#and i'm really not sure Any Other Explanation is enough to justify that
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i think it should be possible to scream without making any noise or disturbing anyone or inviting any questions . just sometimes . as a treat .
#hhhhHHHGHGHHHHHH#jay screams into the void#(deeply personal rant incoming feel free to ignore)#a friend of mine has just been undiagnosed with bpd which . lovely for them but it sure as fuck invites a Lot of questions#suddenly a great deal of previous shitty behaviour that was excused on the basis of bpd has a lot more to answer for#(obligatory I Know BPD Isn't An Excuse To Treat People Like Shit . im aware . i have bpd myself and i have v high standards re my behaviour)#(however allowances were made bc they were unmedicated & out of therapy through no fault of their own)#(and our whole group has enough experience with untreated mental illness to understand that it can make u a bitch sometimes)#but yeah no there have been a LOT of instances of b&w thinking + manipulation + unfair judgement + high emotion + snap reactions#and every situation Could be explained by untreated bpd and the bad times have never been prolonged or often enough to outweigh the good#but Hoo Boy if that wasn't bpd then what the FUCK was it#like either the new psychiatrist is wrong (possible but i seem to be the only one questioning it) or they're just Like That#and again . not enough to outweigh their numerous positive and loveable traits#but the whole group has been destabilised on a number of occasions due to their actions during a bad spell#and i'm really not sure Any Other Explanation is enough to justify that#ah well . this seems like the kind of thing that will eventually come up during a sleepover heart to heart#but rn i'm stuck in a bubble of MAJOR rsd & brainfuck abt it . which is unfortunate bc now is exactly the time i Don't need brainfuck#anyways ✨ goodnight tumblrinas i am . kind of hoping nobody read this bc i fear i sound like a bitch#i am genuinely happy for their undiagnosis it seems to have put many things into perspective for them & theyre v happy about it#i'm just . uncomfy w some aspects of it that i have only been halfway brave enough to discuss with them personally#That's One To Bring Up With My Therapist In A Few Weeks#Bit Of A Shame I'm No Longer In Therapy And Now Have Only 2 Quarterly Reviews Left Before I'm Discharged From The Service
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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.)
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The psychology behind Lumini
Would Lunar and Gemini be a healthy couple? I don't fucking know, I've never read or consumed anything to do with psychology in my life, I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about here, I genuinely don't know shit about mental health, BUT I'M GONNA TRY ANYWAYS! So if my takes here suck then sorry.
Lunar:
Lunar idolizes Gemini WAY too much. And that's absolutely going to set their relationship back. It's good to admire your romantic partner, but you need to realize they aren't perfect. YOU aren't perfect, so if you view your partner as a perfect person, you're going to end up feeling like you'll never be enough for them.
You have to realize that you and your partner both have flaws, and recognize that you can work through them together as a team. Gemini, despite how much I love them, has flaws. Lunar is going to have to realize that eventually, but I don't think that'll completely get rid of the issue.
Lunar is just a guy. He got thrown into all this star power stuff randomly. and Gemini is his TEACHER. It's okay, because they're both adults so it's not creepy, but even then, you should never EVER be in a relationship with your boss/educator. Gemini's job is to make sure he's progressing steadily with his star power abilities. And since the astrals are so impatient, they kinda have to hurry him along with his learning. Having your partner teaching you something is stressful, because you want to impress them and do well for their sake. It's even worse because for Lunar and Gemini, it's not "I have a hobby i think you'd enjoy, how about I teach you?" For them it's "You NEED to learn this quickly and without struggling or else my brother is going to fucking KILL YOU." Star power is a life or death thing. Lunar having feelings for Gemini is definitely going to make learning harder for him, not because he'll be distracted by them instead of learning. but because Star power is his entire life purpose now and if he doesn't learn how to control it, the consequences could be very grave for him.
On top of that, he doesn't know Gemini very well. Which is fine, people get crushes of course, but they'll need to take things slow with each other if they want to get to know each other better and work through their other issues.
Gemini:
Gemini needs to be more understanding of Lunar's emotions. It's clear that they care for Lunar, but they're very tough on him, and I don't think they understand the mental effects of that.
Gemini feels things differently than any regular earthling. Their feelings are clearly more rooted in logic. They can feel angry and sad and happy, but it's different than how we would. For example, when they rejected Lunar, they gave him a logical explanation as to why they didn't want to pursue a relationship with him, then didn't understand why he was so sad. They thought explaining it logically would help him feel better, but that's not how feelings work. Sometimes people feel sad or happy or scared or angry for no reason, and that's okay. You don't have to justify your feelings or have a logical reason behind them for them to be valid, but I don't think Gemini understands that, and that's okay, but it's something they'll need to work on. Right now, they seem to think Lunar is immature or over emotional, but that's not true. He's been through a lot, and they really need to begin to understand that.
Now. The elephant in the room. When Lunar killed Eclipse, Gemini got pretty mad at him. Which is reasonable, he did kill a guy. I don't really think either of them were in the wrong in that situation though. I've seen some people say Gemini was downright abusive in their reaction, and I've seen some people say that they should've been harder on Lunar, but I wanna see things from both of their points of view. When Lunar saw Eclipse, he was scared. Seeing an abuser again is terrifying, I don't know what I would've done in his shoes. With the way Lunar's mind works, he could've just lost control of himself, he could've regressed from the stress of the situation and not known what to do, and with the way Eclipse was taunting and threatening him, it makes sense that he'd have a violent reaction. It doesn't justify what he did, but it does explain it. Gemini had every right to lash out at him though, because they trusted him and they spent a lot of time training him so he wouldn't do something like that again and he still did. And maybe, for the first time in a while, maybe they couldn't control their emotions either. Maybe they let their anger get the better of them.
Now, I think it actually shows how strong they are, because they were able to recover from what happened. Lunar apologized for what he did, and they've started to rekindle their friendship and build up trust again, and that's good! Because it shows that they can have arguments and still get over it. I've just got one issue with how their arc is going. I wish Gemini apologized too. I know Lunar did kill a man, but they really, REALLY hurt him. I wish they said sorry. But generally speaking, I'm glad that they're becoming friends again.
Another thing about Gemini is their upbringing. They don't talk about the other astrals very much, and I wonder what their life has been like so far. The other astrals seem more like coworkers to them than siblings, and I wonder if anyone other than Lunar has shown them affection before. Did Aries ever play games with them? Did Libra ever comfort them when they were feeling sad? Did Taurus ever show them how to use their powers? Or did they have to learn everything on their own? Sadly, we don't know. But based on how they talk about the other astrals, I'd wager not. And if that's the case, being in a relationship might be a challenge for them. They don't know how to respond to affection, they don't know HOW to be in a relationship. And in all fairness, neither does Lunar. They would be each other's first lovers, which is even more stressful, because neither of them know what the hell they're doing. If they want their relationship to last, they'd have to be perseverant as HELL.
Anyways. I just spent 45 minutes writing that....
Again, I'm not a psychologist! I'm just some random person! I have never studied mental health in my LIFE! Not to mention, I was gaslit A LOT as a kid. I have some pretty sucky parents, so I don't know what a healthy relationship really looks like either! That being said, if I said anything so unbelievably, ungodly incorrect, please correct me! I need to learn more about mental health so maybe then I can ALSO start feeling better.
I have been shipping Lumini since the episode where they went to Paris together, and I was NOT expecting the shows to actually explore the possibility further. I would LOVE for them to get together in canon, because they both need some love and affection. I think it's good that they have these flaws, because they can grow together and progress as characters, and I'm glad they aren't just some cookie cutter automatically healthy no issues whatsoever relationship. I really do hope things end up working out for them.
#tsams#sun and moon show#sams#laes#the lunar and earth show#lunar x gemini#lunar x pollux#lunar x castor#lumini#laes pollux#laes castor#laes gemini#laes lunar#tsams lunar#I DONT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MENTAL HEAlTH#please correct me if i'm wrong#please.
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TADC Ep 2 - Depression and the Meaning of Life
Well, I may or may not be a day late to release of the episode, but I've watched it three times so far and I have some thoughts. Let's get the gritty stuff outta the way.
First of all, The Amazing Digital Circus belongs to @gooseworx and therefore everything I say here is just my personal take on the episode. I could be wrong, talking out my ass, etc. But this episode really spoke to me, so good job Goose.
Secondly, spoilers <3
Third, I think I've written enough that people won't get jumpscared with spoilers. This is gonna be a long read, so bear with me. This post will contain ALL my thoughts on the episode, both meaningful and just silly things I liked.
BUBBLE
So anyone who knows me from Bunnydoll Burrow knows I love Bubble. They're my favorite so far and this episode only cemented that further. They're wonderful comedic relief and even if they don't have any character development (which I don't think they will), I will always love them.
Caine Cares Too Much
While watching this, I was immediately off-put by Caine's reactions, even beginning with him calling Zooble back. He sounds so... dire? I don't know if that was intended to mean something or if it was just to put emphasis on how much Caine cares about his creations. Caine is AI, so world-building is likely his ONLY goal, or his prompt if you will. It wouldn't surprise me if that was why he was so upset by everyone's reactions.
But I can't help but wonder if this will play into his character arc. We understand that Caine is ambiguous right now and there's no real explanation of what his intentions are in the Circus. Something about this just really set me off. It made me feel unsafe in a way as if staying behind would result in danger of some kind. Obviously, it couldn't be that bad, as Zooble did stay behind and turned out fine. Still, I can't shake the feeling that this is foreshadowing.
Zoobie
Hilarious. What a solid nickname, I've seen so many headcanons that Zooble would be a stoner in the real world. This only makes it better. They are now Zoobie in my mind.
Pomni's Child Comment
While I'm sure this was just a silly comment to be made, I kinda liked it. Just a little in-show reminder that through all of this, Pomni is a real, grown-ass woman stuck inside some digital Hell. The whole first episode, we see her wallowing and panicking, justifiably so. Finally, we get to see her grow more serious and stable.
Through the episode, we see more of her being a good character and becoming more at terms with her situation. I'll touch on this more soon.
Gangle
My girl CANNOT catch a break. Gangle is such a funny character and so, so sweet. She's level-headed in my opinion, even through her emotions. She seems to have a good grip on the shit happening around her but has a hard time communicating properly because she has a lot of feelings going on. Me too, honey, me too.
Even in the face of violence, danger, and overall shitfuckery, she doesn't shut down. Sure, she cries. But I've cried plenty of times while still holding the fort down. I think I just relate to her.
Lastly, I NEED to know what this means like I need oxygen.
Government Mandated Shipping
I dunno man, I just really liked this. I'm a shipper at heart. I've been writing fanfic since middle school. I saw pure fanfic material when I watched this scene.
Kinger and Raggs
This scene made me smile. It's a cute nod towards how Kinger is the longest-standing character and, according to some lost post of Goose's, Ragatha is the second. Plus, all of episodes one and two, we see her trying so hard to be a rock for Pomni. She tries to include everyone, keep everyone cheerful, and be a stable constant in a realm of chaos; Seeing Kinger recognize how far she's come and using that to bring her back to reason was just so refreshing. Ragatha deserves more appreciation like that: less about what she does for others, and more about what she's done for herself.
Jax's Disappointment
So we don't know much about Jax besides how Goose loves him and says he's an asshole who may or may not be irredeemable. When he started talking about violence and getting excited at the thought, I chalked it up to him being an ass. But it struck me just how much this mattered to Jax in this scene. I have questions, man. But I'm about to go on a wild tangent, so hear me out.
Jax is happy when being destructive. He gets immediately upset when things go well. And in the circus, we can assume that there have been a lot of traumatic, wild things that have occurred. I wonder if the chaos, the violence, is a comfort for Jax because of those traumatic experiences. As a person with trauma, I've learned that there's a funny cycle that I and other traumatized people experience.
We don't like the situations we're in, but when faced with normalcy, it's so much scarier than the damaging situation we come from. So, we run from 'normal' back into the suffocating arms of our traumatizing situations for comfort. Going back to the situation means more trauma, more trauma means a harder time finding peace in a safe, normal environment, which means more trauma... you get the picture.
So am I saying a fictional purple bunny is using violence in a digital realm to cope with the very real topic of trauma? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I am. This is how I cope.
Depression, Finding Your Place, and the Bigger Picture
Now you may be saying, "hey! You skipped over some major scenes to talk about silly stuff! What gives?"
Well, as the title of this post suggests, I had some heavier stuff to address in this episode and wanted to compile it all in one section. So that meant skipping over a scene to bunch it in with other ones. I'll break it down.
Depression
Let me begin with the fact that I have been diagnosed with depression for years now. I've been hospitalized for it and I've had family members struggle with it around me. This heavily influenced how I viewed this episode and specifically this scene.
Gummigoo had a perfectly reasonable reaction to seeing the perfect replica of him that is his model. Seeing something like that would shatter your world, and we see that happen to him immediately.
But when Gummigoo talked to Pomni and asked why anything matters, it gave me this really familiar feeling. Thoughts of being nothing, of feeling meaningless, the mere idea of being an obstacle--I've experienced all of these. I'm sure others have. Pomni was right when she said it's normal. Everyone has felt down from time to time.
But what Gummigoo is talking about really hit home with my depression. Thoughts like these, especially when they linger for long, change how you view the world. Everything is tinted blue and desaturated. You feel empty and eventually, so does the world around you. You feel like when the party is over and everyone leaves, you disappear--or you think you should, at least.
"Why are you trying to cheer me up? How does this benefit you at all?"
And it's so, so hard to accept help when feeling like this. Depression is a bitch in the way that it wants you to stay depressed. It feels like everyone around you wants you to feel better because it is a convenience for them. It almost feels transactional if you smile.
But Pomni says it so beautifully; "I guess I just don't want you to feel like you're nothing. I don't want anybody to feel like that."
The way she says it makes me feel like she knows the feeling too, and in reality, she says she does understand in a way how Gummigoo feels. But that? That made it real for me. I don't know why. This whole scene, the entrapment and loneliness despite not actually being alone, just embodied how I've felt for years. What amazing writing.
Finding Your Place
This scene was really the cherry on top of everything I just spoke about. We see that these two understand each other, at least as much as they can. They recognize all of this, it's ridiculous. They're hurtling through space into the unknown, hoping everything works out. They may feel empty, but they're not alone. They've got each other, for better or worse. Maybe they don't know where they belong in this liminal space, but they know where they stand in each other's minds.
And then we get this ending scene. God. Fuck.
I knew that there was obviously something to that dream Pomni had in the beginning, but somehow I didn't expect this to be the conclusion to it. I guess I was too distracted by everything else. So when I got to this shot, I got all warm and teary-eyed.
Pomni finally feels like she's got a pack, a place in this digital circus. When you don't feel mentally alone anymore, there seems to be a weight that's lifted off your shoulders. It doesn't cure the sadness, but at least you know that if you need to be picked up, someone will be there. Depression wants you to be alone, but it just lost that battle. The internet has said it best: A win is a win.
The Bigger Picture
We all know where the end of the road is. How we get there is the mystery. This thought can really make a person feel small, especially when depression comes in to tell you that you in fact are small, according to the chemicals in your brain. But the power of numbers and knowing your place in the world makes facing the unknown a little easier.
I'll be honest, the words are kinda lost on me at this point. Our demise is a really hard topic to broach. I've lost a lot of people, especially some major players in my life (shoutout to the Dead Dads club), and still, I don't understand it all. But the best way I can explain it is through my own experience and how I applied it to this episode.
I had for a long time gone through life trying to prepare and prepare. I played the role of the strong, unaffected individual after being hardened by trauma in childhood. I didn't want to be outwardly emotional, because if I was I would have to admit defeat.
It made me feel weak, especially when my depression would whisper nasty things to me about my self-worth. The bigger picture at that time didn't even exist in my mind. I lived to serve and die. It was no way to live.
Only recently, with time, a couple grippy sock vacays and therapy have I started to form my own, new big picture. At the center of this is my interactions with others. Family, friends, and strangers, all of them are affected by my actions. Even during the days when I feel worthless or alone, I remind myself that even the little things I do have a spiderweb effect. I have worth, more so than serving others or being some obstacle. I can simply walk down the street and perhaps I'll be the person who some kid looks at and hopes to look like when they're older. My existence is so much more than just a give-and-take situation with everyone around me.
It felt like Pomni found her purpose in the circus, and it was more than just playing along until the end. Rather, it was to befriend the people around her who have proved in one way or another way that they care. Abstraction wasn't in vain to them. Lives mattered, and therefore so did Pomni.
In a vast, digital world where chaos looms like a grey cloud, Pomni always mattered. She just had to realize how, and it was much more than being an obstacle or a pawn. And so do we, I think.
#tadc#the amazing digital circus#tadc ragatha#tadc jax#tadc kaufmo#tadc gangle#tadc pomni#tadc fandom#tadc zooble#tadc kinger#tadc bubble#tadc caine#tadc episode 2#digital circus#tadc ep 2#episode 2#new episode#gummigoo#tadc gummigoo
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I know it's totally wrong for what you're shooting for but your stories make me feel bad for Clark. All these folks judging him, when as far as he can tell Kon doesn't even want to be around him. And honestly, he's had clones before. No one expected him to mourn when a Bizarro degraded
. . . okay, friend, first off I apologize, because I def got carried away with this response and it turned into a bit of a rant, hah. Please don't take any of this the wrong way or get the impression I'm annoyed by this ask or anything, I just fundamentally disagree with SO many things about how Clark's relationship with Kon has been handled in canon and apparently I had to word-vomit a lot of that out here and now in explanation of why I tend to write Clark as being Objectively Wrong about Kon/how he treats Kon.
A) There's no convincing reason I can think of that Clark should think Kon doesn't want to be around him, and if he DID, why would he have given him permission to wear the El crest to begin with, much less offered him either the name "Superboy" or "Kon-El"? Especially Kon-El, because that's a name that originated from a specifically ADOPTED member of his birth family, and Clark offered it to him while CALLING him family, but also . . . lying to him about having a secret identity? And whole-ass other life??
and also
B) I actually WOULD expect Clark to mourn a Bizarro degrading. That's like his whole deal, in my experience of him across various media: Clark Kent is a person who thinks that every person matters and is undeniably the kind of guy that would be upset by someone suffering from genetically-inevitable degradation. Especially if the people suffering that degradation only exist to suffer it because HE, Clark "I Am Personally Responsible For This Whole Damn Planet, And Yes That IS A Threat" Kent, exists.
Like, Clark always takes way too much on himself. So it doesn't really make sense to me that a dude like that would take one look at a kid with his own face who is actually at best about a month old and just decide "yeah, this person doesn't need me ever involved in their life at all" and STICK with that assessment even through repeated problems, near-death experiences, and straight-up disasters. ESPECIALLY because Clark already knew Matrix, and she was ALSO a genetic experiment who'd been made in his image by someone he didn't have any reason to trust. But he still took Mae to his parents' farm and let her live there pretty much immediately, trusted her with SO many of his secrets and even trusted her living with his parents without, again, having to jump through ANY of the MULTITUDE of hoops that Kon did to earn a similar level of trust, and she eventually started dating literal LEX LUTHOR and Clark still trusted her after THAT!
( I mean, I think everyone thought Lex was his own son at the time or something weird like that, Because Comics, but still! STILL!! )
Shit, Clark still trusted Mae after she had a mental breakdown ON HIS PARENTS and tried to attack him and had a severe enough psychotic break that she thought she literally WAS him! Mae very quickly proved herself to be WAY more dangerous and hostile than Kon has EVER been outside of being directly mind-controlled, but from the jump Clark is way more invested in her and her life and CARES way more about her and her life. And later he responds to Kara just as differently as he did Mae, despite her ALSO debuting as both a more dangerous and more hostile person than Kon. So like . . . there's a bit of a double-standard going there, it kind of feels like? Like, at least on a meta-level. And I'm sure most of it's editorial nonsense and the kind of narrative problems that lie inherent in like . . . what, thirty-plus years of comic history and about eight bajillion different writers and the like, obviously, but it just is REAL hard to justify that behavior in the actual narrative when Clark Kent is meant to be the moral paragon that the entire damn rest of the DC universe is meant to set its metaphorical watch by.
Either way, though, I'm usually trying to write Clark as either sympathetic or at least understandable in his logic, even when it's flawed, so I wouldn't really say it's "wrong" if you feel sympathy for him while reading my writing. Like, I'm not saying he's in the right in those specific fics, but I do still want to be empathetic to his point of view. It is again just REALLY hard for me to explain a lot of Clark's canon relationship with Kon in any way other than "benign neglect due to just deliberately assuming that all Kryptonians are always Perfectly Fine, Thanks due to his own personal issues about what 'Superman' represents", and that's the KIND option.
Long story short, I really just don't care what DC says, It is NOT on the brand-new teenager with zero life experience who Clark deliberately LET put an S-shield-shaped target on their back to single-handedly foster a relationship with the perfect superhero idol that most of the damn world looks up to. I genuinely cannot think of a single significant occasion where Clark ever does anything for Kon that involves CLARK having to put in any kind of recurring effort, but we're supposed to accept that KON has to earn scraps of Clark's attention and the right to be considered a part of his family over and over again--while Clark, again, doesn't have to do anything to earn Kon's attention or the right to be considered a part of HIS family? Ever? Even ONCE??
Relationships are two-way streets, DC! That's just how relationships are, DC!! Otherwise it's just parasocial bullshit or someone taking advantage of someone else, DC!!!!
Don't get me wrong, I really love Clark, I think he's a great character in a lot of fascinating ways and that he is VERY interesting and affecting when he's done well ("you can do anything you want, and all you want to do is help people" HELLO CRYING IN THE CLUB RN), but like . . . come on, DC, what the fuck and WHY?
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"I can go into why i dislike ToA (especially Tyrant's Tomb is. a book that exists) but box of pandora. Once open good luck shutting me up" (source: your tags)
Now that you said that, i'm geniunely curious. Open the box. I dare you
This should be obvious but @ the people who really enjoyed ToA, this post is not for you. I’m not sure I’ll even tag it because this is mostly me venting into the void because two people asked and not me wanting to ruin other people’s fun. These are just my personal opinions.
I also apologize if I get any details wrong, I did recheck a lot of the things mentioned but it’s been a minute since I read ToA and might not remember everything 100% correctly. Also, obvious spoiler warning.
*claps hands together* Okay, you asked for this but heads up, it’s going to be long. Maybe grab a snack and a glass of water beforehand.
My beef with ToA can be summarized into a few key points that I’ll elaborate on below but basically:
-It tries to wrap up character arcs for some of the seven (and Reyna) but does this through the eyes of someone with zero context and also treats these characters arcs as unimportant footnotes in the larger story
-Jason’s death and everything surrounding it was handled extremely poorly.
-I cannot remember any demigods staying mad at Apollo. Redemption arcs should not mean everyone has to forgive this character for all the shit they’ve done in the past.
-The death toll. This is not helped by the fact that a lot of the deaths feel like they exist solely for the purpose of making Apollo learn death sucks over and over again (Jason is the worst example of this, but there are others)
More grievances I have but don’t have enough to say about to justify a longer explanation:
-There are a whole bunch of new minor characters on top of the old ones already struggling for screen time. I don’t remember much about any of them, which is a shame because the idea behind some of them is really compelling.
-The story is centered around the Triumvirate as antagonists, with Python as a final boss, but book four just dumps an additional antagonist on you out of nowhere? Why?
-Reyna rejecting Apollo is nice and all but I still had to put up with him crushing on her and was very uncomfortable the whole time.
-Chiron sends a bunch of new demigods into what’s potentially a death battle and tells them it’s a fun field trip (what the fuck)
-This is a personal grievance more than anything but it took me ages (book five) until I really got attached to Meg. I feel like that could have been fixed if she at least got a few POV chapters.
-Dishonorable mention to the punch line joke. Two whole camps of people lining up to hit the canonically abused kid that saved them is not funny.
Details under the cut (Pandora’s box, I did warn you)
Character arcs:
The books really do try to tell meaningful stories for people whose arcs weren’t finished in Heroes of Olympus. With some of them, you can even tell the ideas behind wrapping up those arcs were solid. But the books also tells those stories through the eyes of a character who doesn’t know these people’s pasts and quite frankly doesn’t care a lot of the time. People will voice/do something that is huge for their character and instead of going into that it’s followed up with some random Apollo anecdote that’s only tangentially related at best.
Taking Leo as an example: Apollo has no idea why Leo settling down and finding a home somewhere after everything he’s been through is meaningful. That’s a story that could have been the focus of an entire book of its own, but instead it’s just a side plot to a completely different story. And that story really should have been told through Leo’s eyes, or at least through the eyes of someone like Jason or Piper who realize why this is huge for him.
Apollo also does not care why Leo and Calypso are fighting, so it’s not something that’s properly explored. Leo’s fights with Calypso are mainly mentioned/witnessed. You get some guesses as to how they started but they never mention the exact reasons. They both say they care about each other, but only to Apollo, when the other person isn’t present. When they sort things out it happens largely off-screen. I was also not a fan of the way many of their issues ended up being pinned on Leo being sexist when it was actually way more than that.
ToA does this a lot. It gives arcs to characters who honestly deserved to be explored more, but those arcs are barely footnotes in a larger story where these characters just cameo for a hundred or so pages.
The cameo stuff works okay for Percy and Solangelo because the books are very aware they’re cameos and they get to have fun but this is not their story. But the characters the series tries to give proper plots to are all over the place.
It’s said that Jason and Thalia are really close but they never interact in the books. Jason had a bit of a chance at a normal life finally but that’s barely gone into. (More on Jason later because my god did how the books handled him piss me off massively)
Piper’s struggles with her queerness get the random Apollo anecdote treatment. There’s some stuff about her reconnecting with her dad and her heritage but that’s not explored a ton either.
Frank’s firewood burns up and he’s fine, which is just sort of hand-waved and doesn’t feel meaningful, especially because I think the fireproof pouch was already a fine solution? Congrats on being free of this, now you can get stabbed to death like all the other characters, I guess.
Reyna gets a sort of arc but it feels really weird because it happens almost entirely off-screen. She spends a large fraction of the book chiding Lavinia for leaving her post, then gets her leg broken, is off-screen for a while and then just DIPS with the Hunters after her home suffered huge casualties.
I also think her joining the Hunters is a super lame way to resolve her arc in general (she just lays down one responsibility to sign up for the next, and a character not wanting romance/not wanting romance right now should be allowed to exist without having to join the eternal maiden’s club, but that problem isn’t isolated to Reyna and could honestly be a whole post of its own)
This also comes down to the fact that I’m here mainly for the demigods. I care about these kids having good arcs and good lives. I care significantly less about Apollo having to learn really obvious shit like “murdering my pregnant girlfriend was perhaps a little messed up”
Jason’s death and everything surrounding it
Killing off a major character (especially one whose arc isn’t finished) can be a plot twist that works at times. But it has to be handled well. Doing it to a character that’s suffered horrifically and is starting to heal is also a hugely shitty move, but I understand you want meaningful deaths for the plot sometimes.
But you cannot do it the way Rick did it with Jason’s death. If he was going to kill off one of the seven, he should have done it in Heroes of Olympus, with that character narrating and their friends getting to deal with the aftermath and grieve.
Instead, Jason dies in a book that he appears in for like. A hundred pages iirc? Two-hundred at most? You get Apollo narration on it, and sure, he’s big sad about it, but he also knew this guy for two days.
Piper gets a few pages to deal with his death, then disappears from the book and comes back for a heroic rescue later. Leo gets like two pages to deal with the fact that his best friend is dead. They then proceed to fuck off to Oklahoma instead of going to the funeral. For what reason? No idea. The book doesn’t bother to explain it.
Jason gets a Camp Jupiter funeral, with none of his Camp Half-Blood friends present, because fuck the fact that him belonging to both camps was a huge part of his arc, right?
Piper and Leo know Jason is dead but they cannot be there because they’d already used up their time as ToA side characters, I guess. Percy and Annabeth can’t come, they don’t find out due to demigod communication issues until the end of the series. Thalia also doesn’t get to go to her brother’s funeral. She doesn’t find out until the funeral is already over. We don’t even really get to see her grieving, her finding out Jason died happens off-screen too.
Because this is the Apollo show, Apollo is the guy who leads the funeral procession instead of, like, Reyna, who knew Jason for years.
Also, for some reason, the person avenging Jason is Frank? Absolutely no offense to Frank, he’s a great guy and I’m sure he cared about Jason, but that choice still feels deeply comedic considering I can remember exactly one meaningful interaction him and Jason had in HoO (Jason giving Frank praetor position at the end of HoH) and not a single conversation they had beyond that. If Rick had to write Leo and Piper out of the plot, why not at least have Reyna avenge him?
Jason dies specifically because Apollo broke a stupid oath he made on the River Styx. We’re told that people around him will keep dying because of this. He dies as a chess piece in a stupid game between gods, for the sake of Apollo’s character development. He dies so he can be brought up every hundred pages for Apollo to waffle about how sad his death was but how he’d also definitely not want to be brought back (I get it, we cannot revive people constantly, but having Apollo make this point when, again, he knew the guy for two days, is still really stupid. Nico also gets to make the same point at the end just in case the reader didn’t understand before that we’re not bringing Jason back)
Apollo is forgiven by everyone
Related to the above point. Like I said, we’re outright told that Jason dying is a direct consequence of Apollo’s oath. Apollo also knew taking them along on the mission would get Jason or Piper killed and he did it anyway.
Piper gets to be mad at him very briefly, but when he tries to apologize at the end of the book, she interrupts him and tells him “it’s fine” (her voice is described as “no anger, just natural heat”)
Thalia doesn’t get to be mad at him at all. Her baby brother died and she just pats Apollo on the back and tells him “it’s fine, Jason made his own choices. That’s what heroes do.” And then it’s made about how Artemis lost Apollo when he got transformed into a human instead of. Like. The fact that Thalia just lost her baby brother for the second time in her life.
IT’S FINE?? THAT’S ALL ANYONE HAS TO SAY ABOUT THIS??
Hell, Apollo even has a sort of dream hallucination of Jason’s ghost so that ghost can forgive him too.
Was that really necessary? Why do people think that a character learning to be better means absolutely everyone has to forgive them? Wouldn’t it have been a better sticking point for a god to learn people are allowed to stay mad at you?
The death toll
A lot of people die in these books. People dying in pjo books has always been a thing, but it’s never felt this pointless or this much like it was solely happening for a single person’s character development.
Jason is the most pointed example of this, but there are more. Starting with the fact that two of Apollo’s kids almost get torched in front of his face in the first book (Austin and Kayla) and somehow that is not a sticking point. I don’t think it’s ever brought up again afterwards.
Other characters that die so Apollo can learn death sucks:
-Several Dryads die saving the grove of Dodonna
-Heloise the Griffin
-One random unnamed demigod in Dark Prophecy (mentioning them because that’s where it occurs to Apollo demigod deaths also suck)
-Money Maker (Dryad)
-Crest
-Harpocrates and the Sybil of Cumae
The death toll in Tyrant’s Tomb is completely ridiculous. Like, “feels worse than Last Olympian despite not even being the final battle”-ridiculous. And unlike how Percy at least gets to use that tragic battle to change things in a fundamental way, the Camp Jupiter demigods don’t win anything significant. Their home is only almost completely destroyed. Some of them aren’t dead. That’s it.
If you remember the name of any side character Camp Jupiter demigod from HoO, there’s a very high chance they die in this book.
We don’t get exact numbers for how many people die. The book actually explicitly refuses to give numbers, stating “We didn’t count the dead. They weren’t numbers. They were people we had know, friends we had fought with.” (Which gets even more ironic due to the fact that, again, we barely have any named CJ demigods to begin with)
The closest thing we get to numbers are that 25 demigod members of the legion died in the battle before the book started, and towards the end there are fourteen total demigods still standing of the first to third cohort combined. Even if half the missing demigods are “just” so severely wounded that they can’t fight anymore, that’s still 60 dead kids! The pre-book battle was mentioned to have been hardest on the civilians. We don’t know how many of them died, and losses among the fourth and fifth cohort are also unknown, but that is a ridiculous amount of losses. Why are there so many dead kids in this book and why are we all just supposed to be okay with this?
Jupiter explicitly forbids the other gods to intervene. The only one who does is Diana, after an offering, and she takes her sweet time to get there. That camp is named after the guy! That’s people’s kids down there! I know the gods not helping their kids isn’t exactly new, but this is on a whole other level.
There are funerals but those are largely skipped over, and Frank announces that they’ll resolve this by asking Lupa to bring in more demigods so they’ll come back stronger, which. Baffling statement. Let’s just fix the dead people by replacing them.
TL;DR: Good on Apollo for learning to be better, but I really didn’t like how it was done. There were a handful of things I liked in almost all the books, not including Tyrant’s Tomb which wins the award for rrverse book I most wanted to chuck out of a window. Some of the ideas were good. I think the first and last books are mostly solid (largely due to the fact that those don’t try to shove in entire side character arcs). But the things I did enjoy just get very heavily outweighed by everything that annoyed and upset me.
I really wish ToA had been mostly new characters with maybe some minor cameos, and other people’s arcs had been saved for different books. I also think splitting the perspective between Apollo, Meg and maybe the character who was trying to have an arc in that specific book would have helped.
#ToA crit#rr crit#salt#<- tagging those because I feel like people might have them blocked in case they don’t want to see stuff like this#if there’s anything else you want me to tag for posts like this lmk and I shall add it#tho this may remain an isolated salt incident. this is mostly supposed to be a fun little headcanon and ship blog#Eleena rants#Long post#very long post#Again you were warned in advance#answered asks#anon
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Yknow, I'm just going to put this out there.
I am really disgusted by a lot of these accusations hurled towards Lily without an ounce of proof. Most of these accusations simply feel like they are throwing anything at the wall to stoke the flames of social outrage in order to get people to react. It's gross, and it is tiring.
Here are a couple of my thoughts...
- Yes, what happened in the server with someone being falsely accused was really bad. It hurt people involved and destroyed trust. My heart really goes out to this person, and they have every right to feel hurt and to not forgive anyone involved in this situation. There is no excuse or explanation that can or will justify this. Bad mistakes were made, and someone was unjustly and irreparably hurt. A fact separate to this, though, is that Lily was given this false information after being harassed at that point for MONTHS, possibly even a full year. After that long of being harassed, it isn't a surpise that a mistake like this happened. As fucked as that situation was, Lily is a victim in this situation. It's strange that we don't really see this acknowledged. One person being a victim in an awful situation doesn't just negate another victim.
- Stealing code from fourms...? That has to be a joke. The really cool thing about code, and what has caused leaps and bounds in technological advancement, is that historically, code has mostly always been freely shared and a community based effort and knowledge sharing. On help forums, people share code with each other and correct each other's code. This is doubly so for Renpy, which makes it so lovely to learn! People don't really gatekeep knowledge when it comes to code, we encourage learning and skill improvement. Unless there is PROOF that code was fully ripped from a game (which even in that case, I would bet that the original person found their code from a forum as well, and the second person may have found a similar code to it because code really doesn't differ too much as it is a tool, a means to an end, not creative expression.) I really just don't believe any of those accusations at all. This goes for all accusations without direct proof.
- Regarding the criticism towards Lily's sexuality and gender identity: That isn't your or anyone else's business. It is frankly gross to try and demonize someone else's gender identity and sexual identity journey.
- I have seen multiple comments /callout posts / threads that revolve around a weird level of white knighting for Ya-Boi. Ya-Boi is an adult. They are both adults. Stop infantilizing Ya-boi and assuming that he can't voice when he is uncomfortable by something. He can, and he doesn't need anyone to speak for him. Let the business between them be private as anyone else's has a right to be. If you were actually concerned for Yaboi you would have checked in with him personally in a private message rather than just putting his personal life out there and forcing him to out his own personal life to the public 💀 like I really doubt he wanted to have to do that.
- Also, the complaint about 18+ erotic art being posted in a clearly titled 18+ EROTIC server??? I seriously laugh everytime I read that callout. If you join a server that clearly has the word 'erotic' in the title and you get mad because erotic art was posted? That's fully on you. What's next? Will you go to the p*rn hub and be mad because p*rn was shown? Get real. Stop pearl clutching and grow up. Take responsibility for your own actions and decisions of joining the clearly labeled server. The worst part to me is, I know if you voiced this complaint, anyone in the server would be kind enough to oblige and apologize to you and make sure it doesn't happen again. Because they are kind people who do care about how people around them feel. But frankly, I find this complaint fucking ridiculous. It was in the title of the damn server.
Look, at the end of the day you don't need to have a reason to dislike someone. You can just dislike someone. It's enough just to say that you don't like someone and end it at that. You don't need to try and make a callout post and rally people to also dislike someone so you can feel justified in your dislike towards them. You don't have to like everyone you come across in life, and that's totally fine. It's human even.
Please reevaluate some of these points on if they actually make sense, if they are actually fair, if you actually have proof for them. If you are this harsh on Lily, I really feel bad about how harshly you must judge yourself. To remain at some obscure morally upright standard that you are arbitrarily imposing on yourself at all times. It's okay to love your yan characters and want others to interact with them. It's okay to make mistakes, it's human to fuck up sometimes, to learn, and to grow from it.
What will happen when you make a mistake that you tried to call out another person for? Will you forgive yourself? Will you spiral in self loathing? What happens when you make a mistake that you would have called someone else out for if given the chance? Will you make an exception for yourself that you know you wouldn't have granted to another person? Will you allow yourself to grow in ways that you won't allow others to? What happens when you get a partner and they make an honest mistake? Will you call them out to the public? Trying to get others to also dislike them? Where does empathy get to start and end?
My advice is: Have some empathy for yourself and for others. Life will be much kinder to you that way.
I won't go through every point, I just wanted to say my piece on those things. This link is the post I am referring to. Ya-boi's response disects everything in more depth than I will.
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Maomao's family is awesome (part 1 : the dads)
I just watched the final episode of the anime.
I loved this conclusion, as well as the series overall. That's why I want to talk about one of my favorite parts of the series. While Maomao herself is a great protagonist, I find that some characters also deserve to be talked about.
Overall, KNH's secondary cast manages to be interesting. Each character is tied to the story's central theme and are quite complex (the tertiary cast is more one-dimensional, but it's expected).
But my favorite part of the cast is Maomao's family in general. They weren't that present in the beginning and their inclusion surprised me a bit. It's a different side of Maomao that I enjoyed seeing explored.
Luomen :
Maomao's relationship with Luomen is so adorable !
It's actually great to see her (openly) care about someone for a change, instead of only poisons and medication. We see her trying to help him get customers (like when Lihaku caught a cold) and distraught to learn he was banned from the palace.
She's very grateful towards him and it's easy to see why. He's patient, understanding and very skilled. I mean, the guy could study abroad, that was considered a rare offer for the most skilled. He taught her everything and thus, it justifies her advanced knowledge.
Overall, Luomen is a sweet man who would surely be very successful if he was more business savy (could he borrow some greed from the Old lady ?). I hope his finantial situation will better itself in the future, maybe by returining in the palace.
More about him in this article I found on the net.
Lakan
Omg, I did NOT expect to like Lakan as much as I did. Initially a very mysterious character, the reader/watcher slowly gets to know more about him. He challenges our main characters in a playful way, hiding his intentions behind a smile.
Seeing how disgusted by him Maomao was, I thought he did some truly morally low act, so I was kinda weary too. But... these last episodes totally changed how I perceive him. I'm SO glad I didn't spoil myself this part of the story.
The best way I could express the difference between my initial impression and the new one is the way he sees people.
I initially thought that him seeing people as go pieces represented his manipulative side, that he saw himself as the chessmaster, playing everyone else as he pleases.
While that isn't completely false, as this talent in chess was closely tied to Lakan became such a good strategist (to him at least), it isn't showcasing any bad intention on his part. He geniuenly struggles to differentiate people's faces, it's a handicap, not an ego thing.
Ironically enough, Lakan seems to be a quite clumsy man at times. He's (almost) unbeatable in go and is very capable of coming up with complicated plans, but falls short on a lot of other things, mostly his personal life and loved ones... kinda like Maomao and her skills as an apothecary.
He even got to get around his handicap thanks to his passion for go, seeing faces as different pieces instead of blurriness. The series could've just gone with the first interpretation : "Lakan is a way better strategist than anyone else, the puppetmaster (or so he thinks)". But it didn't.
The parallels between these two are so interesting that I could make a whole rant about it. Their relationship is, ultimately, a bit tragical : Lakan, contrary to a LOT of fiction fathers, didn't die or just go to buy milk on purpose. He was forced to go. Maomao recognizes he's not that horrible either, but... it's just too late. She can't see him as a father since Luomen is the one who took care of her. A complex story behind a simple explanation.
And his relationship with Fengxian... wow ! That was touching ! I never saw Lakan getting so emotional for anything, really. He seems to sincerely love her. That made him sympathize for him even more.
Edit : got more stuff for Lakan ! I forgot when he helped Maomao to get past the guard !!! The death glare he gave at that time was really intimidating... that guard is fucked, isn't he? Getting both the strategist AND Jinshi upset is not a good thing.
Speaking of Jinshi, this little rivalry between them is, so far, very simple but efficient. Yes, the trope of the dad who hates the boyfriend is cliche, but since Lakan CAN'T take care of Maomao and can't win her love, of course he's jealous of the guy who she lets near her. And he probably also feels protective about her too.
(don't worry, dude, Maomao is not fawning over the local pretty boy 😅. She's way more into poison, sake and bezoar than Jinshi.)
It's fortunate he's not jealous of Luomen, probably because they're related and he knows how good that man is. No danger here.
I'll make a part 2 about Fengxian, the other courtesans at the Verdigris palace and some conclusion later.
Meanwhile, some pictures :
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i think people are genuinely tweaking when they pick up certain moments to justify their ideas only when it fits into the narrative they've made of the bois relationship however we can never with surety give any labels to their relationships as fans either, we believe in what we want to be true and sometimes that affects our opinions. what you said about jungkook choosing mingyu and jimin over certain others was also out of pocket and very insensitive to jungkook himself, it really does show how skewed your opinions are, there are people in his life that we don't know about, same for jimin and that's how it'll be, we all have friends and jungkook/jimin is friends with taehyung the same way he shares a close bond with the other members, human relationships aren't limited, you form bonds with different people, what jimin and jungkook have is really special and their relationships with other people in no manner speaking will ever negatively affect it, some of you really tend to show your true colours especially with your responses towards reactionary comments
no it was not insensitive, I'm allowed to have an opinion based on what I see the same as you're doing about me - I could say your ask in insensitive to me then can't I? like it or not IMO jungkook is closer to jimin and mingyu than he is to the wooga squad. by certain people I meant the wooga squad since tkkers are so happy to say jk is friends with them - the fuck he is not. and what they did leaving him there on his own was shitty. and IMO while jungkook is obviously really close to tae it doesn't touch his bond with jimin and probably mingyu and this is coming from someone who's been defending taekook's bond since the beginning of time. you can think whatever you want. jungkook will never know me or read any of my posts on Tumblr so what does it matter in relation to jungkook if I'm expressing my opinions online? if anything you are doing to me exactly what you're claiming I'm doing with your skewed opinion about what I'm saying - I never said jikook are dating for sure for fucks sake so stop acting like that's what I'm doing and that it clouds my judgement. what i think about the wooga squad has nothing to do with jimin. you've no need to patronise me on human relationship or on jungkook himself. I usually don't judge what we see happen cause I know we never have the full story but the ski trip thing was bad enough for me to have a bloody opinion on ffs. and idk what happened with the movie premier jungkook supposedly was going to attend with tae again but the fact that he skipped on that second movie premier says a lot to me cause that's not very jungkook at all. but again I didn't mention that cause we don't know the full story there however I'm allowed to have an opinion about it knowing I could be wrong😩i'm one of the few people who always considers more than one explanation to stuff yet you're coming to me saying i'm reactionary and my opinions are skewed. you're welcome to have that opinion but then don't be calling me insensitive when you're coming to insult me whereas jungkook will never even know i exist so it's not like i'm going to be telling him how much i think he likes his friends lmao
and I beg to ask why are you and all the other anons nitpick every word I say?
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Murder drones au pt 2
Long awaited follow up for my murder drones au, of which was kindly requested by @burgertron17.
I appreciate the patients you've had with me, I and I apologize for the wait. But enough talk, lets get into it.
⚠️Spoiler warning for murder drones. Duh⚠️
lot of text ahead. like A LOT! beware!
So first an explanation of how the timeline is played out in comparison to murder drones canon.
Macy isn't really "bullied" in the same sense Uzi is, but she does experience a disconnect with the other kids. There is a rumor going around that she's half disassembly drone, which would explain why she's so tall. This one singular rumor is why she isn't outright bullied, they're low-key kinda scared of her.
The gun incident goes as followed in the canon. Aaron and Lance walk by and see Macy is hurt. Macy talks about the outdoors and how she's planning on sneaking out to get the last part she needs for her gun to actually work. Bottom panel of the lance drawing plays out here.
As the exit the outer door Aaron makes an off comment of "I bet Lance is worried sick." Hard cut to top left corner of Lance drawing, insert elevator esque like music. Hard cut back Aaron and Macy. Moment of silence. Macy says "Eh we'll make it quick.
They find the piece and blah blah blah.
Ok I'm not gonna write every single change I made cuz that will make this post wayyyy to long. now I don't even know if posts have a word limit but I don't wanna find out. Also cuz. didn't change overly a lot, most of the stuff still goes the same way. Its not a roots deep au like my other ones.
Instead of Clays comment that everyone thinks hes useless and terrible he just casually flexes how many kills hes gotten, followed by an awkward laugh, showing how he isn't actually enjoying any of it. Instead of him telling Wanda his name he just says "welp, guess I'll stay guard and . . . look for other drones. or something. Also cut out the whole crush comment cuz in this context ew. Just have him stare into space is sum idk. Also In the J flashback just have them have a very awkward conversation, and right when Clay is about to ask him something he flies off. Keep Jestro as the leader or not Idk
instead of Clay firing hearts (cuz that would be weird) just a puff of smoke comes out. He's too tense too shoot her. he says ". . .Listen! im sure we can talk it out like civilized-" And then the bomb. or rocket. whatever it is.
Obviously Jestro is a lot less menacing and brash. Where the failed monologue comes in he more so only apologizes and tries to brush it off in a "don't take this personally" manner
only difference in episode two is that Lance, Aaron and Axl is there. Place them in any situation as you please. Expect when chad or whatever his name is almost dies. that's Aaron.
It's Fletch and Izzy who try and give Macy a make over. Fletch is probably speaking English thought. Also obviously they're a lot less mean and any off putting comments is Izzy trying to seem cool. She looks up to Macy.
Axl isn't in the room when the attack happens. Returns right after, gets rather angry cuz rightfully so- all his hard work has been destroyed. Lance comforts him with a pat on the back.
Lance was the one who tried to get Wanda killed. Ended up saving her. they bond. they're besties now.
Didnt change anything for ep 3. Oh expect the hot comment. Lance instead says. "Dramatic. . . Justified reaction? . . he doesn't appreciate you enough"
Where N is, Wanda is instead. Given how Clay and Fletch was built after everything. Monstrous as Cyn. Marlok as Tessa. And Jestro as J. Macy ended up hacking into Wanda and then connected Clay into it so he could see what happened too.
Not much change for episode 6. I dunno who the souther creepster is. Didn't even make a sketch. I might. probably won't. If you have any suggestion do tell.
During the Flashback in episode 7 we obviously have Hama (Queen halbert) and the other one I didn't think much for either. So place whoever there too. Yet again, if you have any suggestions, do tell.
Where Doll gets killed Wanda rescues Fletch last second. Monstrous could barley figure out what happened and decided that he has more important things to do.
If you ship Clay x Macy, keep it the same, if not, change it to "Are best friends. we hang out a lot." Or something. I dunno
Not much change for the finale. The reason Clay is scared is mainly cuz he just knows what hes capable of from his mom's memories. "Wanda says: Its monstrous! You know, from when- you know what I mean!
Where we get the flashback of doll dying instead have Fletch enter the room. Izzy says "Woah! Cool limbs! How that happen" Fletch lets out a "um . . " Flash back of him waking up with the new limbs and then experiencing a existential crisis. He shrugs and says "Its a long story"
Yeah that's about it for the story. Now for some behind the scenes stuff!
Pilot C
His mother build him after the explosion. He's actual defective (He's a lot shorter) But he was so good at his job they just let him be, in fear of fixing him would change it.
Clay: *Liiiick*
Clay: Oh please don't run, if I miss then this will just be more painful. Ill make it quick!
Fletch (Actually F)
W lost him during an attack. He was raised by worker drones. He isn't very confident with his limbs and is a bit clumsy. (robots built to be JUST disassembly drones don't work well with worker drone limbs.
He was attacked by AD (Absolute destruction) but W saved him last second and gave him proper limbs
F (after being converted) He still hasn't fully figured how to make everything work, but he's already gaining confidence within himself
Macy
Daughter to Eggred who built the bunker. Freezer out because she's weirdly tall and gets called a "Wannabe disassembly drone"
Macy: Shit
Aaron: I mean, he seems . . . fun sized?
Aaron: Ok so not fun
Macy: You think!?
And now for some extra stuff!
This was the initially requested casting. I couldn't quite make it work while still keeping stuff rather canon. But I made some sketches for how they would and or could look like. Oh and a drawing page for more Merlok as Tessa
More canon Clay worker drone
More Uzi leaning Clay worker drone + feat my "joke" scene Clay hc
N jestro (Just gave him a hat lol) Wanda as Nori
Kinda gave up (Not kind, I just gave up)
Merlok Moorington
Merlok: This extension looks amazing! We're matching now! I swear in another universe we're siblings.
Merlok: If you could have a family, what would their names be?
Wanda: You're my family!
Merlok: He he, of course! But other than me
Wanda: Hm . . . Clay and Fletcher.
Merlok: Hm . . I like those names.
Only child of the Moorington family. Only friends are the worker drones. Mom hates that hat, but he refuses to take it off. Mom gave up eventually
Merlok: It wants paid time off . . . to attend Union Negotiations!
Wanda: THIS IS A UNRELATED LAYOFF!
AND BOOM! we're done! Thanks so much again for all the patience! Been having a lost of work and test as of late, and I wanted to have the time to properly write all of this.
#nexo knights#nexoknights#lego nexo knights#au#art#fanart#clay moorington#macy halbert#aaron fox#wanda moorington#nexo knights art#nexo knights merlok#merlok#murder drones au#nexo knights clay#nexo knights jestro#nexo knights wanda#lego nexo knights wanda#lego nexo knights fletcher#lego nexo knights clay moorington#lance richmond#nexo knights axl#nexo knights aaron
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I think lore of Olympus just became so much more than it ever was, or was supposed to be. I'm not on webtoon much, but I never felt like anybody takes anything *too* seriously, it's mostly artists who write because they want a webtoon, not artists who are also writers. As somebody who is both, I kinda get it. Most webtoons don't make it out of the community. It was out of the ordinary that Lore of Olympus did, and while it certainly didn't earn it, I don't entirely blame the creator for randomly being put in that posting. (Though I still have my many, many issues with it.)
I noticed that too: most of the people who write on Webtoon do not take themselves too seriously and sure, Lore Olympus was a peculiar case that went far beyond what the author ever imagined.
However, I don’t think that justifies writing bad stuff. I do not expect everyone to be an excellent writer/artist, but if you really love and care about a fandom or a project, doing some research is, like, the bare minimum. It’s a means to make it better - and isn’t that what anyone wants? To make the best possible creation they can? Otherwise, why bother at all? Why do something without any love or care? Just do something that gives you joy, instead.
Sure, people are free to write shitty stuff if they want and they’re free to be bad writers/artists. But I don’t think this will prove neither their love for the fandom, nor their love for their own project. Again: wouldn’t it be better to do something they care about, instead?
Lore Olympus’ case is peculiar because, as you said, it became hugely famous (and yes, I also don’t think it deserves it). But being very famous doesn’t justify the complete lack of understanding of the original material, nor the bad writing. No one forced Rachel Smythe to take Greek mythology as the foundation for her project: she could’ve used two original characters instead, just like many other writers/artists do.
But since she wanted to use something as widely known and loved as Greek mythology, understanding it was the bare minimum to show her appreciation and respect for it.
So when I see her not showing any understanding, adding random characters to bring more drama and butchering other characters without explanation, I don’t think she’s a poor little writer. I think that she’s a grown-ass woman who doesn’t care enough to read and understand the material she’s taking the characters from.
And okay, she’s free to do it. But I’m also free to criticize it and think it’s a shitty writing :P
#lore olympus#lore olympus critical#anti lore olympus#sure fame was probably very unexpected too#but once Mrs. Smythe go it no one told her#you cannot learn/understand Greek mythology#she was free to improve her work#she is still free to do so#but I don't see any improvement at all#just more stupid drama
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ghhhhh okay I'm feeling feisty today so: I'm not going to do this as a reblog of the actual post because I don't want to bust into someone's blog like the Kool-Aid man going NO U because this is not personal at all. But... I want to address the question of "would it not be dark magic (as in 'bad') anymore if you only use ethically-sourced ingredients?" because it's a thing.
And because even leaving aside all the other shit that's going on with dark magic, the answer is a) oh, you sweet, sweet summer child who thinks that's possible, let alone viable, and b) that's not the point.
It's like asking "is an authoritarian dictatorship bad if there's a good person in charge?" YES! It is! It is such a continuous failure point in the human mind that we think "well, it wouldn't have gone that badly if I did it" that there are literally thousands of years of stories about how that's objectively not true! There's an entire fucking Greek word for it!
Like... you literally only have to look at the real world for about a minute to start seeing problems with this. There has never been a single fucking resource that people can maintain ethics about. You want elf hair? How long until elves in vulnerable situations are being coerced into selling pieces of their bodily autonomy? How long until someone has a mini factory-farm camp of enslaved elves? And then you want to talk about animal products? DON'T MAKE ME FUCKING LAUGH. Just look at the current ethical mess that is large-scale egg or milk production—once demand is high enough, someone winds up unable to control themselves. We've driven entire species of birds to the edge of extinction because their feathers were pretty in hats. There are literally laws preventing people from selling feathers they have picked up off the ground to prevent it from happening again, because that's how it fucking started. Let that sink in for a sec and then tell me again that mages would only ever use phoenix feathers naturally shed during molting.
/SCREECHES okay i'm okay
The other thing is that TDP is a very thematic story, and dark magic is an integral theme component. This is a story literally 90% about bad choices people make because they think they're right, that it's all for a good cause, and that the ends justify the means. That's the central conflict around dark magic, going back to the expulsion of humans from Xadia: do the ends justify the means? "Oh, it was necessary! Humans were oppressed! It was the only thing they could do to escape slavery and genocide!" No it fucking wasn't. I'm not going to dig up my posts about this because I'm pretty sure they're linked in the other ones above, but that explanation is a lie that canon is doing a slow-burn reveal on. Does that mean Xadia is right and all humans are awful forever, the end? No, don't be stupid. Are there definitely other lies being told? Absolutely.
But it's a disservice to everything the setting and story is trying to say to be like "what if we could use the ends-justify-the-means juice, but in a way where the means were such that the ends really did justify them?" Like... no, stop. You're trying to take a very complex ethical question and simplify it into a good/evil dichotomy. That's not how literally any part of this story works. I do think they did it just a bit of a disservice in that area by calling it "dark" magic, just because we are so trained by generations of weird bullshit to associate dark = evil, which makes the ethical themes going on under the hood trip people up.
Could you make a character who was a dark mage only using ingredients that they source ethically? Sure. But they'd be a very interesting study in hypocrisy, not a pioneer of a new form of magic.
#dark magic#yeah i’m fucking salty af#stressed out and shrieking#like please just accept that you like characters who do bad things instead of creating bizarre moral what-ifs to make yourself right#it will make your life a hell of a lot easier i promise#... i say having just admitted i'm stressed out and shrieking#look do as i say not as i do#kradogsmeta
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STOP TELLING SHERLOCK JOHN DOESNT LOVE HIM YOU DINGUS
ok if u want seriousness john was so much nicer after that they got along well and idk what the hells going on right now like even if one of them didn't love the other romantically that they were still good friends so why deny that there's *SOME* form of caring? like they still care about the other. sherlock ignores that. and john ignores that.
like guys youre friends stop arguing you do both love the other??? like what does the rest matter??? i mean yeah it's bad if john were still hitting him but no he's not. usually when he's upset he'll kiss him until he stops being annoying or whatever it's sweet and romantic like johns not hurting him now he's not some abuser the others are acting like he is
but also he's not completely innocent lmao like the others are saying like "he was hurt emotionally when sherlock came back so he attacked him!" like no that literally not acceptable to attack him, however, it's not like the world is black and white. he for real was upset and emotionally wanted to hurt him, and he did. not a serious crime like murder, but a lesser crime that if not wanting to press charges, you go off like nothing happened.
did he deserve to get attacked like that? no. did john have a right to do that? no. did he anyway? yeah. proibably felt good and helped him process. was it okay emotionally? yeah! animals attack each other for various reasons too. he was just expressing himself. sherlock didn't take personal offense to it, and didn't press charges. so it's fine.
when there's a pattern of abuse or it's out of nowhere (if it's your partner) that's horrible, but that's just not the case with john. the first time was unacceptable, the second time was quite justified. punching someone when defending another person? (physically, when the other pulled a knife?) acceptable. punching him to the floor? acceptable. *kicking* him? a bit much, but when people are in fight or flight, after such an event (sherlock pulled a knife.) people can go as far as killing the person in their defense, and often get off legally because their life was directly threatened and it was in quick succession. not enough time to make an escape plan, so to speak. legally in the clear, legally not in trouble.
it was a fight and acceptable, the first time was inappropriate but generally acceptable since the victim didn't press charges.
most of us would never be in a situation where we were being attacked by someone after being away for 2 years of faking your death anyway. it's a unique situation, most of us would react differently. i would accept if someone punched me for it, probably. in most any other situation where someone punches me for something (if my something was non harmful, or an accident) i would walk away, or advise others to walk away.
it's never been like that with john and sherlock, and john has apologized for both. and sherlock explained for both. and john accepted the explanations, and or sherlock accepted johns actions. - Why do they have to say "I've already apologized" every time, it's annoying. So they get defensive, maybe, since all they get is more criticism. So then it's "i was upset!" needing to explain, so maybe *that* stops the criticism. it doesn't work. Because he did apologize, and sometimes all the ask says is "YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE!" over and over, and that's an insult to insinuate he hasn't and that sherlock accepted it. things hurt when brought up over and over, words get twisted. -John reacts to a world Sherlock creates for him, he's not perfect, he's a human. They both know they're both human.
So they should really accept that the past is the past, and current events show they love each other, and aren't generally trying to hurt the other. If they could accept the other does *at least care, if not love*, the other and they aren't trying to hurt the other, they could continue a real, meaningful, friendship, in the very least.
i'm sure if they could heal their friendship, go back to what it was before people took to criticizing john every 2 seconds for something that was frankly acceptable and making sherlock think john doesn't love him every two seconds, they may even find out more in a relationship than just friendship.
don't show either of them this, obviously. god forbid anyone see genuine advice from a psych major
Another thing, I guess. It's a cycle, john gets criticized for "abusing sherlock" sherlock gets sad thinking maybe they're right and john obviously can't love him because he hit him john feeling the need to defend something that again they already resolved sherlock getting sad because john defends it instead of idk, a gentle reminder that they've resolved it before, and he is genuinely sorry it can be taxing to remind "we've already resolved this" all the time. stop asking, you're (the askers who bring it up) tiring them down and helping cause this rift.
or the other is john getting criticized for staying with mary after he was already about to propose to her. when she saw it and what, he was supposed to say "never mind"? he did love her, you know. and we all know why, she was amazing! it just so happened she was also a bit of trouble. break up with someone you love just to go back to being roommates at least with the guy you love and aren't with? he didn't know he loved him back, otherwise the story might just be different. but it's not different, so why think about that? it is what it is.
So that gets brought up, and bam, makes sherlock think "maybe they're right, he chose her" when it wasn't a choice. he didn't know there was a choice.
a cycle of those situations when it's not needed. leave the past. don't forget mary, obviously, but don't think of a choice that you didn't know existed, at least not in such a negative note as if it *did* exist and you lost.
is it really toxic right now? yeah. does it have to be? no :sob: thery should maybe ignore all talk of when john beat up sherlock, and they should ignore the disrespectful mary asks. if they ignore those two asks maybe things would start smoothing out more.
maybe they need a real chat about it first, though. again, anyway. face to face or something rather online.
for the askers part they should stop asking those two things. but yes foir sherlock and john they need to ignore those asks. never answer them, unless idk it's been awhile and you just need to remind people to stop asking about it.
again you didn't hear this from me man i don't wanna take credit for any accidental happy relationships
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Have any new Warriors protested their names? Maybe a -pelt who wanted -claw, or even a cat that wanted a new prefix?
I'm sure at least a couple have in history, but almost everyone is aware ahead of time what their suffix is going to be, so they're unsurprised or in acceptance. When a cat has multiple options - they could be a -claw or a -heart, for example - the leader is expected to call them in for a private chat and ask which name they want to go with. When they don't have multiple options, they still can get an idea of what they'll be called by their skills or observations made over the course of their training.
Cats who get -pelt/-fur or pattern variances do occasionally get disappointed that they didn't get a "special" suffix, but they don't tend to angst over it. The joy of becoming a warrior usually overrides that, and everyone celebrates their name all the same, so it's not a horrible fate that they need to ask the leader to fix. Once in a great while, a new warrior may privately speak with the leader about the name, but it's an extremely rare chance that the talk will go anywhere beyond an explanation of why the leader went with that suffix and a declaration that they're sorry if the warrior is disappointed, but the name logically fits them and to change it to some skill or personality trait would be a falsehood. Some -pelt/-furs do get pattern names instead if they plead hard enough, but at that point it's considered whining until you get something "special", which is petty and juvenile.
Now, in the case of prefixes, you have to be able to really justify the change, because prefixes are very important in helping a cat stand out throughout their life, from the womb to the tomb, much more than a suffix. It's your entire identity when you're born and up until you become an adult. If the prefix has trauma related to it, or has some other negative connotation (like if the cat was named after their father from another Clan and the queen wouldn't change her mind), the leader is understanding and can change the entire name at whichever ceremony is up next. If you just want a different name because "because", you're going to be denied.
Prefixes are built specifically to be objective descriptions and not have any association with cultural nonsense. A Foxkit isn't likely to complain about being named after a fox, because the name simply means that they share the color of a fox. Them wanting a new name is silly, because why would you be mad about being named by your fur, like everyone else is? An exception would be if the queen named Foxkit after the fox that murdered their father, or after a cat who had just recently died (which is a MAJOR faux pas in Clan culture), or if someone was bullying and abusing poor Foxkit by constantly insulting them with their prefix specifically, etc. Then they have some reason to be called something else, and the leader will comply with their wishes, regardless of what the mother has to say.
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Headcanons for things that i think were probably actually just bad writing choices
(Disclaimer: I'm not justifying any of these things, characters are allowed to do bad things and be flawed. This is just how I choose to see things)
Rose telling that kid to go after his abusive dad in the idiots lantern was actually because she was projecting her own issues about her dad onto him. She never got to have her dad in her life so she can't concieve that some people might actually be better off without their dad
Martha saying "good old rose" in Utopia isnt just because she's jealous while jack and the doctor are celebrating Rose literally being alive, it's because she just made another new friend only to once again find out that she's sort of an outsider. It's not about jealousy, its about being on the other side of the universe from everything you know and the only people you can rely on feel like they have their own little group that you're not a part of
Side note: these lyrics for Martha
During the year that never was, the master would sometimes have really bad spells of the drums, during one of these spells Lucy tried to help but he was frustrated and lashed out, which is how she got the bruise. It was wrong and he definitely didn't apologise but it wasn't malicious and didn't happen again. (To be clear, I think the master does and is capable of many malicious things, this is just a line that I don't want crossed)
Amy is asexual but overcompensates and tries to act the way she thinks people want her too. I can't remember if it's said in the episode but there's a minisode where Amy seems convinced the doctor only brought her along bc he's interested in her, hence the infamous kiss. She's also self-sabotaging because while she loves rory, she feels guilty because she probably doesn't love him the same way he loves her
The definition of "system" that refers to types of societies never crossed the doctors mind during Kerblam! She was always referring to the computer systems (this one may actually be somewhat canon im not sure, im not 100% convinced kerblam was intended as an endorsement of capitalism)
The doctor left the master to the nazis bc she was pissed about Bills death and being abandoned. There's not really much more explanation to this, I just think the doctor is very capable of doing terrible things and this was one of them (see also: threatening to sic the cybermen and daleks on Ashildr, the family of blood situation, killing the racnoss children etc). Writing wise, they should never have crossed that particular line. Character wise i think if you piss the doctor off enough then they tend to lose all morals
Additionally I think the doctor also sees the master as indestructible. In a way its a compliment but it just often leads to the doctor leaving the master in dangerous situations and thinking it doesn't matter bc they'll always survive anyway. And of course the master will never tell the doctor that it's hurtful when they do this so the doctor thinks the master doesn't care about it (this isn't really a bad writing choice one, its just a thing I think. And i think it influences the previous point)
The doctor was so happy in the specials and didn't mention yaz at all because they're actually just a huuuuuge liar. The second donna leaves he breaks down. He loves donna but he misses his other friends, he misses Yaz. Sometimes he thinks about going to see her but he knows it wouldn't be fair to her
Tldr everyone sucks, theyre all a mess, and I love them
#doctor who#headcanons#controversial probably but i love controversial stuff#re: the doctor being terrible. the doctor saying ''i will end you and everything you love'' lives rent free in my brain#he is not a good man fr#also love parallels between clara and the doctor doing fucked up shit when faced with the loss of someone they love#funny how i see people bring up claras actions in dark water much more than i see them mention the way the doctor acted in face the raven
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There's this take floating around that Clyde acts the way he does in Part 2 because he "got rejected by Almyra again" when Shahid tries to kill him, and I kinda lowkey hate it lmao.
Like for one why would he care so much that his racist brother rejected him when he'd likely would have... ALWAYS been racist towards Claude the whole time they've grew up together? Plus wouldn't Claude EXPECT Almyra to still reject him considering... literally nothing's changed since he left that would make it more accepting of him?
And for two why would Claude only care about that the SECOND time Shahid rejects him and not the first time in Chapter 3? When Shahid was willing to kill a guy he THOUGHT was a stranger just for REMINDING him of Khalid too much? He just didn't give a shit at all - he even tried to shoot Shahid down!
Like, granted, it's better than most explanations that straight up try to justify stupidity-fueled violence, but it just... makes shit up? Like it's writing for the writers.
Yeah, a huge difference between Hopes and Houses Claude is that VW/AM Claude achieved enough in the war to go home and at least be seen as a potential war hero of sorts for Fodlan. That would boost opinion of him even in Almyra, because they take pride in strength and achievements like that.
Hopes Claude doesn't have that, and I think Shahid is genuinely not even a factor in how Almyra would feel about him. If Shahid died and Claude still achieved all the same things as in Houses, I feel like Almyra would still accept him. Also, seeing as a lot of Almyrans disrespected his Fodlan lineage, I think they'd be even more disgusted at the idea that Shahid, a full blooded Almyran, lost to a half Fodlan blooded prince not once, but twice. At that point I don't think they'd even care as far as succession goes.
It also proved Shahid wasn't a competent commander for him to lose battles like that anyway, and to Fodlan, and to Claude specifically, so they really wouldn't be too impressed with him. Actually, he'd probably get booted from the line of succession for his failures because let's face, anyone who acts like that and loses like that, and to the same army twice even with that time gap wouldn't be suitable to rule anywhere. For Almyra, it's even worse because they value their victories.
Point being, Almyra wouldn't have rejected him in relation to Shahid, and if nothing else would have only rejected Shahid for his failures.
Claude on the other hand just doesn't have any successes in Fodlan in Hopes. He has nothing particularly grand to speak of. His victories in the war aren't massive or anything, and Hopes leaves his route too open ended for it to matter enough to Almyra; as in, he didn't close the door on that war or achieve anything to put him in the limelight. All he did was offer a truce, more or less.
That said, Almyra wouldn't care about his failures because they didn't care abut him to begin with. It would only be if he had great success that they took notice of him. Shahid rejecting him wouldn't have, theoretically, bothered him more than usual. What bothered him was the idea of killing his blood family. Even if Shahid continued to hate him, it wouldn't have surprised him or hurt his morale any bit more than he was used to. It was just explicitly the kill shot that really stung for Claude.
Like we both said, he wouldn't care if he was rejected by Shahid the second time. I'm sure he was used to rejection from Shahid.
As for the shooting him down in chapter three, I think that was more of a bluff to get him to leave. Considering how it affected him when he actually did shoot him down, I don't think he was actually ready to do that (especially when his whole class was there and if it was going to affect him that deeply in front of them, it would've given him away).
I don't think Shahid's words actually shocked him though in terms of the fact that Shahid was directly insulting mainly "his brother" and not entirely the "stranger" in front of him. The words of disgust were less immediately directed at "Claude" and more in reference for his disgust toward "Khalid". In a way it's kind of like saying "ugh I don't like you even though I don't know you, because you remind me of someone I already hate". The scale isn't a balanced hate of both people, but rather leans toward the person the individual is familiar with.
I agree that it definitely makes things up. Almyra rejecting him wouldn't make him suddenly take more of an aggressive stance on the Fodlan war. He's been rejected by Almyra his entire life, so it wouldn't make him suddenly take that out on Faerghus. His entire reason for fighting Faerghus was related to trying to defend Leicester from the Empire and prioritizing only Leicester over Fodlan itself, which really just defeated the purpose of his goal of getting everyone friendly so he could start working on the next part of his goal.
Which, in fact, is now completely irrelevant because he's the king of Leicester and if he plans to just ditch Leicester and drop his title out of nowhere to go be Almyra's king, he's now in a position where just leaving Leicester to go back to Almyra for that throne would make people in Leicester very angry at him for changing their entire leadership structure, taking over the country and then peaceing out on them; peaceing out to one of their most hated enemies, no less and leaving their leadership structure all changed and messed up.
The moment Claude became king of Leicester in Hopes, he really fucked up his entire goal. I can't imagine people would just quietly and happily accept how much he changed Leicester and in an uncomfortable way (by which I mean a LOT of the nobles, includes ones we know like Lorenz and Hilda) if he just walked out on them like that, much less for Almyra. Even if he wasn't doing it to deceive them like he tells Judith, they'd probably still be pissed that he did that and feel betrayed and used.
Really, GW Claude is a mess that can't really be fixed as per the canon writing for it. There are too many holes in the circumstances and unlike AG, it just doesn't feel actually thought out. It feels like a story that was made just for shock value and surprises rather than a coherent and enjoyable story with a proper resolution. SB doesn't have a necessarily complete story/resolution, but it has more than GW.
Also, I'm not sure why people are still trying to justify invasion lol. Particularly invasion of an innocent territory that had nothing to do with you and never did you wrong. May as well bring an army to your next door neighbor's house and tell them they have to die for your grand ambitions and so that your own household can survive (which is gonna make 'em like ??? the fuck ??? ? ? ?). Yikes!
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