with your palm, your fingers are exploring around her buttocks until it goes south, touching her wet inner thighs and ruined panty. The feeling of Isa's thick damp thighs and dripping clothed core added more fuel to your lust. You pulled Isa closer to you, aiming your huge boner on her clothed pussy, and let her grind on it, giving each other the taste of what they will expect later on.

After some turn and stops on the road, you finally saw a familiar street near your house when you glanced over the window. Arriving at your house, paying the driver more than the fare for the mild inconvenience, you punched your passcode in and opened the door, pushing Isa inside your house without breaking the kiss.

Strolling blindly into your flat, you soon entered the bedroom where the magic will finally happen. Isa hopped out of her links on your body, getting on her knees right after. As her hands found your belt and unbuckle them, she scooted her fingers against the waist of your pants, tugging them down until your boxer is exposed.

You felt your cock twitch at the sight of Isa's beautiful face worshipping your clothed penis, instinctively pushing your hips forward to hump her face and let her lick the outline forming on the fabric.

As you took off your shirt and jacket, tossing them somewhere in your room, you helped Isa to stand on her feet, turning her around right after. Unzipping the rough crop top, you cursed lowly when you saw Isa's smooth sexy back- so alluring and inviting for a taste.

Isa breathed sexily as you gave her back some wet licks and kisses. Your hands are at her waist, holding her still while she removes her denim skirt, hopping out of the piled clothes underneath her right after.

Pulling her closer, you humped your painful boner on Isa's clothed ass, begging for relief only her body could provide right now. Giggling, Isa pushed your hands off of her waist and turned around, walking backward until she sits down on your bed.

"You got a nice bed, YN. I hope it is sturdy enough not to break when I ride you." Isa complimented, giving you a smirk as her palm invites itself to caress your sheets.

"Don't worry, girl. The only things that will get broken tonight are your holes and mind."

Walking towards Isa and pushing her down to the soft mattress, you spread her legs apart and hover on top of her semi-nude body. Tittering, Isa moaned softly when you leaned to kiss her lips, trailing your lips down to her jawline and neck right after- marking her yours. Your hands pulled her tube bra out of her body and you immediately put one of her jiggling boobs to your mouth as you fondle the other.

Impatiently, Isa whined out and pulled her panty out of her lips, holding on to your boxers right after, and pulled it out to feel your bare throbbing cock between her thighs. You let Isa do what she wants and busy yourself sucking her delicious boobs. Her doughy tits offer the same sweet buttermilk taste, pink small nipples are hard as candy and feel good on your tongue. The fragrance of her nude body is so enticing and addictive like a forbidden drug.

"YN... No foreplay please..." Isa whined but you are far from done playing with her body.

Your wet kisses left a slimy train from the valley of her boobs down to her midriff, tasting the sweat on her smooth tummy and french kissing her belly button. Just feeling how your tongue fucks her navel gives Isa unsatisfying pleasure. She needs it to be done somewhere else, somewhere between her jittery legs.

Good thing for Isa, she didn't have to that long as you are getting impatient as well. Forcing her legs to spread open, Isa's glistening pussy winked at you, heightening your list all over as you see her love honey dripping down to her ass cheeks. Hungry and enchanted, you didn't hesitate to bury your face between her legs and eat Isa's pussy, lapping your thick flat tongue against her pussy lips to savor every drop of essence she release.

"YN~ oh my fucking god... Your tongue feels so good... Keep eating me out like that..." Isa moaned between her words, squirming when she feels her tongue wiggling on her burning core.

Her thick thighs are trying to close out of instinct, trapping your head between the soft heavenly flesh out of the process. You swear if you die getting choked by Isa's thighs right now, you won't have any regrets for how good they feel.

However, you won't die without completing your mission. Carrying her thick legs on your shoulders, putting her calves on your back, you pulled Isa closer and feast on her pussy like a famished bear. You grabbed Isa's hands and intertwined your fingers with hers, locking her thighs in your embrace in the process.

Isa felt good with your skillful tongue play. Darting your tongue inside her pussy, your tongue wiggles inside and licks all sides of her vaginal walls, savoring every fluid you could collect. You seldomly retreat your tongue out of her vagina to lick the dripping fluids on her ass cheeks, sliding your tongue on her inner thighs as well. Though Isa is the type of girl who doesn't enjoy foreplay that much, you proved that you are different from other men she had sex with and she can also feel good about things she hates.

Looking up, your chest swelled in pride to see the red-haired girl writhing with pleasure. You immediately let go of her hands to see what she will do. Isa immediately held the sheets beside her head, gripping hard as she push her hips forward and grind her pussy on your lips and face, squirting her juices a little bit.

Seeing how hard her breathing becomes, moans that are getting sharper and louder every time your tongue fucks her leaking pussy, you didn't have to be told that Isa is near her climax. You wanted to feel how will she cum on your face, fill your mouth with her womanly essence, but you got other plans to make Isa's orgasm exciting.

Immediately after feeling Isa is almost a few licks away from her peak, you released her legs from your shoulders and withdraw your face from her pussy, leaving her orgasm suspended.

"YN? What are you-ahh!~" Isa's whine was cut off when you suddenly spanked her pink pussy, causing her to squirt a little.

"YN! Stop it, it sting-mmh!~" you gave her pussy another slap, giving her a peculiar jolt of pleasure.

You immediately press the base of your pal against her quim, slowly rubbing it in circles. "Should I stop? It seems like you are liking it. Look how pussy squirts while getting spanked."

Mischievously, you traced your fingers on the outline of her crotch, teasing the lips of her vagina before giving her pussy another hard slap. Isa groaned painfully, mixed with pleasure and whines as you kept her hanging.

Isa wanted to cum so bad, to burst out like a dam but her pussy obeys like a dog stopping its movement when it receives punishable slaps from its owner. Rubbing your fingers around her labia and spanking it repeatedly, it didn't take long for Isa's pussy to become red and sore, fully sensitive to even slight touch of your finger. Seeing Isa whining, begging with her tearful eyes, you decided that it is enough and give Isa her wanted to release.

Pushing your pinky down to your palm with the help of your thumb, you straightened up the other fingers of your right hand and plunged it inside Isa's quivering pussy. Overwhelmed, Isa came immediately around your fingers, gushing out a large volume of her girl calm on your hand and arm. You keep pumping your fingers inside her pussy, curling the digits to press her pulsating walls and wrung out more of her slick juices.

After a good minute of release, Isa felt fulfilled and satisfied. You pulled your fingers out of her pussy and suck them, savoring the remnants of her orgasm that coats your finger. After releasing it with a pop, you pushed your drenched fingers inside Isa's mouth, letting her savor what was left of her taste mixed with your saliva.

"Such a good girl, Isa~ you came hard and ruined my sheets." You cooed as you lean close giving her a soft peck on the cheeks and patting her head with your wet hand.

"Shut up... I never know you could be sadistic like this... And you are not even done yet..." Isa panted out as she reached for your hard cock, stroking it gently.

You groaned as you felt Isa's warm hand strokes your dick. Needing your release as well, you took her hand out of your cock and commanded her. "On all fours, baby. I wanna pound you from behind."

Isa turned around and went on all fours as you instructed. Holding the sheets tightly, Isa wiggled her ass seductively, earning her a hard slap from you. Positioning yourself behind Isa, you held her ass and grinded on the valley of her buttocks, probing down and poking her puckered hole with your glans.

"Are you gonna do me anal? I'm still a virgin down there." Worriedly, Isa asked while reaching behind her, stopping your dick from teasing her backdoor hole.

"Not tonight, Isa. As much as I want to take your ass' virginity, I need you to taste my cock where it rightfully belongs"

Holding your dick by its base again, you put your shaft between Isa's thighs and tap the shaft on her pussy, collecting some of her natural lube while fucking her thighs. The redhead girl bit her lips in pleasure, feeling how deep you will be in her when she felt her cocok's tip teasing beneath her navel. Once coated enough, you aimed the head of your cock at Isa's pussy, lancing forward and pushing nonstop until you finally reach her cervix.

"So fucking tight! Your little pussy is clamping hard around me, Isa!" You groaned as you struggle to pull your dick out because of Isa's contracting pussy, eager to feel your whole shaft back inside her.

"You are just big, YN. Mhhh~ I never had such a big dick before!~" Isa mewled cutely, turning into a cat in heat that suits her cute look.

Isa's slick folds are drooling over the huge meat that fills her up. She can feel herself ripping apart, forced to spread to accustom your girth and brace each of your hard thrusts. Feeling the little resistance of her pussy even gives the thrill of the sex, encouraging you to fuck her pussy harder and see how Isa will take you until she totally succumbs to your cock.

"Harder, please!~ YN!~ fuck me harder!" Isa screamed out on every sentence, moaning out mindlessly.

Arouses on every second you spent staying inside Isa's pussy, you are slowly losing control of yourself and want to fuck the redhead girl as hard as you could. You held her by her sexy waist, gripping hard against her flesh as you brace her. Going rougher and fucking her harder, you give Isa short deep thrusts that shake her core from the inside.

Isa moaned out in pain and pleasure, her hand turning white as she grips on the sheets for her dear life. Soon, you saw her biting into your pillow to drown out her unfiltered moans, which you found hot and sexy.

As you enjoy your sexy time with Isa, fucking her brains out in the process, your phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand and caught your attention. You tried to shrug it off but the annoying ringtone keeps breaking your focus. Annoyed, you answered the phone and put it on a loudspeaker.

"What?!" You groaned angrily, making the people on the other line pause briefly.

"YN, where are you? We are looking over you at the club and we can't find you." Your colleague asked, a bit worried about your tone.

"Sorry. Something happened and I had to go home early. The tab is on me so you two can go home now."

"Is there something bad that happened? Did we leave you bored?" Your other colleague asked, sensing a little bit of guilt from your sudden disappearance.

You grunted and were about to talk back when all of the sudden, Isa lifted her head and moaned out loud, calling your name. "YN!~ harder!~ stop talking to someone else when you are fucking my pussy!~"

The people behind the other line gasped as they heard an unfamiliar voice moaning sexily. Stopping for a second and stuttering, your friend asked "i-is that-?"

"Yes, it is! Now hung up!~" you impatiently pressed the hang-up button, not letting your colleagues finish the question. Tossing your phone back onto the nightstand, Isa looked at you with a smirk on her face, proud of what she has done.

"You naughty girl~ now my friends know I brought you home and left them to fuck someone." You growled as you held Isa's waist again, pulling her towards you as you slam your hips forward.

"They deserve it~ they are so annoying and interrupting when I'm close again~" Isa breathed out, moaning heavily as she bites back on your pillow.

"You wanna cum again? Then cum~ shower my dick with your delicious cum~"

Sensing that Isa is already near another orgasm, you leaned close to her body until your chest lay flat on her back. Your hands left her waist to roam around her body, one went to her clit and rub it feverishly as the other swept her hair all over to her left shoulder before holding her right hand.

Your hips galloped faster, hips rolled smoothly to make sure Isa could feel your cock surfing in and out of her sore pussy. You licked all over her right cheek so she can find your lips, immediately making out with her as soon as you two kissed. She kept moaning in your mouth while sucking the air out of you, taking whatever she could swallow to keep her body from losing consciousness.

"I'm cumming, YN!~ fuck!~ you're so good!~" Isa gasped as she parted from the kiss.

Feeling the familiar tightness in her stomach, Isa curled up and convulsed as she reached her second orgasm for the night. Her pussy clamped hard around your cock, walls pulsating rapidly as her juices gushed out of her gaping hole. She buried her face in your pillow once more. Screaming on muffled, yet it is still so loud that you can hear her moaning profanities with your name.

As much as you still want to fuck her in a doggy position, watch her ass ripple on every thrust, you pulled out of Isa's sensitive hole and turned her body around, laying her back flat on the bed. Her pussy is still twitching, squirting on your sheet endlessly. Feeling yourself at the limit, you pushed yourself back inside Isa, moving your hips like an animal in need to breed.

"YN! I'm still sensitive!~" Isa whined out as you fuck her pussy mercilessly. You can feel her convulsing in your embrace, hands trying to push you away but you are hugging her tight.

"I know but I'm close. Fuck, you are so good, Isa!~"

Moving your hips like a horny rabbit, you keep drilling Isa's pussy mercilessly, driving deep on each pounding and making sure that your cock is kissing her womb's entrance. Still sensitive and haven't done her orgasm yet, Isa could feel your hot rod expanding further on her tingling walls, threatening her with another orgasm.

Cannot contain your urge to release anymore, you raised your hips one last time before slamming it hard back inside Isa. You clenched your butthole and exploded, cumming hard directly in Isa's womb. Wave after wave of thick potent jizz, you felt your balls getting drained out as you flood Isa's pussy with your load, filling her to the brim until it overflows and the mixed cum seeps out of your connection.

After almost half a minute of cumming, your cock finally went flaccid and slipped out of Isa's creampied pussy. Her fucked gaping hole glistens in bright well, completely swollen with your baby cream oozing out of it.

"Shit... I'm sorry I came inside you without asking..." You panted out as you lay on your side, pulling Isa to lay down on her side as well and face you.

"It's fine. I can buy plan B tomorrow morning." Isa smiled softly and pecked your lips, hugging your sweaty body scoot closer. She drew circles all over your chest using her finger, which you were surprised to work well to calm your breathing

"Are you not mad? I could get you pregnant." You asked dumbly, making Isa pout.

"Yes, I'm sure. Don't worry so much." Isa said as she pushed you down to your back, straddling your hips and grinding her leaking pussy over your erect cock.

"W-what are you doing?" You asked like an idiot again.

"Making the plan B worth it" Isa smirked as she grabbed your cum-coated dick and aim the glans on her pussy, sinking herself to start another round of sex with her on top this time.

-----

The following day after the club incident, your colleagues went to your house to fetch you, starting the normal routine as you all go to work. They rang your doorbell and patiently waited at the front door, only to be surprised that someone else opened it for them.

"Good morning~ you must be YN's colleagues. My name is Isa, nice to meet you two." Isa greeted them with a soft smile.

The two are awed and struck to see her wearing your thin shirt that's over her size, showing a hint of her body figure with no bra on it. Isa didn't even bother covering the huge dark hickeys all over her neck, proving the intensity of last night's sex to them, not like Isa wearing your boxer is already solid evidence.

As you finish wearing your office clothes and taking your briefcase, you headed towards the front door and slapped Isa's big ass, sliding some fingers between her thighs to caress her pussy. Isa gave you a shocked look and stomped her feet, lips in between smiling and pouting as you just touched her in front of your colleagues.

"See you later tonight?" You asked Isa and she nodded.

"Sure. But let's meet at the cafe near your office and sleep at my house this time. We still need to call someone to fix your bed."

You ruffled Isa's hair and giggled, giving her another peck on the lips as if your colleagues. Their jaws just at the words that came out of Isa's mouth, still can't believe that you broke your bed by fucking her. As you bid goodbye to Isa and closed the door, your colleagues flanked your sides and starts nudging you with their elbows, asking questions about Isa and the events last night.

[seoksgrl]

rather be dead than cool, 2. : jjk nerd!jungkook x popular!reader college au, dislike to love genderbent she's all that au

tws: rich antics, irene and mina being mean girls, name-calling

m.list prev | next

The address you texted to Jeongguk, after obtaining his mobile number, is in the centre of Gangnam, a street lined with row upon row of stores fit for those who have cash to burn. If you’re going to get Jeon towards your end of the popularity spectrum, it’s imperative that you get him out of whatever baggy, dark outfit he plans to turn up in today. Once the clothes are dealt with, you can work on that shaggy mop of hair before figuring out how to introduce him to your scene. 

That will likely be the easier part - once Jeon is seen with you, campus interest will soar. 

“How are things going?” Irene coos down the phone, an edge to her tone that often came when the two of you would play these kinds of games. Finding ways to one up the other, whether it be over boys or over money. While Irene is the friend you have known the longest, you can’t say she’s the one you trust. Though, your competitive streaks have always run alongside each other, the perfect match. 

You check your appearance in the store window, the first place you’re expecting to visit with Jeongguk. There’s a party this weekend at an old friend’s cabin, and if you’re going to bring Jeongguk, he needs to wear something that will enhance the foundations you managed to spot upon your first meeting. Brushing your hair over your shoulder, you reapply lip balm, using the window as your mirror, “Things are going according to plan. Jeon isn’t anything I can’t handle,”

Irene hums on the other end of the phone, though it’s anything but encouraging, “As long as you don’t plan on throwing in the towel before we’ve even started,”

“Not at all,” You grin at your own reflection, “He’ll be walking into the spring formal with all eyes on him when I’m finished. And I’ll take a ride in the Porsche as a reward,”

You can see it now, Irene’s eyes flashing with annoyance at your confidence. You often wonder if pissing off your best friend should bring you this much joy, but before you can ponder any longer, a familiar dark frame comes into sight down the street, skulking through the people on the sidewalk, and you end the call with Irene as your eyes land on Jeongguk. 

He’s dressed in what appears to be his favourite colour, black, paint-stained jeans and an oversized t-shirt. All that covers him from the unpredictable spring weather is a thin, denim jacket - also paint-stained. You wonder if it’s intentional.

He stops in front of you, large frame so imposing you have to take a small step back, your Gucci boots hardly a match for Jeongguk’s height. Your head tilts, eyes meeting his own weary gaze before you flash him your winning smile. 

“I’m glad you got here in one piece,” You hadn’t asked if Jeongguk drives, but you assume he must, having walked from the direction of the parking lot behind the row of designer stores, “I hope it was easy for you to find,”

He frowns at that, shuffling from foot to foot and adjusting his backpack a couple times. The wind has already managed to wriggle some fly-away hairs loose from whatever excuse for a ponytail he has, the strands falling around his face and brushing his chin. You cannot wait to get a few inches chopped - the length doesn’t bother you, but you can spot the split ends from here, for goodness sake. 

Jeongguk doesn’t reply, and so you press on, still wearing the bright, chirpy grin you save for meeting new people. You always like to make a good first impression, and you remember it being one of the few things your parents instilled in you as a child. Your other habits were picked up from movies, being that you rarely had time to do anything else as a youngster. Father was never home and when mother wasn’t shopping, she was organising charity events for your father and his work colleagues. 

You shake away the oddly sombre memory and continue with the task at hand, leading Jeongguk into the first store - Gucci itself. 

“We’ll start here,” You say, maintaining control as you lead Jeongguk further into the store, towards where the men’s shirts and slacks are kept, “I have an appointment booked for your hair,”

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jeongguk reach up and tug at the strands by his chin, brushing them behind his reddened ear. You continue to talk him through the itinerary for the day, though his pleading eyes continue to drill into the side of your head, and you have no choice but to turn, brow quirked, “What’s wrong?”

“I, ah -” He clears his throat, “I can’t afford anything here,”

You wave away Jeongguk’s worries, exhaling a short laugh, “I can take care of it. I have more than enough money, and plenty of good friendships with the staff. You can use my black card,”

“Black card?” He asks, dark brows furrowing, creating a tiny wrinkle between them, “Is that like store credit?”

You exhale again, but this time you’re not laughing. You realise not everyone pays for their tuition into Yonsei, and you’re just now realising perhaps Jeongguk is there on a scholarship. That would mean he’s very talented, something that intrigues you, though you don’t have time to be intrigued by your science experiment. 

“It’s a luxury credit card, Jeon,” You blink, “My family is very wealthy, and like I said,” You flip your hair over your shoulder, “I want to help,”

Not completely the truth, but Jeongguk doesn’t need to know that.

His lips part for a couple moments, before falling shut, and you continue walking with him towards the Oxford shirts. The sales assistant, eager and a little annoying, strolls over, their brows raising a fraction when they spot the tall, out-of-place guy beside you. Their lips part, their welcoming disposition betrayed by the obvious judgement in their gaze before their eyes slide back to you. 

“Miss Y/N, so lovely to have you back,” The young girl says, hands clasp in front of her, bright pink nails start against the black of her uniform as her eyes once more stray to Jeongguk, confusion marring her strictly sunny expression, “How can we help you today?”

You step forward, gesturing at Jeongguk with one hand and sliding a thumb across your phone screen with another. You had spent last night brainstorming the optimum stylistic direction to take with Jeongguk, wanting to enhance what good features he has in order to make his transformation believable. He still has to win Spring King, after all, and to do that, he needs to look and act the part. Turning up in head-to-toe designer the day after wearing his paint stained baggy jeans isn’t gonna work.

“My friend is looking for a few staple capsule pieces to add to his wardrobe,” You say, walking further into the store, followed closely by the assistant, and then Jeongguk who lags behind, looking entirely like a fish out of water, “Nothing too flashy, just several timeless pieces to get him started. He’s new to designer,”

The shop assistant makes a noise as if to say yeah, I can tell and you raise your brows expectantly, watching as she stumbles over her words, rushing towards the back of the store where the men’s shirts are displayed neatly, “O-of course, miss. Absolutely,” 

When you turn, Jeongguk is watching the whole exchange with curiosity and a little disbelief, his brows are drawn together, eyes impossibly brown and impossibly wide. You pause in your step, raising a manicured eyebrow in response, “Do you have something to say?”

“Does everyone always do as you tell them to?”

You smile, “Yes, now come on,” clicking your fingers, you turn and walk to where the assistant is waiting for you, not bothering to turn to check if Jeongguk is following.

He is.

Irene smacks her lips as she reapplies her lipgloss, using the mirrored wall in the new sushi restaurant, Stix, to see her reflection. You watch her fluff up her hair, wiping at the corner of her mouth, and you decide to check over your own appearance. 

As expected, it’s flawless. You always apply a lip tint if you know you’re going to be eating, saving you the time of reapplying. Your mother always told you that was rude, and so the habit has stuck. The urge to make a dig at Irene raises it’s ugly head, but you successfully shut it down. After all, you’d hate to make a fuss, and to embarrass your friend. 

“Have you played with your little lab rat yet?” Irene asks, grinning as she turns away from the mirror, putting her lip gloss back in her purse and pulling out her compact. Her makeup is flawless, but you don’t say anything as she begins to touch up her already perfect skin. 

“I took him shopping a couple days ago,” Mina snickers, and you shrug, continuing, “I didn’t have a lot to work with, new clothes were imperative if I want to recreate his image,”

Irene giggles, “Sounds like you had fun dressing up your little pet project,” 

“It was a means to an end. The shirts were basic, Jeongguk didn’t want to branch out,” In fact, he didn’t take any of your fashion advice beyond pointing out what he would need from around the store. He picked up a few white t-shirts, white button-ups and some black slacks. You had to practically force him to get the shoes you suggested, if only to prevent him from wearing Gucci dress pants with his sneakers. 

You can safely say you’ve never met someone so stubborn. 

“Are you gonna bring him to Jimin’s party on Saturday?” Mina asks, wiggling her brows as if the mere idea is mischievous, “He could be your date,”

Irene let out a yelp of laughter, and Mina joins in, the pair of them cackling like two evil witches. You watch them with a vague sense of annoyance, a familiar flare of stubbornness coming to life in your chest as you remain stone-faced, waiting for their laughter to die down. When it does, it peters out, their eyes shifting between you and each other as the silence grows. 

“Y/N, did you hear Mina’s joke?”

“I did,” You smile, cat-like and confident, “I didn’t get the joke. I mean, Jeongguk’s reputation is about to be improved tenfold. Why not let people think he’s my date?”

Mina gasps and Irene’s plucked brows raise in a look of abject horror, she actually puts a hand on her chest as if she has been scandalised by your question. You can hardly see the problem with it - after all, it was your understanding that in order to ensure you winning the bet, the whole thing would end with you and Jeongguk attending the Spring formal together anyway. It makes sense in your head. 

“Y/N, you can’t be serious,” Irene says, snorting, “bringing that loser to Jimin’s party? You two just broke up, Jimin will think you have gone insane,”

You frown, taking a sip of water, “I’m not sure about that. Nobody knows who Jeongguk is, and once I’ve got him styled appropriately, people will just assume he’s a random hot guy I’ve picked up. If Jimin can be a cliche and score a cheerleader, why not be a little mysterious?”

Irene mutters, "I don't know about 'hot',"

You smile, brittle and a little annoyed, "He will be when I'm finished with him. Have some faith, Irene,"

When you glance at Mina, she seems to be grasping where you’re coming from, but as per usual, Irene doesn’t see your side of things, and she rolls her eyes, returning to her useless endeavour to fix problems that don’t exist with her makeup. You smile blandly at Mina, sipping at your water and scrolling through your socials.

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[mischiefmaker615]

Ghost (Loki Love Story) Ch.1

Summary: Somehow Loki is back from the dead and.. quite literally, stuck with you! and his methods on trying to 'fix this' seems a bit to exotic for your taste.. but dead or alive, a god of mischief is still a god of mischief.

Rating: R

Note: bare with my into *sweats* next chapter gets into it ;)

From Row Seats: @soulpiercing @catsladen @foxherder @lcolumbia1988 @llokii @eleniblue @liminalpebble @stumblingthruspace @lokisgoodgirl @joyfullymassivewhispers @asgards-princess-of-mischief @crimson25

It’s been years since the prince of Asgard has been dead; why they chose to keep his attire on display? I’d never know. Midgard hated him, the Avengers stopped him, Thor was kind enough to grant him mercy by taking him home alive and what did it cost? His life. Heroic? Perhaps, I heard he tried perfecting Thor before Thanos decided to expire him.. Asgard is gone too. We live amongst Midgard now, but as our own people, the Asgardians but I find myself preferring to be amongst the mortals anyway, they are much more fascinating, a change of pace compared to my own Asgardian kind.

I’m sure the Avenger’s think so too; after finding out that I inherited wings- which is most likely why the Asgardians treated me like an outcast anyway- took me in and I now assist them with whatever mission they see fit at throwing at me. Luckily no drastic battles have emerged since the defeat of Thanos so adjusting to life again was everyone’s focus rather than being scared at something like that happening again. Other than the team, I didn’t lose anybody in the blip. I just returned back to New Asgard alone and back to the city for work every day. Steve is a pretty close friend, but if we weren’t hanging out at the tower now and again, nobody really stuck around anymore like the old days to chill.

The Fallen is what caught my attention one day in the city of New York, a museum in which those who had any help in defeating Thanos was honored there that had perished; that’s where I saw the bastard’s costume behind glass. If he hadn’t, Midgard couldn’t give two shits about him and many don’t even stop to look at his display, which was pretty much just his Asgardian attire he always famously wore back at the palace. Where you’d start putting it on and off, would remain a mystery to me- but his magic usually always got his work done for him ninety percent of the time anyway.

The finger smudge on the glass caught my eye and I resisted the urge to wipe it off myself, let alone catching myself on why I cared in the first place. He and I never spoke, nor did we interact at the palace at all. I was the one polishing the weaponry where he was going off to battles and attending long meetings and.. whatever royals did.

‘’excuse me- if you don’t mind, I’ll clean that right up.’’

A woman’s voice brought me out of my thoughts and I glanced at the custodian waiting with a towel and a spray bottle- face tired yet confident. I merely nodded and stepped aside, over my little timeline story anyway so i made my way over to the stairs.

An ache in my back made me move my shoulders a bit to try to rid of the feeling; my wings never really liking to stay cooped up and hidden under my denim jacket I promised to upgrade but never did. Larger clothes were easier to hide them and more comfortable rather than folding them tighter to accommodate my stubborn style- plus, the bigger the jacket the more people would stop me as if I stole something and I don’t like to get bothered in every place I’m in.

Once upstairs, the place gave a good background on the walls of the blip’s history, which was 40 percent true and each Avenger got his or her own section of backstory, powers, and their part on stopping Thanos. Honestly this whole place was annoying and the only actual Avenger that stopped by here was either me- if I even considered myself an Avenger, and Steve. He tended to reminisce the section on Stark’s sacrifice.

Thor’s second was in the middle of the room and if you turned your back to it, you were facing the front of the building which would allow you to go to the railing of the balcony to have a view downstairs in which you just came. Ironically when I peak over the railing and to the bottom floor, if one would fall they would smash right into Loki’s glass costume display. Why they didn’t include him up here with his brother.. perhaps it was to keep Villains and Heroes on separate floors.. Loki I wouldn’t consider a villain, he was just.. misguided.

A loud boom is what silenced both floors, followed by another one but ever louder this time. My body tensed and my hands tightened on the railing as I looked around, people pausing in confusion and growing panic. It wasn’t until an explosion happened at the front of the building- sending rubble everywhere at the crowd is when people started scattering. A handful of men flooded the building where men in black suits pointed their guns with a very familiar symbol on their uniform.

Hydra.

I sprung into action- wings practically ripping through the jacket as I leaped over the railing and they spread out to catch me into flight. The men pointed their weapons but with a few dodges and maneuvering in the air, I got close enough for my Asgardian strength to punch one backward where he rammed into others before I landed on the ground. From behind them through the open hole in the wall I see Cap and Clint running over to help where I continued to fight.

We didn’t know why they were there or who they were trying to hurt- there wasn’t much to steal, its all useless to mortal men because the building didn’t display the weapons with the attire, but they were after something. With Hydra, I knew it couldn’t be something good.  

Natasha helped me tune up my hand-to-hand combat back in the day so I was pretty good at dodging their bullets and punches just so I could deliver my own as more seemed to appaear to join the fight.

‘’lucky to have you here Y/N- the others are on their way too’’ Steve called as he flung a guy right out the open hole in the wall while Clint headed upstairs to cover the birds eye view.

‘’well we never really get days off anyway so I have no room to complain’’ I tease and gave a hard flap, causing a gust of wind to knock two men back so they slid across the floor. ‘’what do they want?’’

‘’don’t know, but we gotta leave one standing for questioning’’ he reminded as I took to the sky again and stood on the railing itself with perfect balance while I scanned the top floor.

‘’take your pick then, Barton- where are you?’’ I called just as he dashed towards the elevator.

‘’this place has a third floor, you take this one-‘’

‘’watch out!’’ I shout as the elevator door opens in front of him just for a hydra agent to fire his gun. Luckily for Barton, he dodged out of the way but a sharp pain shot through my shoulder, causing me to cry out. The blast of the weapon pushed my body back as Clint grabbed the man to prevent him from firing again. Whatever he yelled went on ringing ears as I fell back from the railing and over the edge.

Its like the movies in those moments, where your body goes through a lot of pain where you almost don’t feel it.. or anything, let alone hear while things move in slow motion. Yet as I fell off the balcony, everything came into full feeling as I landed on Loki’s display, the glass breaking and the outfit falling down as I crash through before landing on the ground. That stupid costume was made with a high percentage of Asgardian armor so there was no breaking my fall as glass cut a good part of my right wing, same side as where I got my shoulder shot and of course I had to land on that side as well.

Rolling onto my back, I wince as I look up to see Barton’s panic face look down from above before he disappeared, his shoes pounding on the ground as he ran before Steve showed up at my side, kneeling as he raised his gun to cover me while my vision danced. Honestly the last thing I remember seeing was a bit of my blood smeared on Loki’s outfit that had fallen beside me and my body tensed.

Just before I blacked out, my blood flashed green for a moment before getting absorbed into the armor.

NEXT CHAPTER

(Continuing Chapter's *when published* can be found on my masterlist ♥)

[hier--soir]

under the night | one

summary: joel miller is a grump, but he likes to think old dogs can be taught new tricks pairing: joel miller x f!reader, set in jackson after the end of tlou part I warnings/tags: [18+ only, minors dni] language, nightmares, discussions of sex, slow-ish burn, age gap [20ish years], grumpy!joel, potential jealousy word count: 7.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a/n: first time i've posted any of my own stuff in ages, but i've been loving writing for joel so thought i'd share!

Wyoming was a state you had never visited before the outbreak, so it was strange that 22 years on, it had become your home. It was Summer when you and Cal arrived in Jackson, and six months on, you could feel Winter’s grip steadily descending upon the town. The area seemed to be cloudy year-round, but the way the air had begun to chill as of late was something you’d not quite experienced before. Cold as it was, living there was quiet, and peaceful.

The settlement was led by a strong woman named Maria, and her husband Tommy, who had welcomed you and Cal with a wary kindness. Offered you safety, and a place to live, in exchange for hard work and your dedication to supporting the community. After so many years travelling the barren, infected country alone, the pair of you were awkward, and fumbled your way through meeting so many new people.

Jackson wasn’t the first place you’d tried to settle down in. Over the span of a decade, you’d crossed the country what felt like twice over, relying solely on each other, but never quite feeling like anywhere was home except for when you were alone together. This place proved you wrong though – the people proved you wrong. They were self-sufficient here, a working community, where everyone was equal, and the leaders were kind, and trustworthy; two characteristics that you and Cal hadn’t encountered in other people in a long time.

The home Maria and Tommy provided you was modest, and a fixer-upper if you had ever seen one. God, the day they’d arrived, you’d let out an exhausted laugh when Tommy pulled on the knob of the front door, and it cracked off its hinges.

“Nothing a good screw won’t fix,” Cal had chuckled, wanting to appear optimistic in front of Tommy.

Regardless of the state of the place, you and Cal made it your home in quick work. Cal made friends quickly, the way he always had. He was tall and gangly; all long limbs and sandy blonde hair, and he had a crooked toothed smile that endeared people to him almost instantly. You, on the other hand, were blunt, your body lean and strong as a result of years of physical exertion, and you were always the more stubborn of the two. You were a perfect dichotomy beside each other; sweet and salty. Stony, and withdrawn, you had always used your closest friend as a crutch during rare social interactions. You were familiar with all of the violence, and pain that came with the world, and as you grew up, had become so delightfully unsure when it came to being shown warmth.

Maria took you under her wing, introducing you to the people at the stables you would be working alongside, and encouraging you to find solace in the group of warriors that made up the women of Jackson. For the most part, people were kind and welcoming. With time, they didn’t pause and stare when you walked along the street, unsure of the newcomers.

People shared stories about others who had come through Jackson before you and Cal, and about the histories of those who still lived there. Sometimes, as you sat on the porch of the house, you’d watch people walk by, share a polite wave, and try to pin the stories to the faces you were seeing.

“I met Tommy’s brother today,” Cal started one evening. “Bit of a prick.”

Your eyebrow raised slightly, amused that someone could piss off one of the more jovial people you’d ever known. “What’s wrong with him, was he wearing double denim?”

Cal lifted his bowl of soup to his mouth and slurped down the last few drops. Wiping his mouth messily, he shook his head. “I don’t know about that guy. Remember Tommy told us about him?” You did remember Tommy vaguely mentioning that his brother had arrived on the settlement a year or so before you and Cal arrived.

“He keeps to himself for the most part,” Tommy had jested, his eyes glazing over for a moment as he thought of his brother. “But he’s a goodin, does good work for this town.”

“Whatever,” Cal changed his tune. “I shouldn’t let it bother me, he was just rude is all. Called me newbie twice, even though he knows my name. Seems to like being a big dog around here.”

You hummed to show you were still listening, tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it in your mouth. “Seems only fair that if Tommy is kind, his brother would’ve turned out an ass. Isn’t that how we work?” He snorted out a laugh, and that was the last you spoke of it.

It wasn’t for another week or so until you met the man yourself. It’d been a long day spent at the stables, basking in the beating sun while working alongside a few others. The horses were huge creatures, and it took you a while to get used to their nature. It’d been so long since an animal hadn’t been a threat to you, but a few weeks on, and you’d found yourself ending the workdays by taking a ride around on your favourite mare Dot.

You and Cal’s home was on the opposite side of town, and on your walk through you passed faces that had become familiar. You small talked and smiled until your jaw ached, and by the time you bumped into him, you’d already reached your pleasantry quota for the day.

He had a bag of vegetables hung over his shoulder in a linen sack, and was making quiet conversation with his brother, when you walked by.

Tommy called out your name, waving you over to them. Your feet and shoulders ached, but you slapped a half smile on your face as you sidled up to the pair. “I’d been hoping to catch you, Maria’s wondering when you’re free for dinner this week.”

“Oh, whenever she wants me,” you nodded, chest warming in an odd way at the invitation. Your gaze flitted curiously to the tall man standing beside Tommy. You’d seem him around before, many times actually, but never realised he was the infamous brother.

Oftentimes, you’d noticed him because, 7 times out of 10, the same young girl would be plodding along beside him, chattering away incessantly. You had assumed they were a father and daughter on those occasions, but now understanding this was Joel, you knew better. Cal had explained it to you when he found out, about how Tommy’s brother had a kid living with him, but it wasn’t his. The idea of it didn’t seem too strange to you, considering most of the people living in Jackson were found families, not blood. 

He was tall, taller than Tommy, with a more wrinkled and tanned face. Dark hair with streaks of grey, and a short beard. Obviously. the older brother. Thicker than Tommy too, the invasive thought flashed through your mind, as your eyes glanced over his arms.

Ignorant to your curious eyeballing, Joel jerked his head in your direction, and asked, “The other newbie?” He had a distinctly husky Texan drawl, and his voice was deep, as if he spoke from the very depths of his stomach.

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded, and introduced the two of you with a smile. “She’s doing some great work for us round the stables, the horses have taken a good liking to her already.”

You shared a polite nod and held out your hand for greeting. Joel barely met your eyes, before gripping your hand once. One firm shake, before dropping it like it stung him. You thought you noticed him even wipe his hand off on his jeans. Rude motherfucker.

He didn’t say anymore, and seemed to just wait for you to go so he could continue his conversation from before you showed up.

“Well,” you said. “I’ll get out of your hair boys. Be good.” A short laugh fell from Tommy’s mouth, and you thought you caught a surprised expression on Joel’s face as you turned and continued walking in the direction of home.

You crossed paths a few more times that Summer, but always briefly. He constantly had somewhere to be, or a job he was on his way to completing – never without an excuse to cut a conversation with you short. You didn’t particularly mind his disinterest in small talk. In fact, you found it somewhat refreshing after a few interactions with him. Finally, one other person in this town who wasn’t friendly, or willing to fake interest in you just because you were new in town.

One day you and Cal went on a ride along with Tommy as he patrolled the area surrounding the settlement. Nothing serious, just him showing you both around the area, telling you about what abnormalities he kept an eye out for when he went out of the safety of the gates.

The trio had been out for an hour or so before a rustle in the woods a hundred metres back caught their attention. Your hackles rose, and you reached for the gun strapped to your hip instinctively, prepared to see an infected emerge from the brush. But Joel Miller rode up to your group quickly, a deep scowl settling on his face when he spotted his brother’s company.

“What’s wrong?” Tommy asked his brother.

“Maria wants you back home,” he said gruffly. “Said it’s getting late; said if you’re not back in time for dinner she’ll lock your ass out.” His gaze twitched quickly over to you and Cal, who were watching him curiously. “Why are the newbies with you?”

Joel wasn’t afraid to talk about you two as if you weren’t there, didn’t care how it came across, and you understood this was probably why some people in Jackson weren’t very fond of him.

“Just showing them the area, they oughta know what we get up to out here every day,” Tommy said amiably. “The real question is, why are you doin’ my wife’s bidding?”

He huffed in response, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Maria’s the boss,” is all he said, before gripping the reins and encouraging his horse to take off in the direction he came from. When it was just the three of you again, you felt your shoulders sag, and let out a low whistle, as if to say, jeez, lighten up.

Not a week later, Cal told you, “His face has the same thing yours has, you know.” You were sharing lunch outside the stables, when Joel had shown up to take one of the horses for a patrol.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you’d asked incredulously. He held his hands up in defence, coughing lightly around his mouthful of food.

“No, no, don’t bed mad,” he paused, laughing more. “But… c’mon, I couldn’t help but notice…”

“Notice what? Why the fuck can’t you finish your sentence.” You were impatient, and the sun was beating down on you, and Joel was only 10 metres away, saddling up.

“You both have this set of wrinkles in between your eyebrows,” he finally admitted, smirking. “I’d say it’s because you’ve both been frowning for the past twenty years straight, if I had to guess.” You relaxed the frown on your face instantly, making Cal laugh harder. A warmth rose in your face as you realised you’d attracted Joel’s attention, and he was glancing at you from across the grass.

“I don’t frown all the time,” you muttered under your breath, giving Joel a courteous nod goodbye as he rode out on the horse.

“Of course you don’t, sunshine, my mistake,” Cal had agreed sarcastically, waving a hand at Joel in farewell.

After that, whenever you saw him, your lips twitched as you noticed the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead, and you reminded yourself to relax your own. Not enough room in Jackson for two permanent frowns, you thought to yourself, and his takes the cake. ‘Grumpy’ was a good descriptor for him. On the rare occasion you saw him smile or laugh, it was when the girl was around.

You had noticed the way she’d tell him a joke and a begrudging smile would grace his face, only for him to cough, or reach up and place a hand over his mouth, to avoid anyone else taking notice. Of course, you would notice the girl grinning with glee at making her companion laugh. It was sweet. The fondness between them was palpable, and you had to fight the curiosity inside you that wondered what had brought them together.

When, at long last, you finally met Ellie, it all made sense. The girl was insufferably chatty with some precocious snark to boot, and she had an impressive attention to detail; a 5’4” spitfire with a mess of mousy brain hair. She was no bullshit, and you trusted her instantly.

“I was wondering when I’d meet the newbie I’d been hearing about,” Ellie had smirked, holding out a sweaty hand in greeting.   

“Sorry it took so long, everyone wants a piece of the me these days,” you feigned a sigh, smiling when the young girl laughed.

“Do you like it here?” she asked inquisitively, and you nodded. “I’ve seen you a few times, but you always seemed busy, or were with that other guy.” “Jackson is great, me and Cal are happy to be here,” you confided. “I’ve seen you round a lot too, with your-“ you cut yourself off before the word ‘father’ came out. “With Joel.”

“Oh, you know Joel!”

“No, not really,” you clarified quickly. “He pops up here and there… what a laugh that guy is.” For a moment you were worried the joke wouldn’t land, but when a squeaky laugh pealed out of Ellie’s mouth you relaxed, and laughed with her.

“You’re telling me!” the girl barked, shaking her head.

Through those first six months in Jackson, life slowly started to make sense again for you. For the first time since the outbreak happened all of those years ago, you found yourself with a proper home, and a community of people around you who you had come to know and respect.

But even with newfound light in your life, the darkness inside of you wasn’t going away quickly. Even a friendly place like Jackson couldn’t stop the nightmares that plagued you. After spending over a decade traversing the United States with Cal, seeing death and decay and infection firsthand, you had to train yourself to focus on the good.

When you passed by a group of kids on the street, you urged yourself not to see the faces of Cal’s late brothers, whom you grew up with. Had to fight the memories of the settlement not unlike Jackson that you spent years in, only to watch it burn to the ground. Not everything ends badly, you would whisper to yourself. People can be trusted.

As insistent as you were with opening yourself up to the light, the nightmares still came fast and hard. It was the same one, most nights. The same memory. In time, Cal had begun to sleep through you crying out for help in your sleep, after learning years ago that being woken up by him sometimes scared you just as much as the dream itself. Sometimes, solitude after an awful night was the only remedy.

You woke slick with sweat, your shirt sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Heart racing, you stumbled out of bed and gulped down some water in the kitchen. Through the light fog outside, a warm orange glow lit the street, as the sun rose slowly over the town. Thank god, you thought. Early, but not too early to rise without worrying Cal. You dressed slowly, limbs heavy with fatigue, and walked numbly toward the stables. Winter had crept into Jackson like a thief, and the morning’s icy cold breath licked at your hands and face, stealing all the warmth you had to offer.

A few of the horses startled awake when you arrived, and you soothed them quietly, your voice hoarse from crying only an hour prior.

“It’s just me,” you murmured, kissing Dot’s speckled nose.

A morning ride seemed a good way to wake up all of your senses, so you set to saddling up. But only a short while after your arrival at the stables, a sound outside made you start. A flash of the nightmare shot through your brain, and your heart stuttered. Footsteps, padding softly through the grass outside, could clearly be heard. Dot’s ears pricked up, and her large head swung toward the stable doors to watch. Although you had been sure you heard someone approaching, when he stepped into view, you still let out a yell of surprise. 

“Woah,” Joel held his hands out in alarm, eyes wide. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here.” His arms lowered as he recognised you, warily noting your defensive stance, positioned half behind Dot with tensed fists.

You didn’t say anything immediately, breathing heavily out of your mouth, and still trying to calm your racing heart. You watched each other from across the space, and he took a few slow steps inside. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he apologised genuinely, in a tone gentler than you’d ever heard him use.

You ignored his apology. “What’re you doing out here so early? The sun’s hardly up.”

An eyeroll. “I could ask you the same question.”

You contemplated lying, but exhaustion wore on you heavily, and you found yourself unable to think of a fib worthy of his time. “Bad dreams,” you settled on, not caring how childish it made you sound.

He nodded slowly, looking unsurprised by your admission. After a measured pause, he offered, “I get those too, sometimes.”

Your heart, which had only just slowed down, found itself beating out of time again, although you weren’t sure why. This was the longest conversation you and Joel had ever had, and by far the most private one – if you didn’t count the horses listening in. When you didn’t answer him quickly, his hand raised to scratch awkwardly against his beard. Not for the first time, you were hit with an unwelcome thought about how handsome he was.

“You look cold,” he changed the subject quickly, and with a down turned mouth. He was wearing a thick brown jacket, which made the thin jumper you were wearing look like a sheet of paper in comparison.

“Cal’s been borrowing my good jacket these days, since it’s gotten cold.”

Joel watched you speak, and it seemed like he didn’t how to respond. His hands settled on his hips, and he mumbled something under his breath that you missed. When you prompted him to repeat it, he just said, “You spend a lot of time with Dot.” You were happy to finally shift the topic of conversation away from yourself, and agreed. 

“Yeah well, Percy over there isn’t too fond of me,” you gestured behind you to a tall grey horse, who you had discovered months earlier would huff loudly and rear his head up whenever you stepped near him. In that respect, Percy reminded you somewhat of Joel when the two of you first met.

“Percy’s old, he’ll warm up to you with time,” he advised.

“I thought the saying goes that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

A small huff of air escaped his mouth, and if you weren’t so sleepy, you would’ve sworn it was the start of a laugh. Quietly, he said, “I’d like to think that’s not true.”

It was the next morning, after you’d awoken from another nightmare, and stepped outside to head to the stables again, that you saw it. A gift, or maybe a token of understanding.

A large black jacket, folded neatly on your doormat.

Winter kicked in like a punch in the gut, but you decided you liked the festivities that the cold weather inspired in Jackson. Suddenly every morning your windows had a delicate layer of frost over them, hiding the view of the street, making every day a new surprise, waiting for you to discover when you finally stepped outside. It didn’t rain often, but you could sense how the clouds seemed to sag, and knew that snow wouldn’t be far around the corner. You wore Joel’s jacket most days, and appreciated how the cold made your face tinge red, so that when he spotted you in it, he wouldn’t notice you were blushing.

To celebrate the changing of the season, Maria had organised a bonfire night to bring the town together. She enticed you to come along with promises of mulled wine and live music, but the truth was that you had already promised Cal you’d go along.

“She is going to be theeeere,” Cal had sung dreamily from the kitchen, a week before. You had been lounging on the chair in your living space, drowsy from an impromptu afternoon nap, and it took you a moment to understand who he was talking about.

“Luisa?”

“Luisa,” he confirmed wistfully, sipping a cup of tea as he stepped into the room. “She invited us, and you have to come along, you know. I can’t go without my wingman.”

“If she invited you, you probably don’t need a wingman,” you laughed, but agreed to go nonetheless. It was sweet watching Cal talk about Luisa over the past few weeks, and watching his crush develop more every day that they spent time together. Not for a long time had either of you been romantically involved with someone, and it made your heart sing for him. Of course, you would go. For Cal, you’d probably go anywhere. 

Jackson was a hub of excitement when the day finally rolled around. During your shift at the stables, the women you worked with chatted keenly about wanting to dance to live music, and it caused a bubble of excitement to form in your own chest. It had been so long since you’d seen a musical instrument, let alone seen someone play one with any skill. On your walk home, people were toting around decorations, headed towards a big open dirt field, where you knew a set up effort had already begun. You passed Joel’s place halfway through town and smiled upon spotting him on his porch, rugged up and chatting away with Tommy and Ellie.

Since that morning in the barn, you and Joel had settled into a sort of comfortable ease with one another. There was less rigidity when you spoke; less apprehension when it came to sharing things about yourselves, and your days. Being around him became a source of calm, rather than tension. You never sought him out for conversation, but you found yourself quietly elated when he appeared on one of your aimless walks, or passed by the stables unexpectedly and chatted to you while you worked.

The more you came to learn about him in those quiet moments, the more you appreciated him. You felt that you had formed a kind of mutual understanding between you; that you wanted the same things. A shared desire to enjoy this quiet life that neither of you felt you deserved, but were both lucky enough to have fall into your laps.  It was true that you hadn’t made friends there the way Cal had – people gravitated towards his energy naturally. But with Joel, you felt understood.

“Well don’t you lot look cosy,” you called from the street, and were met with a round of friendly waves. “What’s on the menu?” you pointed at the mugs they all gripped, eyeing the hot steam that rose out of them.

“Just a second.” Joel disappeared inside for a few minutes, before returning with a cup of coffee for you. You leaned against the banister and sipped at the hot liquid greedily, nodding in appreciation.

“How are you doing?” Tommy asked you genuinely. You liked the sweet crow’s feet that appeared next to his eyes when he smiled. You chatted absently about work and patrols, and how one of the families in town were expecting a new baby in a few months, before finally the topic of the bonfire came up.

“Oh, you’re coming right?” Ellie pondered eagerly, sitting up in her chair.

“Only if you’ll be there, kid.” Her face lit up at this, grinning smugly at Joel and Tommy. You could feel Joel’s eyes on you, but held your gaze steadfast on Ellie. It felt like your skin burned a little when he was looking at you – you could always sense his stare.

“And Cal too?” Ellie asked. She always asked you about Cal, and you’d just come to understand that she liked to be in the loop about most things. She held that teenage curiosity to know about everyone, and all their comings and goings.

“Yes,” you smirked conspiratorially. “He mentioned wanting to see Luisa.” The younger girl raised her eyebrows suggestively, garnering a chuckle from even Tommy.

“Can you believe,” Ellie suddenly chuckled out, sticking out a hand and placing it on Joel’s shoulder. “That Joel thought you and Cal were married or something?”

As you and Tommy laughed, you thought you noticed Joel gently kick his boot against Ellie’s shin, as if to say, shut the hell up kid. He didn’t quite meet your eye when you looked at him, and appeared somewhat embarrassed as he turned to glare at Ellie.

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first to think that,” you conceded. “With the amount of years we’ve known each other, we might as well be married at this point.”

Joel looked at you properly then, his curiosity getting the better of him. Tommy asked the question that seemed to be on his lips.

“Remind me how many years you’ve been together? I can’t remember what you told me all those months ago.”

“We’ve known each other for something like two or three decades.”

Ellie let out a low whistle, eyes wide just thinking about that many years. She was so young, and you felt a quick pang in your heart to remember it.

You drained the last of your coffee, and placed the mug softly into Joel’s outstretched hand before stepping off the porch. “Speaking of the old ball and chain, I’d better get home to make sure he hasn’t burned the place down in my absence.”

“See you tonight,” Joel shared a half smile, and you nodded, before turning and heading in the direction of home. As you walked, you listened to their conversation start back up again.  “Oh kiddo, I almost forgot. Tommy told me this joke yesterday that reminded me of you. You’re gonna love this…” And then you were too far gone to hear the rest.

After giving Cal advice on which shirt to wear, the pair of you made your way toward the field where the party was being held. He was adamant you had to arrive casually late, so that he didn’t seem too eager. You went along with his ideas amiably, happy to please him. And although you didn’t tell Cal, you could admit to yourself that you weren’t going just for his benefit anymore – there were other people looking forward to seeing you. You couldn’t help but wonder if you would get to spend any time talking to Joel, and your heart squeezed in a way you chose to ignore.

The sun had set hours ago, and the party was in full swing when you arrived at the gathering. Flames blazed high into the air from two huge bonfires, crackling loudly and lighting the wide-open space with a warm orange glow. Small twinkling lights had been strung up through the surrounding trees, providing more light. A small group of musicians stood off to the side, playing soft folk music that flowed beautifully into your ears.

Busy marvelling at your beautiful surroundings, you were shocked back to reality by Cal thrusting a warm mug into your hands.

“Liquid courage,” he winked, taking a swig. You stared at the deep red steaming liquid in your own cup, and sipped it tentatively. Soft notes of cinnamon and star anise hit your tongue, mixing with the tart red wine, and you hummed happily. “Oh, there she is!”

Cal bid you a quick farewell and wandered across the field to sit beside Luisa on a thick log. You watched as the pair embraced, but averted your eyes quickly when Luisa leaned in and pressed a kiss against Cal’s cheek. He would tell you these things in his own time, and deserved his privacy. Allowing your eyes to flicker over the rest of the crowd. It seemed everyone in Jackson was there. Families talking and laughing, couples and friends swaying together near the band. A feeling of intense loneliness hit you in a sudden wave, but as quick as it came it was gone, as you spotted Joel sitting alone, staring into the fire.

Before you could convince yourself not to, you found your legs meandering in his direction, as if out of your own control. You half hoped someone would stop you for a conversation along the way, but everyone was distracted, and you seemed to blend into the crowd without drawing much attention. Ellie could be seen watching the band play with some other people around her age and hadn’t noticed your arrival. In less than a minute, your black boots were stopping a metre behind where Joel sat.

He wasn’t aware of your presence yet, leaving you with a moment to take him in. Although you couldn’t see his face yet, you admired his broad strong back, and thought absently that either all his clothes were too tight, or he must’ve been built like a brick house underneath them.

Unsure of yourself, and feeling awkward in your own skin, you hesitated for a moment too long. A quiet crack sounded as you adjusted your footing, and crunched onto a wayward twig, making Joel’s head tick ever so slightly to the side.

“Hey there,” you rushed, not wanting to spook him, and he turned fully to see you. He looked handsome, wearing his normal brown jacket, and holding his own mug of ruby red liquid courage. The corner of his mouth quirked up and those earthy brown eyes took her in quickly, flicking from her head to her feet, and back up again in an instant.

“You gonna sit down or just stand there all night?” You were torn abruptly from your reverie when he spoke, and you hoped that the darkness hid your blush. Stepping over the log he was on, you sat down beside him heavily, holding out your free hand to feel the warmth of the bonfire. You were close. Not enough to touch, but enough that the sleeves of you jackets brushed ever so slightly when one of you moved your arm.

“You havin’ a good time?” you enquired quietly, realising that from this vantage point, you could actually see Cal and Luisa, on the other side of the fire.

“Better now, I’ll admit.” You turned her head to look at him, surprised by his forthrightness, and he held your gaze evenly, still doing that half smile that put you at ease. “The people in this town are so friendly, but you run out of things to talk about after knowing them all for a year and a half.”

“Well lucky for us,” you suggested. “I’ve only been here 7 months. We haven’t exhausted all avenues of conversation yet, have we Joel?”

From behind the rim of his mug he chuckled quietly, his eyes shining with the fire’s reflection. “I’d say we haven’t, no.” Considering his height and broad stature, he always held himself in a naturally authoritative manor. But sitting there beside him, you enjoyed seeing him look so relaxed, lounging comfortably, with a few drinks in his system. It was a version of him that you hadn’t met before, and you liked it.

“How is he?” Joel asked, nodding in Cal’s direction. You looked over to see him and Luisa chatting together, their foreheads knocking together as they leaned into one another. You smiled.

“He’s good. Fitting in like no one’s business,” you snorted, shaking your head in a sort of wonderment. “Doesn’t surprise me though. People always liked Cal, everywhere we went.”

“And they didn’t like you?” His tone was disbelieving. A prickling heat tickled across your face, and you knew he was staring.

“Not that they didn’t like me, I’m just…” you trailed off, trying to choose your words carefully. “More of an acquired taste, I suppose.”

“An acquired taste.” He repeated gruffly, and made a scoffing noise from deep in his throat.

“Ah, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Well, even then, I suppose the saying goes... about acquired tastes getting better with age… or something like that.” You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and relished in seeing his large frame shaking with silent laughter.

“We can agree to disagree on this one, but I’m happy to let you chop together sayings to fit your idea of not being likable.”

You stared at him a little longer, enjoying the tight-lipped smile on his face. Gaze locked onto his mouth, your brain suddenly filled with ideas about his lips, and what they would feel like. He was so rough, so brawny, but you liked to imagine they’d be soft, like he was now that you had gotten to know him more. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip and your eyes drifted up, to find he’d caught you staring. Joel exhaled heavily and reached up to scratch at the little scar on the bridge of his nose. You wondered how he’d gotten it.

You’d noticed plenty of scars along his arms, during the warmer months in Jackson. It seemed he had a long history of violence that you knew nothing about, but you certainly wasn’t surprised by it. Even as you grew closer to him, and to Ellie, nothing was ever revealed about how they came together, or what led them to Jackson. It almost made you want to keep your own history private, until he shared more with you. But then he smiled at you, and your heart did that skipping a beat thing it was always doing these days around him, and your defences would lower again.

Across the fire, your attention was caught by the sound of Luisa laughing loudly at something Cal whispered to her. You and Joel watched them silently for a moment, both entranced by the giggling couple across the field.

Joel raked a hand through his hair and cleared his throat quietly. “You and Cal…”

“Me and Cal what?” you prompted.

“You two, did anything ever…” he seemed to hesitate; his eyes boring into the dirt in front of you while he struggled to articulate himself. It was bizarre to see such a strong man seem so unsure. “You never… anything more than friendship?”

A beat of silence. you wondered how much to tell him. Certain memories of you and Cal ran through your mind and you shivered a little. It had been a long few years since you’d thought about that time in your lives.

“It’s complicated,” you spoke slowly, not wanting to lie to Joel. “We were alone for so long. Sometimes there would be other people with us while we travelled around, or when we lived in other settlements, but…”

“But they were temporary?”

“Temporary,” you nodded. The band were playing an upbeat song, and you were momentarily distracted by the contrast between the group of people lively dancing a few metres away, and you and Joel sitting there talking in hushed tones.  

“They would get themselves killed, or infected, or…” you paused, feeling your eyebrow twitch at the thought of some of you and Cal’s past acquaintances. Of one in particular, whom you was still plagued with visions of while asleep.

Embers from the fire were floating through the foggy air, and you inhaled a deep breathe, watching as they disappeared into the night sky. Little pieces of crackling sparks, shooting up and evaporating. The smoke from the fire burned your eyes and throat. Don’t think about it.

“Or…” he pressed. He might as well have poked you with a stick to bring your attention back to the conversation; his curiosity rolling off him in waves. Joel with a few drinks in him proved far nosier than sober Joel. 

Your gaze stayed on the sky. “Or prove themselves untrustworthy.”

Joel was smart enough to read between the lines, and not push any further on the matter. You observed fondly that when you were speaking to him, Joel angled his head ever so slightly to have his left ear closer to you. Upon noticing, you remembered it was true that whenever he’d approached you in the past few weeks, he’d position himself on your right side. You figured the hearing on his right side was a little shoddy. 

For a few moments you just sat and watched the people around you. Some of the families started to leave, herding little ones away from the band, and in the direction of town.

“So?” Joel prompted, with a deep wrinkle in his forehead that let you know he wasn’t happy about having to ask again.

“You really want to know?”

You couldn’t read the expression on his face. He fiddled with the mug in his hands and nodded once.  You didn’t like the way he’d gone from relaxed and boozy, back to his regular grouchy countenance.

Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in acquiescence.

“We’d been friends for twenty years before it, and we’ve been friends for a decade after it. It happened twice, or… or maybe three times. It gets a bit hazy in my memory. We figured we knew each other so well, and after so many years alone, it had started to seem like there would never be anyone else to…” you trailed off, uncertain of how much to reveal. Joel waited.

“As much as we wished it was more it just wasn’t. It never could be.” It was impossible not to picture those times, as you talked about them. Your stomach rolled remembering the way you and Cal had stood awkwardly together, skimming stones over a lake you’d stumbled across, agreeing to never do it again. It was one of the worst moments of your friendship; both fearing you were about to break your only friend’s heart. “We love each other but… there’s a barrier there, in our heads. All the memories of us as kids, of playing soccer on the weekend with him and his brothers, of watching each other grow up and become the people we were going to be…” You rubbed the itchy corner of your eye with grimy fingers, taking a breath. Joel’s eyes flicked over to see Cal and Luisa standing up, and the pair began walking away from the bonfire hand in hand.

“When we fucked, the first time, it was just a tension release, I suppose.”

Joel flinched beside you, his shoulders tenser than they had been a moment before. A twinge of regret tickled in your chest, for using such matter-of-fact language. You weren’t trying to push him away, but it felt sneaky if you were to lie about your past with Cal. There was no denying what had happened; not if you wanted Joel to know you, truly. It was a part of your story, and neither of you could afford to be ashamed of it. 

“And after that, we tried again but it just… didn’t work. We couldn’t be together that way, as much as we longed for the connection. He may as well be my brother. Thankfully, the sibling sentiment was mutual.”

You turned to watch Joel’s face. His stoic expression was hard to read, but the wrinkles around his mouth were made prominent by how he clenched his jaw, and you could sense an undercurrent of thoughts and emotions clearly rolling under his skin. Yet he stayed silent, brooding. Jealous? You shook the invasive thought off. No.

“I don’t say it lightly, that I would die for Cal,” you said quietly, your voice as firm and wary as the day you arrived in Jackson, eyes glancing away for a moment to watch Cal’s back as he disappeared out of the field. “Him being here, happy and safe… it’s all I’ve ever wanted for him.”

Silence swelled around you, heavy with the weight of all that you had revealed. Goosebumps rippled over your skin as the band started to play a song you recognised. One from before outbreak day, that your mother used to sing to you on the settlement, in those early years after everything changed. If Joel noticed your demeanour shift, you didn’t care, letting your eyes fall closed as you gently sang along to the opening of the old song.

Oh, Kentucky, I miss you

Your night sky, black and tired

But wild like a live wire

The horse is never leaving the pond on its own

You got to open the gate and let it loose to run

Faster than the clouds on a windblown dawn Faster than you left me alone to long

You trailed off slowly and reached up to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. An image of your mother’s face flashed through your memory, but you shoved it down, unsure if it was even an accurate idea of what she had looked like. After a decade and a half without her, you couldn’t be sure your memories were trustworthy.  

“And what do you want now?” Joel finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “Now that he’s happy, and safe. What do you want?”

“For myself?” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I haven’t let myself want anything in a long time now. There’s no use; nothing good comes from it.”

Your cheeks were warm and red, and little bits of ash were dotted through your hair. Joel’s mug had been abandoned to the ground, and his fingers fiddled together in his lap, the way they always did when he was trying his best to actively listen. He was present, and this way his way of showing it. No messing around, no object or weapon in his hands to put a barrier between himself and another person. Just his hands, scratching and tracing each other, to calm himself. It made your heart beat out of time for a second, whenever you noticed him doing it. Until one of his hands lifted and held in the air for a second, and then he reached over to place it gently on your knee. Your heart stuttered as he gave it a gentle squeeze, and left it to rest there.

“I felt the same way for a long time. Thought there was no use in hoping, or wanting anything good, or feeling like I deserved to be happy.”

“And now?” you asked, staring down at his large hand on you. You wished you had the confidence to reach down and take it in your own. “Do you still feel like that?”

His thumb made one slow stroking movement along your knee, making the skin underneath your jeans tingle sharply.

“Jackson changed things. Ellie… Ellie changed things. And…” He paused, and his forehead finally relaxed. You pursed your chapped lips and didn’t look away from him, urging him to continue. “Jackson continues to change things.” Is all he said.

And it’s all he needed to. You understood. 

Take me to the track, I want to lose all my cash

This beating in my chest is all I need to stash

And why shouldn’t I?

Cause when I’m alone

We’re still looking at the same moon

Under the night

Are we two people never getting together?

I will follow your roads

As wide as the air, as wild as a storm.

part two

[thepostofficesketch]

LOVED the costumes as I said BUT what I actually loved was the fact that Lisa's warbrode gets progressively more dated

Like, this is 89. The nineties with their acid wash and thermals under tshirts with cargos and flannnels and sundresses and denim everything is right around the corner. The era of big hair and big makeup and tulle and fingerless gloves is ALREADY on the way out. Taffy mentions that the final black dress is from a year ago at least.

And yet here is Lisa, finally dressing cool and sexy and powerful and yet she is reaching back in time thru Taffy's closet (see my post about Taffy giving up her room and the fact that she mentions explicitly that most of the clothes the bachelor picks out were Taffy's or something Taffy bought for Lisa)

She's exuding Desperately Seeking Susan and I loved it because not only is this a fun way to heighten the Pastiche it is a symbol of Lisa becoming more like the Bachelor even as he adjusts to the 80s. She loves old movies and hanging out in the graveyard daydreaming about this guy who died 150 years ago of Course she would become more dated!

The Pastiche plays on the audience expectation of What A Movie Set In the 80s Looks Like and gives in to the heightened fantasy of the environment. Everything is brightly colored, big and poofy, and satirically exaggarated. But within the story there is a deliberate mirroring happening between Lisa and the Bachelor - two kind of lost souls who find each other and compliment each other. He's very pre-civil war distinguished, evoking the Gothic (literary) figures in the poetry she reads, and tries the whole film to Go Back to how he remembers being alive.

Lisa is similarly stagnant, clinging to the recent past when her mom was still alive and kind of stuck there because of the trauma of her death. As she regains confidence (and spirals into violence because it's a slasher pastische) she reaches back to those styles that she Would have worn if her mom hadn't died. By the end Lisa is almost in a Victorian esque mourning gown to match with her lover. They're both people out of time but they compliment each other. And neither one got an Ally Sheedy makeover! *Phew*

[the-dixon-effect]

Sticks and Stones

A/N: dear fic writers, consider this a public service announcement. DO NOT schedule a week of fic writing that coincides with a camping trip, it is hell!!!!

era: season 3-4, prison era

summary: Y/N suffers from chronic pain in her feet, but hates to feel vulnerable around others so constantly overworks herself. perhaps a certain archer could be the right kind of medicine... | requested from this ask by @justalexheree :) guys i really did my research for this one so i hope you enjoy ^.^

pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

words: 1.4k

warnings: mentions of chronic foot pain ig?? lil' time jump

It must be late by now, you thought. You were hesitant to look up to check the position of the sun for fear of getting distracted. You were crouched down, working out in the allotment around the front of the prison. The farm was a brilliant idea, you decided, despite the high amount of labour that was necessary to feed the residents of the prison-turned-camp. God knows you needed the food. Perhaps if the members of your community were aware of your condition, you wouldn't be forced to work out here all day, practically sweating your skin off in the Georgia sun. It didn't matter anyway, 'cause you couldn't let that happen.

So here you were, digging up soil and planting seeds 'til the sun disappeared behind the trees. It was somewhat enjoyable, you convinced yourself, of course you had your thoughts and daydreams to entertain yourself, and back in your old life you would have never found yourself spending so much time outdoors. Even so, a mundane office job might have arguably been a little better for your body. You constantly found yourself having to distract yourself from the persistent ache in your feet, maybe some company would do you good, you thought.

"Hey, we're all eatin' inside, ya can prolly finish up now," you heard the familiar voice of the crossbow-wielding man from several metres away. You knew you needed to stop, but there was still work to be done. If only there was enough food in the first place, then maybe you would let yourself resign to the dining area. Save it for those who needed it, you thought.

"Alright, I'll be inside in a second," That was a lie. It's not like the rest of the group would notice your absence, you figured. You better just stay out here a little longer, making sure the crops were tended to until it was dark. Then maybe you'd get some rest. For now, you didn't need to eat. Truthfully, your feet were killing you and it felt like you could keel over at any second. Get over yourself, you said, over and over in your mind, these people need feeding.

You remembered the look the archer gave you when he called you inside, observing how you were the only person left out in the field. You turned to check if he had left and, to your surprise, he was still stood watching, hands buried in his pockets as he looked straight ahead and met your eyes.

"C'mon," he shouted across the distance between the two of you. You couldn't really say no to him, except he left you wondering why he was so eager for you to join him. You put down your equipment and split from whatever idle job you had yourself occupied with. Something you did appreciate about the humble farmer's life was the reasonable tan you had acquired, which was on display in your little denim shorts as you jogged up to meet him. A part of you wished Daryl would notice.

"Ya' alrigh'? Yer limpin'," he asked, meanwhile you were contemplating on the fact that this might be the most words you'd ever heard the archer speak, to your face anyway. Your lack of association with the man didn't stop you from admiring from afar, though.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Been a long day."

"I bet," he replied, walking side-by-side with you up to the building entrance. You thought it was sweet how he paid attention to you and noticed something like that. Maybe one day you'd open up about your condition, when it felt right.

3 MONTHS LATER

You looked around the room, searching for Daryl's eyes. Today, more than ever, you needed to be with him. After months of breaking down his thick walls, it was safe to say that he'd become one of the most important people in your life. Your feet were hurting like hell today, and the only thing that would make you feel better right now was his presence.

He'd been out on a solo run, which you'd begged Rick to let you join him, ultimately to your disappointment. So you spent your day as you always did, out in the pasture, tending to the crops. After a while you headed back inside in hopes of finding Daryl, perched at one of the rusty tables, waiting for you. To your dismay, you couldn't find him anywhere.

You approached Rick with a worried look shaping your features, "Where's Daryl? Is he back yet?" you asked, your voice laced with concern. "Nah, he's not back yet," sensing your anxiety, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and spoke, "Y/N, he's gonna be fine. Anyway, he's scheduled to be back in... about an hour."

So you waited. And waited. It felt like the longest 60 minutes of your life, busying yourself in your cell by reading a book that Carol recommended, not absorbing a single word. By the time you decided that there was nothing else you could do to distract yourself, you headed downstairs and made idle chatter with one of the prison newcomers, Karen.

"I hear your boyfriend Daryl's coming back from a run today," she said.

"Oh, no, he's not my boyfriend," you said with a slight giggle.

"Oh, right! Gosh, it's just that you two are so close, I just figured- you know what, nevermind, ignore me," she said with a chuckle.

You smiled and looked at the floor, and tried to silence your anxious thoughts about whether something might have happened to him, if he's hurt, or anything. At this, the double-doors swung open and in walked the man you'd been waiting for for the last 48 hours. You approached him, suppressing the relief and excitement you felt just from seeing him walk through those doors. His eyes lit up at your welcoming smile, and maybe, just maybe, he would be inclined to embrace you right here if the prison foyer wasn't so crowded.

For now, he had other things on his mind that he needed to clear with you. Just like you, he spent the last 48 hours worrying more about your safety than he did his own. He regretted not being able to stay with you, or at least bring you along with him. He was the only person who knew about your condition and how badly you were affected by it, which meant he felt an immense responsibility to take care of you and offer you acts of service. Not to mention, you were also the only person who Daryl felt totally comfortable around, comfortable enough to share some of his childhood trauma and emotion with. You liked to think the two of you had a special bond, but despite your healthy friendship, you couldn't help wanting more. Either way, all he wanted right now was to be with you and to not have to deal with anyone else in this damn place.

Maggie shot you a mischievous look from across the room as you tugged on the archer's sleeve. You rolled you eyes at her following Daryl up the steel staircase and entered his cell. You sat down next to him on the mattress and he copied you by rolling his head back against the cool brick wall. You sighed in contentment, still in somewhat pain in your feet.

"So, how'd it go?" you asked, turning to face him.

"Was fine. Are ya' alrigh'?" you noticed how he changed the subject, sensing his concern.

"Yeah, I'm okay. It's just a little relentless, you know," you felt a little guilt for immediately beginning to talk about yourself, even when you knew you needed his comfort. His closeness was good enough for you.

"Mm, I know. Ya' gotta stop overworkin' yerself, ya know," he drawled. His pretty eyes were staring deeply at you now.

"Uh-huh. It's just, it's kind of relentless, you know. Like nothing I do makes it better. There's no distraction that works," it felt undeniably good to talk to someone about it, someone who understands. Someone who doesn't subject you to the same stereotypes or think that you're making it up. He wrapped an arm around you and you instinctively rested your head in the crook of his neck. He smelled delicious, like the outdoors, mixed with the distinct notes of Marlboro cigarettes and stormy weather. This was a pretty good distraction, you thought.

"Hey, I'll always make a run into some pharmacy to get ya yer meds, or anythin' like tha'," he spoke softly with his lips resting on the top of your head, occasionally brushing against your silky hair. "Jus' tell me what ya' need." It was this. You needed this.

“I just need you.”