#and someone should not quite do something about it but something does need to change

[nameless-jamie]

hi babes! i’m obsessed with jamie x pa reader oh my god its amazing! 🩵 would love to read jamie sabotaging pa’s dates like, everytime she says shes going out with someone he comes up with something urgent for her to do just to spend time with her and also him being jealous of them lolll💕 feel free to change anything and thank you🫶��

Not on Accident

FINALLY THE CLIMAX

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes, kissing

A/N: I hope you like it and thank you for the request, It was such a good idea that I made it into the climax of their tension-filled relationship.

Y/N had been Jamie Tartt’s personal assistant long enough to recognize when he was full of shit.

And right now? He was positively overflowing with it.

The week went by as normal as it gets with Jamie, Y/N was coordinating his schedule, making sure he showed up to sponsorship meetings, and handling his existential crises when he decided his hair wasn’t quite right before the game.

It was Saturday and usually Saturday nights Y/N had her day off. Her Saturday night plans had been set for over a week. She had even mentioned them to Jamie in passing while reviewing his schedule, barely expecting him to register the information. But, to her surprise, he had—oh, he absolutely had.

"—and Friday you have to do this little interview with our new sponsor..."

"Yeah, will do that, love. What are ya up to this weekend?"

"Oh, you know, just the usual. Chilling, cooking and cleaning...oh and Saturday night I actually have a date with this guy."

"Huh. Hmmm...well have fun then."

At the time, he had simply hummed with a short response, not saying much further. She had chalked it up to him not caring. Why would he care? He was Jamie Tartt. He had models in his DMs and a different woman on his arm at every event.

Meanwhile, Y/N was just his PA. Why would she care? Pfff no, she doesn't. They only kissed like once, on accident, and flirted all the time. Oh, and kissed that one time when they pretended to be a couple, also they've slept in one bed...Fuck, ok maybe she does care.

Anyway, she had gone about her week, fully expecting to follow through with her plans. A date. It wasn’t anything serious, just dinner with a guy she had met through a mutual friend. Ryan was nice enough—handsome in a conventional way, good job, well-dressed, not arrogant, and also a little boring.

Most importantly, though, he was not Jamie Tartt.

Because Jamie Tartt was not an option. Jamie Tartt, who made her heart miss a beat every time he touched her or called her love... Jamie Tartt who was also her cocky slightly arrogant boss, was not an option!

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

But then—just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, slipping into a dress that made her feel genuinely attractive for once, and fastening the delicate clasp of her necklace—her phone rang.

She sighed at the sight of Jamie’s name flashing on the screen.

Of course.

Jamie did not respect business hours, nor did he care that it was a Saturday night. Jamie Tartt needed 24/7 care.

Still, she answered. She always did.

“Jamie, if this is about your dry cleaning again, I swear to—”

“Nah, nah, it’s an emergency,” he cut in, his voice decidedly not panicked for someone claiming to have an emergency.

That alone made her suspicious.

She narrowed her eyes. “An emergency, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

"On the day I told you I'm going out—with a man..."

Silence again.

She blinked. “Are you going to elaborate or should I hang up?”

Jamie exhaled sharply. “I’d rather not do it over the phone. Can you come over?”

Y/N checked the time. “Jamie, I told you I have plans.”

A beat of silence. Then—“Yeah, I know. Cancel ‘em. Please, it's urgent. Really.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious, Y/N.”

She hesitated, gnawing on her lip. Jamie was dramatic, but he wasn’t outright cruel. He used her first name too, instead of babe or love, might really be urgent... If he was truly in trouble if something was really wrong—what kind of assistant would she be if she ignored him?

A terrible one, that’s what.

And Ryan probably wouldn't mind rescheduling. He is too nice to mind.

With a sigh, she grabbed her bag. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

She just had to make one awkward phone call with Ryan now...

"Y/N, hi!"

"Hi Ryan, look I have to tell you something..."

"You have to cancel, don't you?"

"Ugh...yeah, actually yes. I'm so sorry Ryan, it's a work thing."

"That's okay, you work for Jamie Tartt, right? Uhm....Do you maybe like think you could get me an autograph, I'm a fan of him and all that."

Ok, that kinda gave Y/N the ick...She couldn't even explain why.

"Huh, yeah I'll ask him. Let's see when we both find the time to meet up again. See ya!"

Jamie had been pacing his living room when he heard the knock.

He swung the door open, the words “took you long enough” ready on his tongue—only to forget how to speak entirely when he saw her.

Fuck. That fucking dress. She was gonna wear that...FOR HER DATE?!

He had expected her to look nice—she always looked nice—but this? This was different.

She was stunning.

Hair done, lips glossy, dress distractingly well-fitted. Black and short.

His stomach twisted. Why the fuck was she trying to look this good for him? Was is something serious?

Y/N gave him a pointed look arms crossed in front of her chest making her boobs more prominent. “Well? What’s the emergency?”

Jamie blinked, very much struggling to remember his own bullshit excuse.

Shit.

“Uh…”

She uncrossed her arms, waiting. “Jamie Tartt.”

“Right. The emergency.” He cleared his throat, stepping aside so she could come in. “Yeah, so—uh—I think my… thermostat’s broken?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Are you fucking serious? Do I look like a fucking handyman? You are unbelievable.”

Jamie winced. “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds—”

“No, Jamie. There is no way you just made me cancel my date because you’re too lazy to Google ‘how to adjust thermostat settings. I'm not your fucking butler.”

Jamie had the decency to at least look guilty.

“I just—I dunno, it’s like, well cold in ‘ere, and I thought—”

“Oh my god.” She turned on her heel. “I’m leaving.”

“Oi, wait—”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” She marched toward the door. “I cannot believe I fell for that again—”

His hand wrapped gently around her wrist before she could reach the doorknob. “C’mon, just—stay for a bit, yeah? You already canceled, might as well help me now.”

She should have walked away. She should have told him to call an actual handyman and gone on her boring date, with average Ryan.

But Jamie was looking at her like she was the only person in the world.

Like maybe—just maybe—he had needed her here tonight.

And that was so fucking unfair.

She sighed. “You’re an absolute idiot. I really fucking hate you.”

His lips quirked up. “An absolute fit idiot, though.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched in betrayal.

Yup, Jamie took that as a win.

A bottle of wine later, Y/N was curled up on Jamie’s small couch, the thermostat now warming up the place (it was fucking off, not broken). Y/n had her heels kicked off, her dress still clinging to her in all the right places, riding up her thighs slightly.

And Jamie had not stopped staring at her all night.

She caught him looking more than once, but instead of calling him out, she simply lifted a brow. “Something on my face, Tartt?”

His lips curled into a smirk. “Nah. Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

His gaze flickered over her, lingering. “What a shit date you missed out on. Lucky girl.”

Y/N huffed a laugh. “You arrogant prick! You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her. “Bet he wouldn’t ‘ave made you laugh like I do.”

Her breath hitched.

Jamie noticed.

She scoffed, attempting to regain control. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “You love it, Y/N.”

Her first name again. She refused to answer.

Instead, she looked down at her glass, swirling the remaining wine before saying—so quietly he barely heard—

“I didn’t think I could have you.”

Jamie’s heart stopped.

For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it.

He sat up straighter. “What?”

Y/N exhaled, staring at the rim of her glass. “You never seemed like the type to—” She paused. “I just figured you didn’t see me that way. I mean I'm your assistant and—”

Jamie wanted to laugh.

Not at her—but at the sheer fucking absurdity of her words.

Instead, he reached out, his fingers tilting her chin up just enough to make her look at him.

“Babe.” His voice was soft. Rough around the edges. Honest. “I ‘aven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since the day you started workin’ for me. Fuck we've kissed twice already and I've taken both of those kisses seriously. No accidents. I've wanted you since day one.”

She swallowed hard.

Jamie’s gaze flickered to her lips. “Say the word, and I’ll prove it.”

A pause.

Then—

“Prove it.”

And just like that, Jamie Tartt closed the space between them, kissing her like he had been waiting his whole fucking life for this moment.

Y/N melted against him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer because fuck, this was inevitable, wasn’t it?

Jamie pulled back just enough to smirk against her lips. “Told you that date of yours would’ve been shit.”

Y/N laughed, shoving his shoulder.

"By the way my 'date' asked for your autograph when I stood him up..."

Jamie smirked and caught her wrist—like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

"I'll just send you back to him with my marks all over your neck. Better than a dumb autograph, yeah baby? Bit more of a personal message from Jamie Tartt."

And for once, Y/N let herself go, she grabbed him by his neck and they fell back on the couch, their mouths never letting go of one another...this time not on accident.

[creatureheart]

Well if we're going to go by things being literally tangible and not personally perceived then you are not a brown bear and I am not a horse or hyena, even psychologically or spiritually, no matter what we say because personal identity is not a literally tangible thing that others outside of ourselves can experience or observe for us. Your commentary about things having to be part of the shared reality that people experience is hypocritical when it comes to personal identity. Especially with identities where one identifies as something other than human that most in the shared reality would see as delusional or false. These things cannot be completely studied by science in a way that would prove them literally tangible, and even science is not concrete in its findings as it is forever changing as new information is found and old becomes outdated. Science is us learning how the world works, not something that is immutable.

This same kind of argument of things needing to be literal is actually used by bigots, — and I'm not using this to be "needlessly antagonistic" but to state a fact, — to dismiss the identity of those who are queer/trans, because they do not see our identities as literally tangible, as in not a part of objective reality. You may not be on the same level as bigots, but you are using the same talking points and mindsets as them. That because the majority(objective reality) does not think something is correct when it comes to personal identity(subjective reality) that this thing is harmful and needs to be changed or eradicated in some way to fit the strict idea of what is said to be objective reality, even if the personal identity hurts no one.

Side Note 1: I also really dislike how you worded in the original post: "from self identified “physical therians”," and put physical therians in quotations because it reminds me of how you'll see terfs/tirfs and transphobes be all "self identified "trans men/trans women"," in quotations to show they do not believe the person's perception of their own identity.

You also may not think you are invalidating the existence or experiences of those who have physical identities, but that is quite literally what you are doing by telling them that the words they use for themselves are not correct and they should be using something else instead. You say anyone has the right to use whatever word they want, yet say they shouldn't use a word they are using. You are dismissing their identity as only something you think it is when that's not the only way physical nonhumans experience it. A very narrow view of something you are not even a part of, which in turn makes it worse that you are telling people how they should experience their own identity. Even when those who are physical nonhumans talk about it to you, you ignore or dismiss and invalidate their experience — example being the reply to @d0gbite where you denied her experience, in a way that is probably counted as reality checking/fake claiming. Not only was that entirely unnecessary/rude to just outright deny someone their own experience with their own identity, but these things can actually cause more harm to those you may interact with in these spaces who experience delusions because you are quite literally telling them their reality that their brain is experiencing is false. That can cause those with delusions to actually sink further into the delusion or lead to negative effects like distress and physical/psychological harm towards themselves or other people when they lash out in defense of themselves and their reality. It might not be literally tangible/objective reality, but it is still their reality in that moment.

Side Note 2: Here is a post that talks about how you can actually help someone who may be experiencing psychosis/delusions that are causing actual distress in a way that doesn't completely shut down their current reality as a starting place. But you must also keep in mind that not all delusions are distressing or harmful. Things are not black and white. There are many people who live with psychosis 24/7 and will never be able to completely rid themselves of delusions and other things even with help, but unless they are in immediate danger or the experience is negatively affecting their lives in some way, no one has any right to tell them how they should think or live.

All this feels along the same lines of someone telling me I shouldn't use the umbrella term "queer" for myself because it's intentionally vague, because my sexuality is asexual and my gender is genderqueer in more specific terms, so only these should be used because they are more succinct in communication. (I use analogies with queer experience because I am queer and it's another part of my identity that I have and can speak on.)

And yes, language is a tool, but we also completely made it up. Tools can also be shaped to fit the context that they are needed in. Language is a tool because it's what we use to describe what we are experiencing and isn't something we should use to define strict lines. Especially when it comes to something as abstract and intangible as personal identity because you will NEVER find a single term that encompasses ALL variants of something like this. Trying to dismiss a term that has been used, again, for decades at this point, because you do not think it fits what you have seen, or what you think it should mean, is not as helpful as you think it is. I again comment that physical in this context is an umbrella term. It covers a wide range of different experiences that have to do with the physical body in some way. This /can/ include those that experience a disconnect from their physical body but that is not always the case. Just as not all spiritual nonhumans are because of past lives, or psychological nonhumans are that way because of trauma. Then there is the entire overlap with psychological leading to a physical identity because of how one may perceive themselves because of their neurodivergence, whether through delusions or otherwise. Where would they fall under your suggested terms? Especially if they do not have the disconnect from their physical body, that this is just how they see it themselves?

Do those who experience species dysphoria about their bodies, which happens with non-physical therians and nonhumans too, also fall under your idea of depersonalization? Does everything where one is not entirely satisfied with their human body?

I think the problem here is that you are taking the term physical TOO literally in the context of personal identity and equating that to only individuals who believe they are entirely physically nonhuman or who think they can become physically nonhuman — physical identity is not the same as p-shifting, and one does not always lead to the other, and is something that a large portion of physical nonhumans denounce. This seems to be a concern for you so I thought I would comment on that. For some individuals, yes they mean they believe their body is literally that of an animal or creature, but that is not the only case. As I have mentioned before, the term physical here is for ANYTHING to do with the physical body if the individual feels this term is what fits their experience. And to try and shove all of these different experiences under a label that does not even statistically fit the majority is not the correct thing to do.

Also you keep talking about the physical term being contentious as if the entire identity of being nonhuman isn't also controversial in the bigger picture. Even with more succinct language there will still be people who do not believe or understand things. And there will always be those who do not neatly fit under a more specific word. Also the only contention about people using the term physical seems to come from people who are not physically identifying themselves and how much they don't like the term, not keeping in mind that, and repeating myself here, /it's not made for you/.

Ancestral can imply physical identity because it pertains to that being nonhuman is passed down through genetics/heritage. Again where do these people fit under the terms you have proposed? If we want to be even more history focused, some of the founders and early members of the modern online Otherkin community are ancestral in their identity, which means they believe they have physical connection to their nonhuman ancestors(Elves and Fae).

Which then also leads to more questions for you to think about: What about non-animal/creature physical identities? Like fictional humans, or humanoid nonhuman/alterhumans? Are they also shoved under the idea that their experience is depersonalization? Or is it only for the people who identify as an animal/creature because the others are still human/humanoid even if fictional/extinct/etc?

Anyway, just some things to think about. I probably won't be replying anymore as I feel I have said everything I can, and brain capacity for this has run out, and it should be actually talked about by those who are physically identifying nonhumans if they wish to talk.

I don’t think the term “physical therian” encompasses the experience described by those who use the term.

I think a more accurate term would be “depersonalized therianthropy” which could be shortened to “depo therian���.

Depersonalized therianthropy: when one’s animalistic identity creates a complete disconnect from their body causing them to not recognize their observable traits as their own

This encompasses the anecdotes I have heard and read from self identified “physical therians”. Whether this experience is caused by delusion, dysphoria, or rejection of humanity, this term is applicable.

This does not include those who use the term to convey that they refer to their body with animal biological terms.

I believe this should be called “bioterms”. It could be communicated similarly to pronouns.

Hypothetical Ex:

Toby (he/him) (wolf bioterms)

This conveys that he would like his hair to be called fur, nails to be called claws, hands to be called paws, mouth to be called muzzle, etc.

The use of the word “physical” in therianthropic terms is inaccurate and confusing. I am open to hearing other proposed terms but I think using the word “physical” should be phased out for clarity sake.

[lesbiancolumbo]

I know your field is quite different from the one I work in, but as someone who is currently job hunting- any advice on how you wrote your cover letter?

sure! first of all: i want it on record that i hate cover letters, think they're stupid, but they're basically a requirement if you want to get anywhere with any job 🤕, so my philosophy regarding them is work smarter, not harder. since i'm in a very specific industry, i can get away with keeping essentially the same template and changing up one or two sentences to apply to the specific job/employer i'm applying to. this has allowed me to just plug and play with my specific cover letter and helped me easily apply to many jobs. you shouldn't be writing a different cover letter for every job! i don't know who needs to hear this! that is a waste of time!!!! my god!

so i've done my fair share of cover letter research over the years as i've applied to and it seems like the standard industry advice is this basic ass template:

this is from an article titled, no joke, "how to write cover letters that stand out".

employers read so many of these damn things and this template ironically does NOT make you stand out. the likelihood of an employer reading this is low. here's a redacted excerpt of a cover letter i submitted years ago that got me hired at my current job (ignore the whited out typo lol!!! that's how good my letter was tho, that they ignored my typo).

see the difference?

with the caveat that you should take my advice with a grain of salt, because different industries look for different types of cover letters, i always lead my cover letters with a story in my distinctive voice that grabs the person reading it. getting in the room is always the hardest part, and this was an easy way for me to grab hiring managers' attentions. when i had my first interview with the place i now work at, the first question they had was........ tell me more about the power outage! i'd been using the traditional format for months (years before that), and after a bunch of insta-rejects and canned "no thanks" i was going crazy and had nothing to lose, so i chose to get creative with it, and it's been serving me very well ever since!!!!

personally i think it sucks that job hunting has become so much of an Event - but if you do a little bit of work on the front end and craft something unique to your voice, i've found that employers WILL respond to it. and when i go to submit to a new job, i change very little, just a couple of sentences, and boom. here's MY bare bones template:

paragraph one: [lead with a story written in your unique voice that shows off your skillset and strengths. end with a version of "and that's why i'd be a great [JOB TITLE]"]

paragraph two: [this is where you hit 'em with your past job experience, but don't just sum up the resume]

paragraph three: [and here's why i would REALLY be amazing at this job, because i'm (insert whatever it is the job is looking for - "i'm passionate about this organization's cause! i'm a master at multitasking, i love working with people!" etc). you've set them up, now you gotta knock it down].

i hope that was helpful. again i can only speak to my experience, and my industry is much more receptive to creative voice in the application, but i've got a pretty decent batting average on jobs applied to/interview requests, so i think there's something to this strategy. good luck with the job hunt!

[sophiewagentje]

.

[doctorweebmd]

ok my OTHER reflection:

on the one hand its really frustrating to see the posts about docs and healthcare in general on here be so narrow-minded. bad experiences with certain providers have lead to a huge spread of misinformation and mistrust with the whole system. which can and HAS lead to people avoiding 'evil' doctors for perfectly treatable illnesses and dying from them (the vaccine bullshit, anyone?)

but on the other hand. it is TERRIFYING how some of these docs practice medicine. at times i think 'are you just burned out and don't give a shit or are you straight up just stupid?' and i work in critical care. where quite literally every case is life or death. even in the academic sector where there is supposedly a standard of excellence, some doctors i would not let touch my loved ones with a ten foot pole.

and that sucks. i know this is the no nuance piss on the poor webbed site but 'the medical system and people that work for it are fallible and aspects of it are morally questionable at best/unethical at worst' AND 'the field of medicine exists to help people first and foremost and mistrusting/avoiding it can be detrimental in the long run' can and DO co-exist

[disillusionedjudge]

{Hero Archetypes: The More... something version}

The Fallen Hero You are the Fallen Hero, a tragic embodiment of betrayal, vengeance, or perhaps a heart-wrenching love story turned awry. Whether exposed to corrupting influences, manipulated by deal-makers, brainwashed, extorted, blackmailed, or witnessing the destruction of sacred bonds, your descent into darkness is marked by profound sorrow and loss. You might have turned for the sake of greed. Yet within, a lingering spark of hope remains, compelling you to reluctantly extend assistance to the newcomers. Motivated by the sincere desire to shield them from the same tragic fate you endured, you find yourself driven to guide and protect, despite the shadows of your own past.

tagged by: @tarnishedxknight tagging: anyone!!

[inkskinned]

the other day we were talking about balance beams because you said that your family had one of those cool winch ones that wrap around trees to make a high wire. even though i was pretty good i had to quit gymnastics at 12 because we couldn't afford dance and gymnastics but. i had something-other.

and i got excited because i think it's a funny story. i didn't have a door for about 4 years. 13-17, or there about. i only got it back because i replaced it myself.

i think my dad took it off the hinges just because his very-macho friend david had said - i do this to punish my kids. and then about a week later it was down on the ground and then eventually rotting in a shed. i used to visit it on occasion and tilt it between two boxes so i could try to walk across the side of it. i have a scar on my foot from attempting the act of balance-beam fancy dancing. it's shaped like a crescent moon. a hinge sliced into my skin when the whole thing slipped out from underneath me.

and you looked at me and you said - what the fuck?

and i said, do you want to see? because i thought the thing you were replying to was the injury. i was already undoing my shoelaces.

you're supposed to have a door, you said slowly. you were a teenager. you - i've seen your house. you lived at the end of the hall.

i didn't understand the problem. so? i wriggled out of my shoe and then my sock.

so, you said it gently, which made me slow down. you said it in the way people tell me that i experienced something bad and i have no idea that it was supposed to be something-else instead. anyone coming down the stairs or in the hallway could see directly into your room. you were in a fishbowl for four years, am i understanding that correctly?

i stared at you, and then said the other things: well, it wasn't so bad. i just wore a towel and tucked myself into a corner to change. i could always just change in the bathroom. privacy didn't really exist for any of us. i wasn't allowed to decorate so it wasn't really my room anyway. i didn't have a lot of things growing up; so it's not like i minded having a semi-public space. my siblings left me alone if i needed them to. what's the big deal anyway.

this is accidentally what emotional vampires incorrectly label as a "trauma dump". this is accidentally how you learn that my house was actually unsafe. i don't even consider this a problem, because everything else was so much worse, in a way. i didn't know it was supposed to be different. at the time, i didn't know what privacy was. i just lied about most stuff and got good at hiding in public. i haven't ever lied about this because i didn't know it was supposed to be different. i am 31.

you looked pale and ready to throw up. you had a right to a door for your room. you were a kid. someone should have helped you.

i was busy examining the sole of my foot. the scar really does look like the moon.

[mminghaos]

best friend seungcheol whom you have a crush on, but never told him. he doesn't know it either and y'all just bicker all the time as bsf, one day all of it changes when you finally say you found a match on some dating app. he realises it and bam! hot and heavy shit go down.

bitter crush , choi seungcheol x f!reader

SYPNOSIS: your bestfriend doesn’t know you’ve had a crush on him for years, but when you mention matching with someone on a dating app, everything changes.

WARNINGS: smut, fingering, kissing, teasing, mingyu as the failed date lmfao

requests are open, do send some in!!

you’ve been friends with seungcheol since high school, watching each other grow up — first jobs, first kisses, and everything in between, sticking together through the highs and lows. your friendship is built on bickering and teasing each other like it’s second nature. but now, the bickering feels different.

“i matched with someone on that app i told you about,” you say, placing your coffee down on the wooden table of the café you and seungcheol are sitting at.

you’d decided to give a dating app a shot, hoping it would help you take your mind off seungcheol. maybe meeting someone new will help you move on, or at least distract you from the constant thoughts about him. but so far, it’s just more of the same — swiping, chatting, but none of its ever seemed to match the energy you share with him. you might as well move on, since seungcheol has is own hookups and girlfriends, and none of them will ever be you. its frustrating, the way this burning crush for him is always shimmering beneath the surface, gnawing at you. this is going to be the death of you — that’s what you always tell yourself.

“so you’re telling me you’re out here swiping on strangers?” he responds, his voice laced with something you can’t quite place. “what happened to the whole ‘not needing anyone’ thing?”

“it changed.”

“really? that’s weird.” he says, his eyes never leaving you. “thought you were too busy to deal with anyone new.”

you roll your eyes, trying to brush it off. “yeah, well, apparently im not as busy as i thought.”

you’ve never been the type to casually date or get involved with someone just for the sake of it. but lately, things feel different. seungcheol’s always been there — constant, reliable, and annoyingly perfect in his own way — and it’s hard to ignore how your thoughts always circle back to him, no matter how many times you try to push them away. you’ve never said it out loud, never let him in on the truth of how much he’s been occupying your mind, and the idea of dating someone else? it almost feels like a joke. you’re not really here for some random guy who doesn’t know you like he does. but the more you try to distract yourself, the more you realize how little it helps. no matter how many matches you get, no conversation ever seems to compare to the effortless back and forth you share with seungcheol. it’s like you’re chasing something that doesn’t quite exist, and each swipe only makes you feel more frustrated. but you can’t exactly admit that, not to him, not to anyone. so you keep trying, hoping maybe this time will be different, even though you know deep down it won’t be.

“so, who’s this guy?”

you shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “kim mingyu. he’s nice. we’ve met a few times before, actually — works at that bar down the street.”

seungcheol leans back in his chair, his arms crossed as he watched you. he clears his throat. “just don’t pick some random guy who doesn’t get you, alright?”

“what, are you jealous or something?”

“no.”

the date with mingyu went well. you two got along really great — there was no shortage of conversation, and the chemistry was comfortable. you both enjoyed the meal and found common ground in ways that made the evening feel lighthearted and easy. it was nice, actually, to just relax and enjoy someone’s company without any pressure.

even if the date was good, you and mingyu both agreed that you should just be friends, neither of you feeling the sparks you were hoping for.

you walk into your apartment, slipping off your shoes and placing your keys under the mat. its quiet, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. you head towards the living room, where seungcheol is sprawled on your couch, sorting through the groceries he offered to pick up for you earlier this week.

“you’re back early,” he says, glancing up with a smirk. “thought you were gonna be out all night with your… date.”

you roll your eyes, not really in the mood to talk about it. “it was fine,” you reply, shrugging as you drop your purse on the counter. “nothing special.”

seungcheol raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “really?”

you let out a breath, trying to sound casual. “yeah, well, turns out i’m not as interested as i thought.”

he tilts his head, looking at you like he’s trying to figure you out. “what do you mean?”

you hesitate, leaning against the kitchen counter, fingers tapping against the countertop. “we got along, i guess. but we just decided to be friends.”

“huh.” seungcheol shrugs, clearly unconcerned, though there’s something in the way he watches you that makes you pause. “so you’re saying you don’t feel any connection with him at all?”

you shift, rubbing the back of your neck. “it’s just… not there. but whatever. i’m fine.”

“you sure?” seungcheol presses, his voice dropping an octave, and you can’t help but notice how close he’s sitting now. “because i’m sure someone else would love the chance to—”

“ugh, please.” you cut him off, trying to brush it off. “i don’t need some random guy to be interested.”

he smirks, clearly not buying it. “really? sounds like you do.”

you bite your lip, trying to hold onto your patience, but it’s slipping through your fingers. you know he’s teasing, and usually, you’d laugh it off, but tonight feels different. there’s a tension in the air that you can’t ignore, something that’s been building for years. frustration bubbles up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“cheol, i like you, okay?” you blurt out, your voice trembling slightly, surprised by how easily it all comes rushing out.

he pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words. there’s a moment of silence, and you feel like you’re about to suffocate under the weight of it. his gaze flickers to your face, then down to your hands, then back to your eyes, as if trying to figure out what’s really going on.

“wait,” he says slowly, his tone less playful and more cautious now. “you’re not drunk, are you? had drinks or something when you were out?”

you quickly shake your head, trying to steady your breath. “no, i’m not drunk. i just—” but the words feel clumsy on your tongue, and suddenly, you’re unsure of how to take them back.

“i shouldn’t have said that,” you mutter, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. “this was stupid, i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i—”

you start rambling, trying to downplay the confession that’s just slipped out. each word feels like it’s digging you deeper, and you just want to take it all back. “i mean, i don’t even know what i was thinking—this is—god, i’m so—”

but before you can finish, seungcheol pushes himself off the couch and walks towards you, stopping just a few inches away. his eyes still lock on yours. the silence stretches, and you feel your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. you want to say something, to apologize again, but all the words are caught in your chest.

“stop,” he says softly, his voice low, but there’s an intensity in it that you can’t ignore.

you open your mouth, wanting to explain, to take back the awkward confession, but the words jumble in your mind. “it’s just… i didn’t want to make it weird, and now i’ve probably ruined everything—”

seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just watches you with an unreadable look in his eyes, waiting for you to stop rambling. you go on anyway, trying to explain yourself, even though you can feel yourself getting more flustered with each passing second.

before you can continue, he steps forward, his hand gently cupping your face, cutting off your words. you freeze, eyes wide, but before you can process anything, his lips crash onto yours, effectively silencing you.

the kiss is deep and urgent, like he’s been holding back too. your brain barely registers what’s happening as your hands instinctively move to his chest, but the tension that had been building between you both for so long snaps. everything goes quiet in your mind, and for the first time tonight, all the chaos and nerves fall away, replaced by the heat of his kiss.

the kiss lingers for a moment, intense and raw, as if neither of you wants to pull away. your breath mingles with his, the world around you blurring until there’s only the feeling of him so close, so real. your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds you just a bit tighter, as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

when he finally pulls back, you’re left breathless, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. his hands are still on you, one gently holding your face, the other resting on your hip, grounding you.

“you really don’t make things easy, do you?” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse, the teasing edge back in his tone, but it’s softer now, more affectionate.

you don’t trust yourself to speak right away. all the words that had been stuck in your chest before are now lost, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of him so close, his touch still lingering on your skin. instead, you look up at him, meeting his eyes, trying to make sense of everything, but before you can say anything, he smiles slightly, a genuine, soft expression.

“i didn’t realise how much i liked you until you told me about that guy,” he admits, brushing his thumb over your cheek gently. “i was too stupid to notice.”

you dont get to reply because his hand moves down your back, pulling you closer, your chest pressed against his. the room feels warmer now, charged with something you can't ignore. your hands find their way to his chest, pushing lightly at first, unsure if you should pull away or let it happen. but he doesn't give you that chance.

his lips return to yours, but this time, there's more urgency in it, his kiss deepening as his tongue brushes against yours. you let out a soft sigh, the tension that's been building between you two for what feels like forever finally snapping. he groans, his hand moving to your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss further. the heat between you both grows, and you can feel every inch of him pressing against you, making your pulse quicken.

seungcheol's voice is low, almost a whisper as he takes a step back, hands resting on your waist, grounding you both. "do you want to keep going?" he asks.

you nod, your heart racing, but your mind is clear. “yes.”

he doesn't say anything more, just nods and gently takes your hand, leading you through the apartment. when you get to your room, he lays you down on the bed gently, his hands never leaving you.

seungcheol hovers over you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you’re unsure. you can feel his body close to yours, the warmth radiating off him. “are you sure?”

“yes, cheol.” you let out a light laugh, pulling him closer. “im sure.”

his lips trail down your jaw, each kiss softer than the last before he moves to your neck, his teeth grazing slightly over the skin. you let out a soft sigh once he pulls back after reaching where your shirt starts. before he can say anything, you’re reaching for the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric over your head.

seungcheol takes a moment, his gaze lingering on you before meeting your eyes again.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says, unclasping your bra and slipping it off. “god.”

his hands find their way to your pants as he trails kisses down your chest, each one growing more desperate as his lips move lower. the warmth of his breath against your skin sends a shiver through you, and you can feel your heart race with every gentle press of his lips.

eventually, he pulls your pants off, discarding them somewhere on the floor behind him. “please.” you breathe out

“hmm?” he responds, his fingers slipping just under the band of your panties. “what do you want, baby?”

“need you inside me, please.”

he glances down at you, lips twitching up into a smirk. “patience.”

“no, no, no— cheol, please—” you whimper out.

“don’t worry, you’ll get what you want.” he cuts you off, pressing a light kiss to your collarbone.

when he finally stops teasing you and pulls your panties down, tossing them god knows where, you’re already a mess underneath him. every nerve in your body is on edge, anticipation building as he slides two fingers through your folds. “fuck, you’re soaking wet for me, baby.” a low groan escapes his lips, his restraint wavering as he fights to hold himself back.

he slowly pushes one finger into your pussy, giving you a moment to relax before he adds another and starts to curl them into all the right places.

“cheol!” your head falls back against the pillow, hand going to grab his wrist for some sort of stability.

“yeah, you like that?”

you’re already so close — just from the way his fingers move inside you, hitting every spot that sends sparks shooting througu your body.

you nod over and over again, hips rising to match the rhythm of his movements. “don’t stop— fuck— please, im so close.” 

your breath hitches, and you clutch at his arm, desperate for grounding as the sensations overwhelm you. every stroke of his fingers feels like its pulling you closer to the brink, and the tension in your body winds tighter with each passing second. “please—” the word slips out as a whisper, barely audible. your legs start to shake, the pleasure coursing through you almost too much to bear.

before you can even warn seungcheol, you’re coming undone all over his fingers, hips bucking up at the same time.

“god, thats so hot.” he mutters, but you’re too out of it to know if its to you or himself.

"you alright?" seungcheol asks softly, his hand resting on your hip as he looks down at you with concern. his touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if he's checking for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your breath still ragged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "yeah, i'm good. just... didn't expect that." your voice is breathy, the lingering effects of the moment still making your body tingle.

seungcheol smirks, clearly pleased with the reaction. "you sure you're not too overwhelmed?" he teases, his hand moving to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

you laugh softly, the sound shaky but genuine. "im fine" you reply, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye. "was that your way of saying you like me too?"

“it was.” he smirks, eyes locking onto yours. “think you can go for one more round?”

he really is going to be the death of you.

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : after a heated argument with charles, you watch in horror as his car crashes during a race

୨ৎ : genre : angst ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1318

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say life can change in the blink of an eye. One second, everything feels steady, solid, like the ground beneath your feet couldn’t possibly give way. And then it does. Maybe that’s the irony of it all—you never see it coming. Not really. You think you’re prepared, think you’ve braced yourself, but you’re never quite ready for the moment it all falls apart.

You fought this morning. Not just a little spat about something trivial—no, this was one of those fights that echoed louder than it should have. The kind that lingered, thick in the air, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth even hours later.

It wasn’t about anything catastrophic, either, but somehow, with Charles, the small things had a way of snowballing. His schedule. Your schedule. The time you didn’t have together. The things he didn’t say and the things you did.

“I’m trying, okay? You think it’s easy for me?” he’d snapped, his accent sharpening the edges of his words. “You know what this life is like.”

“Yeah, Charles, I do. But I also know you don’t get to use it as an excuse every single time something gets hard. I’m here, too, and I’m trying to make this work just as much as you are.”

His jaw had tightened, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again. “Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.”

You’d felt the sting of those words, like a slap across the face. But you weren’t one to back down, not even when the weight of his frustration pressed heavy on your chest.

“You don’t get to say that to me, not when I’m the one waiting, worrying, wondering if this is ever going to feel… stable. Do you know how hard it is to love someone who’s never really here?”

The silence that followed was deafening, his features a mix of hurt and anger, like he didn’t know which to lean into more. And then he’d said it.

“Maybe it’s hard because you don’t trust me enough to believe that I’m doing my best.”

You hadn’t answered, and maybe that was the problem. The fight ended there, not because either of you wanted it to but because there was no time to fix it. Not when he had a race to prepare for, and you had to pretend like none of this was tearing you apart from the inside out.

When you arrived at the paddock, it felt impossible to mask the weight of the argument. You greeted a few people with forced smiles, but you could see some of them watching you a little too closely. It didn’t help that Charles seemed just as tense, his jaw set and his usual ease nowhere to be found.

Carlos was the first to pull you aside, his brown eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned closer. “¿Qué pasa, eh? You look like someone stole your churros, and Charles… well, he looks worse. What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Amiga, por favor. I know you, and I know him. Whatever this is, it’s not nothing.”

You sighed, glancing over your shoulder where Charles was talking to his engineers. “We just… had a fight this morning. It’s not a big deal.”

Carlos gave you a skeptical look. “Not a big deal? You’re both walking around like someone cancelled Christmas. If you’re not okay, neither is he. You should talk to him before the race.”

You hesitated, the memory of this morning’s argument still fresh in your mind. “I don’t want to distract him. He needs to focus.”

Carlos clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a small smile. “Tch. If you think he’s focusing now, you’re wrong. You being upset is a bigger distraction than anything else. Go.”

Reluctantly, you nodded and made your way toward Charles. He was still in deep conversation with one of his engineers, but when he saw you approaching, his expression softened—just slightly.

“Hey,” you said quietly, folding your arms across your chest.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice lower than usual. There was a pause, the tension between you lingering like a storm cloud.

“Good luck out there,” you finally said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I mean it. Be safe.”

Charles studied you for a moment, his green eyes searching yours. Then he nodded. “And… I’m sorry. For earlier.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, someone called for him, signaling it was time to get ready. He gave you one last look, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with words unsaid.

The race began, and for a while, the roar of engines and the blur of cars distracted you. Charles was in good form, holding his position, making clean overtakes. You found yourself exhaling with relief every time his car flashed across the screen.

But then it happened.

It was almost too fast to comprehend. One moment, Charles was rounding a corner, perfectly in control. The next, there was smoke, debris, and the sickening crunch of metal against metal.

Your heart stopped.

The commentators’ voices rose in panic, their words a jumbled mess that barely registered in your mind. “Oh no, that’s Leclerc… that’s a big one.”

Everything else faded—the noise of the crowd, the hum of your thoughts—until all that remained was the image of his car, mangled and still.

“Red flag,” one of them said, and that’s when it hit you. They’d stopped the race. It was bad.

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

The minutes crawled by like hours, every second another layer of dread settling in your chest. You kept your eyes glued to the screen, desperate for any sign, any update, anything to tell you he was okay.

When they finally cut to the scene, you saw the medics surrounding his car, moving quickly but carefully.

“He’s conscious,” one of the commentators said, and you felt a rush of air leave your lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Not until you saw him. Not until you heard him.

You thought back to the fight, to the last thing he said to you, and it made you sick to your stomach. This couldn’t be the last memory you had of him, the last words you exchanged. It couldn’t.

You were already reaching for your phone, dialing his team, someone, anyone who could give you more than the vague reassurance of the broadcast.

“Please,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “Please let him be okay.”

It’s strange, how quickly everything can unravel. You think you’ve got it all figured out, that the argument was just another bump in the road. But in the back of your mind, there’s always that voice whispering, telling you that things might never be the same.

And now, with every second that ticks by, your thoughts spiral, faster and faster, until you can’t breathe. What if this is it? What if those were the last words you ever said to him?

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but all you can see is that image of his car, broken and still. Your pulse races. You told him you loved him today, but did he really hear you? Was he ever truly certain, or was that last moment of tension, the words left unsaid, enough to make him doubt everything?

You hate this. You hate the fear gnawing at you. You hate that you're sitting here, helpless, as he’s out there fighting for his life. That feeling of powerlessness—it’s unbearable.

Please, you think again, clutching the phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. Please, don’t let this be the end.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[clockwayswrites]

For the Birdicts. Part 27

Masterpost

There were gentle fingers in his wings.

Danny muffled the sleepy, hysterical chuckle at that thought into the soft surface that he was tucked against. He really had hoped that he wouldn’t have wings any longer when he woke, but when had he ever been that lucky.

The fingers stilled.

“Danny?” The person rumbled.

Very much did not wanting to be awake, Danny replied with a disgruntled grumble.

A chuckle answered him back. The finger picked back up the gentle touch to Danny’s wings. As Danny’s mind continued to come online, he realized that the fingers were fixing and straightening the mussed feathers.

It actually felt rather nice.

Danny let himself continue to drift for a little longer. Let his wings be cared for. The soft, unflinching touch helped make the new limbs feel less unnatural, even if the weight of them were still heavy on his back. He felt unsteady as he sat up.

The hands moved from his wings to help brace Danny.

“Careful, you might be a little disoriented. It’s been quite a day.”

Bruce. Apparently he’d fallen asleep on top of Bruce. He hadn’t needed to embarrass himself any more that day and yet there he was, falling asleep on Bruce Wayne after a panic attack.

Danny pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and hoped he wasn’t blushing too horribly. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Bruce asked. He sounded genuinely confused.

“Falling asleep on you, apparently.” And really on Bruce it seemed. Even sitting up and back he was still practically on the other man’s lap.

(Worse, Danny really just wanted to curl back up and sleep some more.)

“Oh,” Bruce said with a chuckle. “With how large a family I have, that’s nothing to worry about. I’m very used to being a pillow for others. Besides, you needed the rest and after today it’s more than understandable that you’d want someone close.”

That was… fair enough, Danny supposed. He took a deep breath and lowered his hands to cross them over his bare chest. He offered Bruce an apologetic little smile. “Still…”

“Still nothing,” Bruce said and waved the matter aside. “Now, Jason and Dick are back from your place. They weren’t able to find any clothing that would work around your wings there.”

Danny rubbed at the back of his neck. “Ah, they wouldn’t. I haven’t… it hasn’t been long enough to deal with that even if I knew where to start.”

“Luckily for you, we haven an Alfred,” Bruce said as he leaned forward and and grabbed something fabric from off of the coffee table. “He worked his magic and modified this into something that should work around your wings.”

“Really?” Danny took what looked like just a well worn Gotham Knights sweatshirt and turned it over in his hands. Oh, Alfred really had worked his magic. Danny ran his fingers over the cut and stitched splits in fabric and the snaps under them. “Wow, he just went and made this?”

“Alfred is a man of many skills and not to be underestimated,” Bruce said with a chuckle. “I’m sure that he’ll ask you if it needs any changes before he does any other versions.”

“Other versions?”

“Something to sleep in and another shirt at least ,” Bruce said as if that clarified much of anything. “Since we aren’t sure how long the wings will last and you should be comfortable here.”

“He really—I mean I appreciate it so much,” Danny said as he pulled on the sweater quickly, “but Alfred doesn’t need to put all that effort into this for me.”

“You really can’t stop him. The comfort of people in this manor are paramount to him and he has something in his mind now to improve your comfort,” Bruce said. “He will think that this is the least that he can do.”

Danny blinked at that. “I’m a little scared of what he thinks I the most he can do then.”

“You should be. He is a force of nature. If you’ll turn, I’ll do up the snaps for you,” Bruce said.

Danny gratefully twisted, glad he was turned so that Bruce didn’t see his wince.

“I imagine that your back must be sore from this,” Bruce said, ruining Danny’s hope that he hid his pain. “I will find where one of the heating pads are for you to use later.”

“It’s fine,” Danny said quickly. “I don’t want to—”

“Danny,” Bruce spoke over him. His hands gently smoothed down the fabric under Danny’s wings. “You saved my family today. Even beyond that, my children seem to have become quite fond of you. You aren’t a bother. While you are here to have the help, let us take care of you a little, please?”

Danny chewed on his lip.

“If nothing else, it will help the children worry less.”

There really was no refusing that, was there?

“Only so people don’t worry,” Danny said. “And I do mean ‘people’. Don’t think that you’re hiding your worry.”

Luckily Bruce chuckled a that. “Hiding my worry is something I’m not very good at. And yes, I am a worrier. My children have told me that enough times that I accept the title.”

“Well, as long as you know,” Danny said as he stood. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks between the conversation and Bruce’s hands against his back and just needed to take a moment to just breathe. The wings shifted with the deep breath, rising and falling into a relaxed fan.

“I know that you have understandable issues with the wings,” Bruce said softly from behind Danny, “but they really are quite stunning.”

Even the back of Danny’s neck felt hot now and he rubbed at it as he cleared his throat. “I, um, thank you.”

Bruce gave a soft hum. He must have stood too because a moment later a hand brushed over Danny’s wings and then Bruce was beside him. “Let’s go track down some of my children so we can make sure they brought everything you need.”

“Right, yeah, that’s a good idea. Lead the way.”

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[ebodebo]

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—you meet jason at one of bruce’s charity galas and you fuck

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"Honey, cross your legs."

"Honey, sit up straighter."

"Honey, we're at a gala, not a summer blowout in the Maldives."

These were just a few of the many phrases your mother chirped at you since you arrived at this stupid gala. You didn't even want to go, but your mother preached something about how, "we needed to be a united front since your father was going for reelection as a New York senator" or something like that.

It was stupid. Nobody gives a shit about familial ties; they care about your values, goals, and accolades. But there's no arguing with your mother; she's as stubborn as they come.

So, you'd sit pretty, legs crossed, with a pristine posture, biting your tongue when she says you could be sitting straighter or you could smile more. Granted, it was only a couple of hours, and if it kept your mother from turning the world around you into hell personified, you'd gladly plaster a rictus smile to appease her.

"Oh, there's Bruce!" Your mother quietly says between you and your father. "Let's go say hello," she says, gripping your hand and pulling you out of your chair, gesturing for your father to follow along.

Somewhere along the way, your parents move in front of you, sequestering you behind them. So once you all reach Bruce, he only takes notice of them, issuing a polite welcome and thanks for their attendance. Your mother swivels her head to see you tucked away behind her, bringing her hand out, gesturing for you to come in front.

"Hello, Mr. Wayne," you politely say, sticking your hand out, before introducing yourself. He grasps your hand with only a slight hesitation.

"Pardon my shock. I just haven't seen you since you were two," he confesses. You smile, pulling your hand back before your mother steps next to you and places her hand on your shoulder.

"She's grown quite a lot since then, Bruce. Still a little air-heady, but I'm hopeful the more she ages, the more my personality will rub off on her," she laughs, carefully wiping a piece of loose hair away from your face. You should feel offended, but the way her joke landed so poorly, making Bruce lightly cough the awkwardness away, made you feel pity.

"You know Selina," he says, filling in the silence, gently placing his hand on her waist as she delicately sticks her hand out for your father to shake.

Who wouldn't know Selina Kyle? She was drop-dead gorgeous but as sharp as they came. She was dressed to the nines in a designer black floor-length dress. It must have been Celine or Givenchy, so it was definitely over five thousand dollars, which is just pocket change to a guy like Bruce Wayne.

"Pleasure," she coos, pulling her hand away. Her gaze shifts to your mother, slightly narrowing her eyes. It seems your mother is oblivious to Selina's adversary towards her because she eagerly sticks her hand out, ready for Selina to shake.

"Selina. So good to see you." But, instead of shaking your mother's hand, she crossed her arms over her chest

"Mhm. I wish I could say the same," Selina sharply replied before Bruce put his hand on her shoulder in warning. You gave Selina a small smile, smothering it with your hand. She covered her own with her champagne glass as she took a sip.

"She's joking," Bruce amends, signaling for a waiter going around with glasses of alcohol. "Champagne?" He asks, reaching for two glasses from the waiter before handing them to your parents.

Before any more conversation can occur, a man calls for Bruce. "Bruce," The man says, "When do you want to start?" The man questions. Bruce picks up his arm, turning his wrist to check his watch.

"He said he'd be here by now," Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. His eyes were scanning around in search of something—rather someone. He does, however, spot Alfred, who he calls over and asks if he'd seen a guy named Jason.

"It was humorous of you to assume Master Todd would abide by your schedule, Master Wayne," Alfred remarks, his face stone-cold. Bruce checks the time on his watch again, then scans the crowd again.

"Just start the silent auction. I suppose Jason will come when he comes," Bruce suspires, clearly agitated. "See you at the auction," he chimes to you and your parents as he sticks his arm out for Selina to take.

"See you," your mother cheerfully says, though you know the cheeriness is just a facade because once Bruce and Selina walk away, your mother instantly drops the smile.

"Can you believe that woman? She was a criminal for God's-sake. She should be thankful that people like us even mingle with her." Your mother scoffs at your father. He hums along, paying relatively no mind to what she is saying.

While she goes on a tangent about how Selina is just using Bruce to get to his billions, you notice a dark figure heading toward the fire escape that you assume leads to the roof. You don't know why, but your brain is fluttering with the idea that you must follow it. So, you do just that.

"I have to use the bathroom," you interrupt, gently touching your mother's hand. You turn your head away from her, not bothering to turn back when she calls your name.

You walk around a corner to see the fire escape latch slightly ajar. Reaching out, you grasp the lever and push it out, quickly feeling the chilly Gotham air touch your cheeks.

Once your foot touches the stone with a 'clack' from your heels, you see the dark figure lying down, smoke clouding around him. He glances at you, taking a drag of his cigarette and huffing out a string of smoke.

"Didn't think pretty girls would come up here." This mystery guy's voice is deep, and judging by his figure, you can tell he's lanky.

"You know the latch and all."

"Are you calling me incompetent?" You cock a brow, hand on your hip with your purse in hand.

"No, I'm callin' you pretty," he says casually, taking another drag of his cigarette, not sparing you another glance. You hate to admit it, but this guy is pretty smooth, but you wouldn't tell him that.

"Who are you?" You ask, taking a few steps toward him and only turning your head to look at the night sky, which is aglow with billions of little stars. You see all the high-rise buildings, light illuminating the dark streets. It's a shame Gotham is so corrupt and unlawful.

"I should be askin' you that, seeing as you’re on my roof," he tentatively says. You can just feel the smugness in his tone, making you roll your eyes.

"You're a Wayne?" You question, arms crossed, slowly stepping closer to him.

"Somethin' like that I guess," he shrugs, which makes you let out a light laugh.

"You guess? You don't know your own family lineage?" You joke, moving to sit not completely next to him but close enough that you could feel the smoke in your nose. You could also see the outline of his face—strong jaw, pretty eyes, fluttery lashes, and nice lips.

"Why are you so curious?" He glances at you with a sly smirk on his lips. You look at him, then at the cigarette in between his fingers.

"You know smoking kills," you inform, pointing towards the cigarette. He lays his head back on the roof, his lips curving into a smirk before retaking another drag.

"You know what else kills? Poking your head around where you don't belong," he puffs out the smoke as he speaks. You turn your head away from him, trying to conceal your smile. This guy is something else, you think.

"Jason," he adds.

Your eyes widen, and your lips quirk. "Ah, you're Jason." You drag out the 'you're,' getting Jason to turn his head towards you. An inquisitive look is plastered on his face.

"So you've heard of me?" He cockily says.

"I know enough about you to know you're flakey," you raise a brow. He lets out a soft laugh.

"Mr. Wayne was looking for you, and so was everyone else," you clarify.

"Oh, please don't tell on me," he fake pleads, clearly being sarcastic. "Especially to Mr. Wayne."

You roll your eyes, though your lips threaten to smile. "I'm sensing some sarcasm."

"Well, aren't you just a modern-day Poirot.”

You widen your eyes, raising your hands. "Wait, wait. You read classic literature?" You gawk, hand coming to your chest.

"I dabble," he shrugs nonchalantly. You eye him, lip quirking.

"Well, aren't you just full of surprises?" You say, holding your two fingers out, gesturing to his cigarette. "Let me take a puff," you insist.

"Ah, ah," he tuts. "What happened to 'smoking kills?'" He raises a brow, taking a puff of the cigarette himself.

"Sue me, but I'm curious," you shrug. He eyes you, wondering if you're joking. He gives you his cigarette anyway. You take a long drag, feeling the smoke cloud your lungs.

"Easy, easy," Jason warns. "Don't take too much, or you'll—" Before he can finish, you start violently coughing, feeling your eyes well up with tears. "Cough," he finishes, taking the cigarette from your hand as you go to cover your mouth.

"You like this shit?" You say through harsh coughs.

"You get used to it," he answers, not paying attention to the question. He's more concerned about you. "You okay?" His tone isn't condescending—it carries empathy.

"Ya, ya. Took too much," you shyly smile, hiccuping a little, turning your head to look directly at him. He laughs lowly. His laugh is deep and gravelly but still sounds kind. You gulp. God, were you getting turned on by a laugh?

You were facing him head-on, and even in the shitty lighting, you could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down and the way his jaw clenched. Your eyes slowly drift down his face, falling on his lips. He had stuck his tongue on his lips to wet them, giving them a glistening sheen.

"Are you thinkin' about me?" His voice is dry. You sharply move your eyes to bore into his, sticking your tongue out to wet the seam of your own lips.

"And what if I am?" You challenge. Suddenly, you can feel your own heartbeat, and your hands are clammy. You can see the gears in his brain working, trying to figure you out.

"Well, are you?" He asks roughly, putting his cigarette out on the roof. You search his eyes, gently biting your lip. His eyes follow you the whole time.

"Guess," you quipped. You hadn't realized you had scooted closer to him, close enough to where he could if he wanted to touch you. This little banter you guys had was getting you wetter by the minute. It was odd. You'd never even met this guy, but you would let him kiss you, maybe even more.

His gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips. "If I were to put my hand under your dress, what would I find?" He gruffly says. Your eyes drift back to his lips, and you bite your own as your chest rises and falls rapidly.

"What would I find?" He urges a little more assertively this time. You rapidly avert your eyes back to him, taking note of the blue hue in his eyes, which has seemingly grown darker.

"Maybe you should find out, Jason," you encourage. Once you give him the go, he's quick to move closer, crushing his lips to yours roughly. It was unlike anything you've ever felt before—like a ton of dynamite just erupted in you, leaving you feeling a buzz on your skin.

You reached up to grab the back of his neck, pushing him further on your lips. He groans as you sink one of your hands into his hair, gripping your waist in his hands and pulling you so you straddle his lap.

"Do you hook up with every girl you just meet?" You murmur into his lips, slipping your tongue between the seam of his moist lips.

"You hook up with every guy you just meet?" He imitates, in between breaths, gripping your waist tighter as you tug on the roots of his hair harder.

"Touché," you whisper, breathing labored as he presses deep kisses down your neck. He works his way down until he is kissing the top of your breast. Slowly, he brings his hands up to slip the strap of your dress down, exposing your breasts.

He kisses a straight line down the top of your breast to your sensitive nipple. His mouth is hot on your skin, especially in a place so sensitive. You moan as his mouth fully encompasses your nipple, lightly sucking, sending goosebumps down your skin.

You reach for his tie, grab it with your hand, hurriedly untie it, and throw it to the side before carefully undoing the few buttons on his jacket.

"It's a shame no one got to see your suit," you murmur as Jason returns his lips to yours, pressing feverish kisses into them before slipping his tongue into your mouth.

"Ya? Why's that?" He mumbles against your lips, as his hands fumble with his zipper trying to pull it down. You slid the jacket off of Jason's shoulder.

"Because you look fucking hot," you say, looking into his eyes, noticing the way his pupils dilate, hunger written all over his face. He quickly slips his slacks down, along with his boxers. Fumbling with the pocket of his jacket, he grabs a condom.

"Really?" You scowl, as he rips open the gold packaging with his teeth, slipping it on himself.

"What? Don't give me that look," he urges, pooling your dress up around your waist, sliding your panties to the side, as he guides the head of his cock inside your glistening cunt.

"Don't act like it didn't come in handy," he appeals as his cock slips inside you easily. You both groan at the contact, gripping each other tighter.

"Fuck, you were wet. Just slipped right in," he grits as you rock yourself against him, desperate for more friction. His hand is in your hair, pushing your face towards his to share messy, hot kisses as his other hand helps you set a pleasurable pace.

You throw your head back as he thrusts into you, eliciting a moan from you. "Fuck, Jason," you mewl as you feel his lips back on your breast, sucking and nipping with his teeth. Your hands grip tighter in his hair, hoping this will give you some kind of stability.

"Feels so good. So fuckin' good," Jason groans as he feels you clamp around him. You press your lips back to his, aching to feel the vibrations of his groans against your face. He grips the sides of your face to deepen the kiss, his teeth clashing with your own.

You continue going up and down on his cock, occasionally he thrusts himself into you to satisfy his urges and lets you grind against him to chase your own high. He takes your nipple into his mouth one last time before you moan so loud you're surprised the Gotham City Police isn't called, and Jason is spewing curses and groans as you both come.

Your bodies are both buzzing and twitching. Chests heaving so heavily you're suprised your hearts didn't just bust straight out of your chests. Jason pulls out once you aren't panting as hard, guiding you off his cock as you fix your dress. He slips the condom off, groaning at the touch, before tying it at the end. Then, he slips his jacket back on along with his slacks.

You haphazardly stand, holding onto Jason's shoulder to keep your balance. Once you gain stability, you awkwardly cough out a bye, unsure on how to make this any less weird and head back towards the fire escape. You only turn when you hear him say something. Turning on your heels, you look back at him, still in the same spot.

"I, uh, never caught your name?" He yells, his hand scratching the back of his neck.

"Didn't throw it, Jason," you shout back, making a lopsided smile grow on his face. Then, turning to go back through the fire escape, you catch a smile spread across your face as well.

Maybe being forced to attend one of Bruce Wayne's galas wasn't so bad.

a/n: jason todd = thought daughter

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[angelic--kitty]

dilf arlecchino stretching out a virgin reader on her fat cock

dom!dilf arlecchino x sub!fem reader

warnings: smut (minors/ageless blogs dni), wlw content, transfem!arlecchino, virgin!reader, age-gap (arle is in her late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), size kink, fingering, penetration, handjob

a/n: tagging my favorite silly @myfriendscallmebun who i hope enjoys this ♡ this is so long

she first hired you merely as a form of entertainment for her children. someone eager to please who wouldn't require such a large salary. someone who, at least, would never ask someone like her for more than she offered.

it's a surprising decision, on her end, to select a college girl to watch over her precious children. though, you presented yourself so nicely at the interview, and your references and resume did you well.

besides, it might be nice for the children to be around someone closer to their age for a change. they often spent time with arlecchino herself and occasionally her coworkers.

and, you had grown on her.

it's been nearly two months since you started working for her, and a few weeks since you began passing flirtatious remarks to one another.

the thing that finally melted her heart was an evening she worked late. she was already irritated her children would be asleep when she got home, but she felt guilty making you stay hours late at her home.

much to her surprise (and inner delight), when she came home, she found the children tucked into their beds, and you standing so sweetly at the door.

you had slipped her jacket off, hanging it up and tugging her into the kitchen. sure enough, you had saved her a plate of the spaghetti you made, along with a glass of her favorite red wine.

that was the day when she finally asked you to accompany her on a proper date.

and, now, here you are, standing in front of your mirror, fussing with your dress and jewelry. the dress she had bought for you special for tonight. it was black, falling just below your knees- rather classy for someone so young.

20 minutes. in 20 minutes she was picking you up.

nervous as you were, you couldn't believe you were going on a date with her. especially to somewhere so expensive and exclusive.

it was some sort of upscale bar with expensive alcohol and food. somewhere arlecchino claimed to frequent often when she needed alone time.

you almost broke out into laughter when she admitted she hired childe, her younger coworker, for the evening to watch her children.

"oh, i'm not concerned for my childrens' safety. if anything, he should be afraid for his own." was her reply, a small smirk on her lips that you nearly missed.

she lead you into the restaurant with confidence, turning heads, eliciting whispers as she kept her hand on the small of your back while the waiter brought you to your table.

"what do you think so far?" she asked, her wine glass already being filled, no need to speak her order.

"it's...definitely different than what i'm used to. but it's really nice. i like having an excuse to dress up a little." you smile at her and she raises her glass to her lips.

"i want to spoil you for the evening. for not only treating my children so well, but because you are an exceptional woman. i only hope my gestures come off as genuine as i intend." she sips her wine, setting it down to begin rambling to you about the menu.

but you're not quite listening, distracted by her hands, her lips, her eyes. how could someone be so perfect?

she's quite a bit older than you, probably much more experienced. does she truly feel the same way you do? and-

"sweetheart?" she breaks you from your thoughts and you stiffen up.

"i'm sorry- i'm listening!" you squeak, but she sees right through you.

although, she finds it rather cute. she's noticed before, obviously. your wandering eyes, the way you bite your lip when she picks up something heavy like it's nothing, or how your thighs press together when she takes a stern tone.

she simply wants to know the depths of your affection for her. after all, she has similar thoughts of you.

"which dish would you like then?" she asks pointedly, allowing you to hold the menu with shaky hands.

"ah...um..." the words blur together, not registering. "what do you recommend?"

she tilts her head, taking the menu back. "allow me to order for you then."

you like when she takes control. she knows what she wants, and she will have it. you wish it a quality you embodied more, though she fascinates you. it is almost natural to her.

dinner goes rather smoothly, and you get to taste test a few different wines, but not nearly enough to get you even remotely tipsy.

"i much prefer coherent company." her lips quirk up as she says this, and you laugh behind your hand.

she's funny, you admit. her dry humor is one of your favorite things about her.

it's a shame when dinner comes to an end, but you two mutually draw it out as long as you can. you share a dessert, and plenty of good conversation about yourselves. you learn things about her you never would've thought, and likewise for her.

the ride back to your place is just as pleasant, though you feel nervous inside. you want to make a move. you want to ask her to come inside. to stay...

but you couldn't possibly. that would be absurd... right?

regardless, she walks you in, ensuring you get into your place safely. she's a gentleman in how she holds your bags and all the doors at every stop.

the little bit of wine in your system has you feeling bold, stopping her in her tracks before she could put her shoes back on. "wait! why... don't you stay for a little? i could make us some tea. herbal! so you won't...uh... be awake all night."

she merely tilts her head, nodding either way. she listens to your rambling about the tea and the coffee mugs you have, her eyes wandering your walls when she sees familiar art.

"did the children draw these?" she interrupts, taking one off the wall.

it's a rather rudimentary stick-figure drawing, but she can tell who each one represents. this is one of lynette's drawings. she's drawn herself with pretty blue bows, along with her brothers, and, of course, their father.

and you.

there you are, standing on the other side as if you were the mother to complete their family portrait.

"oh- those? yeah, the kids drew them for me... i thought they were really cute, so i kept them." you smile and her heart flutters.

she skims her fingers over the papers, pausing when she sees one from freminet. he's drawn a flower field of green scribbles and rainbow dots, the children playing on a swingset while you and arlecchino watch.

with the words 'mom' and 'dad' written above your heads.

she can hear you nervously talking to fill the silence, and she turns to you. "they really do seem to enjoy having you around." she murmurs. "as do i."

you look up at her, feeling her lean in, gently holding your waist. "am i being too forward?" she asks, breath fanning over the side of your face as you shiver.

"not at all-" you breathe out, trembling as she lifts your chin gently. she can see your anticipation.

"you're not phased by our gap in experience?" she asks. "it's inevitable. i cannot change it, but i do not want you to feel forced."

"i actually like it. i really like it." you blurt, catching her off guard.

"oh?" her voice is low, sultry as she cups your jaw. "is this alright with you, then?"

"please-" and that's all she needs to connect your lips, kissing you so softly at first. her tongue gently prods for entrance, and she can instantly tell you truly are inexperienced.

she pulls away, gently swiping a thumb over your cheek. "is this your first time?"

"you could tell?" you groan, and she nearly melts.

"it is not shameful to wait. i only want you to be sure this is what you want." she explains, stroking your cheek as your eyes flutter shut.

"i want you. please? i want you to take it." you leave it open for interpretation, but she knows exactly what you're referring to.

"if you're certain, then i'd be honored, sweetheart." she says so gently you'd think she was someone else.

you bring her to your room, cringing at the mess. "i know it isn't what you're used to but mmph-!" you whimper when she kisses you, pulling you onto her lap on the bed.

she trails kisses down your neck, watching you tilt your head back instinctively. you pant, overwhelmed so quickly she almost feels guilty.

keyword: almost.

instead, it makes her twitch within the confines of her expensive suit slacks.

her hand tangles into the back of your hair, tugging you firmly so she can nip at your jaw. she takes it slow, easing you into things until you're practically begging her to go further.

your dress slides off slowly, a treat waiting when she sees the pretty matching lingerie set beneath. it's white and lacy, delicate, something she could easily tear right off, and it drives her mad.

"aren't you full of surprises? naughty ones at that." she tuts, squeezing your jaw as you gasp.

she unclips the bra, her gently squeezing your breasts as you moan for her.

she teases your nipples until they go pert, wrapping her tongue around them as you arch up into her.

you're being vulnerable with her; she knows this much. she holds you steady, ensuring you feel safe on her lap before pulling away with a soft 'pop.'

she unbuttons her shirt, tugging it off to match you. she watches your eyes go wide, eager yet embarrassed as she tosses her bra aside with the shirt.

"you're so...pretty." you gasp quietly, eyes wide.

"you can touch me, sweetheart." she pulls your hand to her chest, allowing you to explore. your fingers clumsily rub her nipples and she grunts, guiding them into place.

"does it feel good?" you ask her so hesitantly, and she kisses the top of your head.

"you're doing well." she watches your gaze slide down, eyeing the growing bulge in her pants. she dryly grunts, lifting your chin up. "something catch your eye?"

"i... i'm sorry- i didn't mean to stare-" your words are mumbled, your face hot as your mouth goes dry.

"you're curious. that's alright." she brushes a thumb over your lips, coaxing you to open up.

she slides her thumb over your tongue, gently easing it a little further until you gag, keeping you just like that. your eyes are so wide and pretty, glazed over with untapped lust.

she hums thoughtfully before withdrawing, using the thumb to brush over the front of your panties. you gasp, thighs snapping shut as she pushes them back apart.

she lightly smacks your thigh. "keep them open." she rubs gentle circles on your clothed clit, your body clearly unsure how to react. she can see it doesn't take much to bring you to the edge, and she lightens her touch, able to control her own desires with ease.

her hand comes back to your lips, sliding your wetness over your tongue while her free hand slides your panties to the side.

something you've missed before, but she's filed her nails down on this hand. just for you, though only she knew that.

she gently slides her fingers through your folds, hearing you whimper and squirm on her lap. she tucks your head under her chin while she eases a finger into you, feeling you squeeze so tight around just one digit.

she gives you time to adjust, feeling you clutch her wrist. you're such an angel, aren't you? holding so tightly to her, so cute, all while you fidget right above her confined cock, inevitably making her grow harder.

her second finger slides in slowly, with an intent to stretch you out enough to take her cock more comfortably. she curls them inside of you, hearing you whine loudly into her neck.

"ah- that feels-!" you squeal when she brushes against your g-spot. her finger pads rub into it, and you tremble, thighs clamping down on her hand.

"relax." she reminds you, pumping her fingers in and out, slick sounds filling the air. she stretches you out every so often, spreading her fingers slightly and hearing you whimper so sweetly.

your hand clumsily rests on her bulge and her fingers still as she inhales sharply.

"i... want to- try and make you feel good too..." you whisper, looking up at her.

and who is she to deny such a sweet girl?

she pops open the button, unzipping her pants and freeing her cock, allowing you to see her.

your eyes go comically wide, shocked by the size. "that's... i-"

she can feel your walls fluttering around her fingers and she nearly moans. "it's alright. don't be nervous." she practically reads your mind, soothing your concerns as her free hand unwraps itself from your body, collecting some of the messy slick from your thighs, sliding it over herself.

"you haven't done this before, i presume?" she's met with a shake of your head. she proceeds to guide your hand in wrapping around her cock. she hisses through her teeth. "archons-" she groans lowly, her fingers resuming their gentle in and out motions while she guides you to stroke her cock.

"tighter." she tells you, feeling your hand grip more firmly, her pre-cum oozing over your hand, spreading across her cock. "good girl-" she praises and you clench around her fingers once more.

she says nothing, but she knows exactly how her words affect you. such a sweet little thing you are, curled up on her lap, fingers stuffed inside of you while your hand wraps around her cock.

her hand covers yours still, dwarfing your hand and guiding you into her preferred rhythm. "that's it. you're doing well-" she tips her head back, hips grinding into your hand as she lets go.

she allows you to move your hand on your own, finger-fucking you faster. she knows you're losing focus, too overwhelmed by your own need to cum, though she doesn't mind too much. you're just so sweet with how your moans pick up in volume, your eyes closing as your hips chase her hand.

"go on." she tells you, her voice stern as you release around her digits like such a good girl for her.

she slides her fingers out, admiring the webbed slick coating them, cleaning them in her own mouth as you shyly hide in her chest.

she pulls you away, laying you on the bed. "wait! you didn't get to..."

she shakes her head, pushing her hair back. "hush." she simply says, spreading your thighs, pushing them up to your chest. it exposes you perfectly, allowing you to feel shy, yet unable to cover yourself as she studies your twitchy cunt.

arlecchino uses one hand to guide herself through your slick, sensitive folds, gathering the remnants of your orgasm. she is gentle when she slides into you for the first time, a thumb on your stiff, swollen clit to ease the stretch.

she watches your eyebrows furrow, nose crinkling as she stretches you out. "so big-" you whine, chest arching up against her own.

your moans are melodies to her, feeling you flutter around her was like heaven. she lifts you up to sit on her lap while she leans back, guiding you to slowly take more of her in.

"too much!" you whine, looking down.

"you haven't taken all of me yet." she hushes you, easing you down to swallow her all in your pussy until you're mewling incoherently.

"full-" your head falls back and she grabs your hips, her nails leaving sharp little indents as she guides you to shallowly fuck yourself on her cock.

"such a pretty little thing." she coos, slowly growing more harsh, grinding up into you.

and, oh, you sing for her the rougher she gets. you urge her to grow bolder, now using your body as a toy while you desperately try to match her tempo.

you're inexperienced, but oh, so eager to please, aren't you? what a good girl.

she grabs your ass, fucking you on her cock while you keep a vice grip, your tits bouncing with each thrust. "oh- archons!" you squeal.

arlecchino picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, settling you beneath her instead, fucking into you with boundless energy.

she knows the right spots to fuck, where and how to grind herself into a woman, she knows exactly when to speed up and slow down. yet it seems you don't even know your own body fully.

and the thought of helping you explore with her is enough to have her twitching inside of you.

your incessant mewling and moaning of her name is driving her mad for you. her hand wraps around your throat, earning her breathless gasps as she urges you to cum for her.

"be a good little pet and cum." she orders, slick sounds penetrating the air, the smell of sex coating you both. "cum for me."

she rubs your clit harshly, watching you shake as you do cum, tightening up around her cock, sending her eyes rolling back into her head.

the moment you loosen up, she pulls out, cumming onto your tummy, creating a filthy mess as she moans deeply for you.

"fuck..." she sighs, squeezing her cock to ease the rest of her cum onto your skin.

you pant, looking up at her. your eyes are blown wide, but you look exhausted as you lay limply beneath her.

and, well, you'll soon learn her cock may need time to recover, but her mouth and fingers certainly don't...

[capslocked]

PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

-

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 

She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to." 

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

-

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

-

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right: 

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 

"Sure, says you." 

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

-

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

-

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

-

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

-

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess: 

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 

Your hand braces around the center console. 

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep. 

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

-

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

-

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

-

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

-

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

-

The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.

-

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

-

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

-

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

-

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

-

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 

-

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

-

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

-

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

-

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that. 

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning. 

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

-

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

-

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

-

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

-

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

-

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

-

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

-

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

-

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

-

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

-

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.

[callmeizukunotdeku]

I love the idea of parentified Tim Drake.

Bruce loses Jason and isn't ready for another son. Tim sees this, he acknowledges this, and he's okay with it. He's never really been a son to his own parents so he wouldn't expect the neighbor to start taking care of him.

When Tim's parents come home, they're not mean or anything, they just don't baby him. They treat him as an equal--as someone who knows what he's doing--and that's fine, because he does.

He's been taking care of himself for as long as he could remember, so when people try to treat him like a child, it angers him more than anything. The way that they assume just because he's young he can't take care of himself.

Tim's been to galas before, though. He's talked with Bruce and the man never treated him like he was incompetent. Tim's parents would ask Tim questions about the company so that he could recite them to Bruce. It was a song and dance he was well versed in, but he didn't really mind, not when Bruce looked at him with such a fondness in his eyes, always saying, "That's really interesting. You know a lot about your parents' company. Did it take you a while to memorize it?"

And he'd shake his head and say, "No," because that was the correct response, even if it was wrong.

Even if he had flashcards about Drake industries and kept up to date with perception of the company and the stock value and who the shareholders were and what they wanted and what they were willing to do to get that.

It wasn't one bout of work. It wasn't a single night of studying to make sure he passed the test, but a lifetime memorizing information and then rememorizing it when it changed.

So when Jason died and Bruce started getting bad, Tim knew what to do.

He was used to long term projects where it would be years before he actually got to see any result. He was used to seeing adults as people who he was responsible for, though he had to admit that the responsibility had never been that big before.

When Tim showed up at Bruce's doorstep, he was young, just like both of Bruce's other sons, but his eyes lacked that sort of naïveté and childlike wonder that should have accompanied the baby fat which persisted on his cheeks.

That's what made Alfred pause at the door.

There was a kid. A black haired, blue eyed kid. He was young, like both of Bruce's sons. His lack of naïveté was something he shared with both children, only Dick's had been a fresh sort of loss, one he was still mourning, and Jason's naïveté was something long-forgotten and left to rot. It was a feeling you smelt when you left the windows closed for too long.

Still there, still somewhere, but not quite right and never able to be found, only stumbled upon in rare moments of something that could almost be called joy.

Tim's naïveté is something he left at home. He keeps it on a shelf in his bedroom, something to look at when the going gets rough, but something too fragile to be held.

Maybe that's why Alfred lets him in.

That day, Tim meets Bruce--not Brucie or Batman, just Bruce.

He meets a man who's hair's grown long, but not long enough for it to have been intentional. There's grease in his hair and bags under his eyes and you can tell that he's been biting his nails.

He's clean shaven, because that's what people can see when he wears the cowl.

Tim takes a deep breath before walking into the room.

Bruce doesn't move, but Tim doesn't doubt that the man notices him.

The room smells like alcohol--a smell he recognizes from when his own father is home, though he can't say he's ever remembered it smelling so concentrated.

"Hello," he says, when he's right in front of Bruce, "My name is Tim, and I'm here to help."

Bruce doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to.

Tim talks to him, slowly distracting the man as he brings him to the bathroom, first trying to put a toothbrush in his hand and then, when that doesn't work, brushing the man's teeth himself.

Tim draws a bath for him and grabs him a new pair of clothes, and tells him to take his bath, only leaving the room when Bruce finally stands up and starts undressing.

Tim takes care of the sheets, puts new ones on the bed, and goes to the kitchen, to find Alfred already making food.

The butler asks him if he's staying to eat but Tim just insists that he's not hungry and brings the food up to Bruce.

He knocks on the bathroom door, and when Bruce doesn't respond, he opens it.

Bruce is sitting in the bath, knees to his chest, crying, but not otherwise moving.

So Tim rolls up his sleeves and washes Bruce's hair, then keeps him company as Bruce washes himself.

Bruce finds it easier to get things done when there's someone else in the room--talking to him, giving him something else to think about.

Tim talks as he gets Bruce out of the bath and hand him a towel. He talks as Bruce dries himself off and gets dressed. He talks as Bruce eats the lunch that Alfred made him and he talks until he gets Bruce back to bed.

He leaves, voice hoarse from talking so much after living in an empty home.

He comes back the next day and does it all again.

Alfred doesn't know what he should do. He knows, of course, that Tim is young and shouldn't be taking care of someone at that age.

He also knows that Bruce is in no state to take care of himself and all of Alfred's attempts have been in vain.

Tim's talking was what got Bruce to eat his first actual meal in a week--not just popcorn and protein bars. Tim's presence is what got Bruce to bed.

Tim was what was making things better, so while Alfred knew he should put a stop to it, he couldn't quite make himself do so.

Instead, he started doing little things.

He invited Tim to stay for meals.

Invited Tim to stay the night.

It took a while, but eventually, Tim started living in the manor.

One month, there's only ghosts in the house, the next, three beating hearts.

One month, Bruce can only think of his son, the next, he's calling Tim his dad.

One day, Bruce crosses the line as Batman, and the next day, he has a Robin.

You know how things go from there, some things are lost, others are gained. Some things stay the same, others do nothing but change.

Bruce and Tim get better, but Bruce still thinks of Tim as his dad.

No one really pays it much heed, though. That's just how they are--nothing really to note.

It's Dick, though, who starts noticing something's off, because Tim never sleeps.

When Dick was first adopted, he had nightmares.

He'd remember what it was like to watch someone fall. He did not watch it from the ground, but from the balcony, holding onto a trapeze, moments away from completing his own jump.

It took him months to finally come to Bruce, tell him about his nightmares.

Though he was never told the details, he knew it was the same for Jason. He pushed Bruce away, insisted that he'd be fine on his own, but eventually started letting him in.

He never asked, but assumed it was the same for Tim. When Tim couldn't sleep, when he had nightmares, when he couldn't stand to sleep in an empty bed, he'd go to Bruce like the rest of them did.

It was a reasonable thing to assume, and it was a belief he only questioned when he got up in the middle of the night to get water.

That same night, Bruce had a nightmare. Bruce knocked on Tim's door. Bruce slept in Tim's bed.

Tim ran his hands through Bruce's hair, promising that everything would be okay until Bruce fell asleep.

Now that he knew to look for it, Dick started noticing even more. The way Tim knew Bruce's favorite food and the way Tim took care of the man's company so that Bruce had the freedom to do what he wanted. The way Bruce turned to Tim when he had a problem or wanted to be told he did something well.

It was wrong.

It was wrong and Dick was trapped because he hadn't noticed it earlier. Why didn't he notice it earlier?

Tim came to him first, asked him to become Robin again. Dick knew about Tim from the start. Dick was there for the entirety of his stay as Robin.

He was there.

So why didn't he noticed?

Jason sees him panicking on patrol and Dick just breaks.

He breaks down in his brother's arms--arms he can feel tightening around him as he tells him everything.

They talk about it a lot after that. Jason starts noticing things too.

They bring in Babs and start making a file--compiling evidence because there's always the urge to just ignore it. To acknowledge that Bruce is doing better than ever.

But that requires them to forget about Tim.

To let the boy take care of Bruce and not live his own life.

Because, now that they're looking, they can see how lonely it is.

How he doesn't have any school friends--he had to drop out to take over WE.

How he's grown apart from Young Justice--always leaving when Bruce is in trouble or needs someone to talk to, not able to bear the idea of what Bruce might do if left alone.

Because Tim knows he'll break.

Bruce needs someone to take care of him, and Tim exists to fulfill the needs of others, regardless of how much it takes from him.

So Tim goes and helps his son. He never talks about how tired he is. He has sleeping pills to fix that, and maybe he can't take them because what if Bruce has a nightmare and then he can't wake up Tim--it's unimaginable.

Dick and Jason notice, though, and they try to bring it up with him, but they're not sure how.

Not when Tim's gut reaction is just to start taking care of them, too. Easing their worries, telling them that everything's okay.

They want so bad to insist that it's not okay, that this is going to ruin Tim and he can't spend his whole life like this.

But they want even more to be held. To be granted that unconditional love and care that comes with being Tim's child.

So they try to say something--anything.

But then, Tim smiles. He opens his arms to them and asks about their days.

And they they try to tell him that not everything's okay, but Tim is smiling, and they try, but they can't say a thing.

[p0orbaby]

Silver Linings

summary: you’ve had a baby and you’ve had enough, you want your wife, goddammit!

warnings: SMUT 18+, just sex alright, im too lazy to read back and see what there is

a/n: thanks for the request !

word count: 1.2k

-

You’re lying in bed, counting the new cracks in the ceiling. You’re convinced they’ve multiplied since the baby was born. Or maybe it’s just that you’re always staring up these days, wishing for sleep. You read somewhere that the Spanish government once paid people to make babies. But they don’t mention how they don’t pay enough for someone to come and take the baby off your hands every now and then.

But who’s counting?

Alexia’s beside you, scrolling through her phone like it owes her money. She’s wearing that ridiculous sleep shirt with Messi’s face on it—some joke you don’t quite understand but one that involves a poorly executed bet, a late-night purchase, and more tequila than you’d care to remember. You’re not sure what makes you more irritated: the shirt or the fact that she looks hot in it. Even with the dark circles under her eyes.

You clear your throat, trying to get her attention. It’s like trying to wake a bear from hibernation. She just grunts and scrolls faster.

“Hey, Messi’s number one fan,” you say, nudging her with your foot. “Put the phone down before you sprain your thumb”

She glances over at you, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but there’s a flicker of interest there. “What? You wanna talk about our feelings now?”

“No, I want to talk about the state of our sex life,” you reply, deadpan. “Which is currently on life support”

Alexia raises an eyebrow, finally putting her phone down on the nightstand. “Oh? You wanna do something about that?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but the truth is, you’ve been thinking about this all day. Well, between the nappy changes, the feedings, and trying to remember when the last time you showered was.

“I mean, we probably should. Before the baby wakes up and finds out we’re trying to have fun”

Alexia grins, a little too wickedly for someone who’s supposed to be sleep-deprived. “You know, I’ve been waiting for you to say something. It’s like you read my mind”

“Oh yeah? Was it before or after you ordered that new strap?”

She laughs, the sound low and throaty. “Before. Definitely before. The new strap was just… insurance”

“Insurance?” you snort. “You mean like how some people buy a fire extinguisher for their kitchen?”

“Exactly. You never know when you’re going to need it”

You’re laughing now, genuinely, and it feels good. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in weeks. Maybe months. The kind that shakes off the dust that’s settled between the two of you, the kind that makes you remember why you fell for her in the first place.

She’s already moving, shedding the Messi shirt in one smooth move. There’s something almost ceremonial about the way she does it, as if she’s readying herself for battle. You swallow hard, the familiar heat building in your belly. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything but tired, anything but stretched too thin.

When she climbs back into bed, she’s got that glint in her eye that says she’s up to no good. “You ready for this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “For you to pretend you know what you’re doing?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she kisses you, hard and possessive. It’s all teeth and tongue, a little desperate, a little sloppy, but it’s enough to make your toes curl. You gasp into her mouth when her hands start to roam, fingers grazing over your still-sensitive skin. Everything’s too much and not enough, and you can’t help the little whimper that escapes your lips.

“Easy,” she murmurs against your mouth. “We’ve got all night”

“Yeah, until the baby wakes up and decides to serenade us with her cries,” you mutter, but you’re already arching into her touch.

“You’re right,” she says, her voice dropping an octave, sending shivers down your spine. “We better make this quick”

You laugh, but it quickly turns into a moan as she kisses her way down your body, her hands gripping your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on tight. You’ve missed this, missed her. Not just the sex, but the connection, the way she makes you feel like you’re the only two people in the world, even when you’re surrounded by chaos.

When she finally reaches into her bedside table and pulls out the strap, the new one, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

She just smirks. “I told you. Insurance”

“Right,” you say, but your breath catches in your throat when she presses the tip against you, the cool silicone a stark contrast to your overheated skin. You’re sensitive, achingly so, and the stretch of it has you chaining air, your fingers digging into the sheets.

“Too much?” she asks, her voice softening for the first time tonight.

You shake your head, biting your lip as you try to focus on the sensation, the delicious burn that’s equal parts pleasure and pain. “No, it’s… it’s good. Really good”

She moves slowly, deliberately, and you can tell she’s trying to be gentle, trying not to overwhelm you. But there’s a tension in her body, a barely contained need that mirrors your own, and it’s not long before she’s thrusting harder, her hands gripping your hips, tethering you to the earth.

It’s overwhelming, the way she fills you up, the way she looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You can feel the coil tightening in your belly, the pressure building to a breaking point. It’s almost too much, too intense, but you can’t stop yourself from chasing that high, from wanting more.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your nails raking down her back. “I’m gonna—”

But before you can finish, she shifts her angle, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and it’s like a dam breaking. You come apart with a strangled cry, your body trembling with the force of it, and she’s right there with you, whispering filthy praise into your ear, her voice raw with desire.

When it’s over, you’re both a mess, caught in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat. You can barely catch your breath, but there’s a satisfied smile on your face, one that mirrors hers. It’s not perfect, it’s not the earth-shattering, movie-ending kind of sex, but it’s real. And that’s enough.

As you lie there, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts, she pulls you close, her arm draped over your waist. “We should do this more often,” she says, her voice sleepy but content.

“Yeah,” you murmur, already half-asleep. “If we ever get the chance”

But for now, you’re content to just lie here, basking in the afterglow, knowing that you’ve still got each other. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to get you through the sleepless nights and endless nappy changes.

As you start to drift off, you hear the faint sound of the baby stirring in the next room. You groan, burying your face in Alexia’s neck. “Your turn”

She laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Fine, but only because you did all the hard work”

You snort, but you can’t help but smile as she slips out of bed, pulling on the Messi shirt once more. As she heads out to tend to the baby, you close your eyes, feeling more at peace than you have in weeks. Maybe even months.