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parfaitblogs · 1 month ago

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as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament.

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day.

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened.

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder.

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed.

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot.

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it.

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?"

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole.

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall.

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room.

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted.

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you.

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing.��Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him.

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap.

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not.

Your heart decides to go with the former.

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you.

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back.

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter.

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand.

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate.

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head.

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in.

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished.

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm.

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you.

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy.

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips.

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to.

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of.

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you.

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities.

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel.

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest.

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his.

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one.

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums.

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him.

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further."

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it.

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon.

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces.

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again.

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants.

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear.

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly.

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to.

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him.

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again.

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name.

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might.

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you.

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly.

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you.

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from.

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply.

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well?

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own.

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice.

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work.

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud.

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you.

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you.

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect.

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp.

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?"

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning.

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise.

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own.

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering.

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower.

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead.

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume.

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him.

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching.

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest.

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully.

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor.

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily.

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose.

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him.

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly.

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement.

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too.

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment.

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen.

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply.

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?"

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides.

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait.

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you.

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look.

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table.

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face.

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities.

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need.

Stay quiet, don't react, detach.

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now.

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours.

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly.

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why.

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him.

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door.

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression.

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him.

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end.

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you.

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get.

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing.

Maybe he would.

"So you are alive," he says.

"Last I checked, yes," you reply.

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in.

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows.

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you.

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster.

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper.

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble.

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding.

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower.

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch.

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that?

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly.

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee.

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago.

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not.

Not today, it seemed.

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence.

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful.

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart.

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later.

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah."

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast.

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home.

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be.

At three in the morning.

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far.

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night.

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently.

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up.

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were.

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom.

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around.

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists.

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child.

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it.

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?"

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet.

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go.

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more.

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate.

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight.

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline.

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more.

And yet; fuck you universe.

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways).

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so.

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him.

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe.

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body.

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs.

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you.

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer.

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it.

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly.

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold.

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience.

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day.

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath.

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything.

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye.

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far.

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more.

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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capslocked · 11 months ago

Text

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

#karina smut #irene smut #aespa smut #red velvet smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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utterlyazriel · 9 months ago

Text

let me keep you company

a/n: a wee break from the doom & gloom of wtssf! it's unedited so i want no flack for that thank u <3 enjoy <3 wc: 5.1k whoops synopsis: You're studying in Velaris and a certain Shadowsinger catches your eyes in more than one way. It takes a while to realise the shadow keeping you company means more than you expect.

For the record, you had never met a Shadowsinger before.

You'd never even seen one. Sure, you’d read about them briefly in your studies and almost every Fae in Prythian had heard about them in whispers and rumours.

Rumours that increased more so when a Shadowsinger rose to become a hand for the Highlord, his own personal spy. Then became the spymaster of the entire Night Court for the next Highlord.

But beyond gossip and unfinished chapters within the scripts of your libraries, the knowledge of Shadowsingers is far limited. They’re rare. For all you know, Shadowsinger’s are a ghost— moving as a shadow, disappearing in and out of the darkness of the world.

You had never met a Shadowsinger before—so it makes sense that you hadn't an ounce of a clue what to expect.

Staring at him now, 6 feet something of pure muscle, you're a bit embarrassed at your own surprise.

Because he's probably— no definitely— the most beautiful Fae you've ever laid eyes on. His hair is tousled and dark, his glorious tan skin that's mostly hidden beneath the black of his fighter leathers, and his amber eyes that laid on you for only one long moment. Breathtaking is the only adequate word for him.

All that beauty and he's a Shadowsinger.

And it's not like you thought he wouldn't be like, well, any other Fae. But also... you kinda did? Mother, you should've known Freya was tricking you when she said they were all just shadow-y corporeal forms.

But she's also not entirely wrong there. There are dozens of wispy shadows that hover around him in constant motion, dipping and flying around his shoulders and if you look close enough, you can see how he seems to ripple at the edges. Shadows blur the edge of his very being.

You wonder if he can disappear into them all together, if that was one of the abilities granted with them. Does he control them? He must, you think, if the title is Shadowsinger.

But looking at him now, his beautiful face turned to face the Highlord you should definitely be listening to, they flit about almost absentmindedly, as though they have a mind of their own.

One curls up by his ear and you watch it, fascinated, more and more questions springing up in your mind— what do they feel like on skin? Do they make any noise? Is that what they're doing now? Talking to—

A sharp elbow jabs into your side, making you jump.

Your head whips to the side, an instinctive scowl almost overtaking your face before you plaster it over with a smile, realising your mistake. Your mentor, Sergei, clears his throat and smiles awkwardly ahead at Rhysand. You blink and take another moment to realise you've been asked a question.

"I'm— I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" You try not to sound as mousy as you feel but the question comes out as a squeak anyway. He is the Highlord of the Night Court after all. You suddenly feel very foolish for being so easily distracted.

Thankfully, Rhysand regards you with an easy smile. He's leaned back in his chair, relaxed, and his violet eyes dance with humour as he flicks his gaze over to where you had just been staring.

"That's alright. Azriel is a piece of eye candy, I can't blame you for staring," He all but purrs, a hint of mirth pulling at his lips as he casts another glance at his Spymaster. You're taken aback by the casualness of his words.

Rhysand continues. "I was only saying that for the duration of your stay, you'll be hosted in one of my homes, the House of Wind. You aren't afraid of heights, are you?"

A smidge of fear pinches at your stomach because, honestly, you aren't overly keen on the idea. But you know better than to turn down the generosity of a Highlord.

You take another glance at the wings of his Spymaster and General and pray that it's not too high up.

"Not... much." You answer honestly.

There's a chuckle from the side of the room and your head swings around at the noise. It's not the Shadowsinger, though he looks as though he's politely trying not to smile, his chin ducked. It's the General, just as beautiful as his brother but in that more rugged way.

He flexes his wings out a bit, showing off their mighty wingspan. "We'll rid you of that fear in no time."

You try for a smile but it might be closer to a grimace.

"Fantastic." You say, not managing to put all your enthusiasm into the word like you hoped.

Another sharp jab of Sergei's elbow in your side. The Shadowsinger, Azriel, huffs a quiet laugh, his amber eyes flashing up to steal another look at you. You try your best not to fluster.

It's going to be a long two months.

—

As Sergei's apprentice, you're expected to shadow him through his allowed time within Velaris.

Which means if he goes to the library, you go to the library.

There's just one problem; the library is down in the city and your temporary home is up in the mountain. The quickest way down is with wings.

Rhysand— or just Rhys as he had told you to call him— had relayed the information that you could ask either Cassian or Azriel to escort you if you didn't wish to take the stairs.

Cassian, the General, had been the one to fly you down and back the first couple of times you had asked and you weren't in any particular hurry to relive the experience.

Cassian was nice and he was more than friendly but seemingly incapable of understanding any fear of heights. You weren't sure if that was just the only way to fly— swooping and dropping fast enough to make you shriek— but it certainly seemed to be Cassian's way.

Which leaves you with the option of either asking the Shadowsinger or taking the stairs.

You get down about two hundred steps before you start to regret your decision. But, also, how in the Cauldron were you supposed to ask him to take you? (Never mind that you had asked Cassian quite easily, albeit very nervously.)

Oh, hi Shadowsinger who I can't stop staring at for both your abilities and your handsome face—care to sweep me into your arms and carry me places?

As if, you snort to yourself.

You take the thousand stairs all the way to the bottom and trot towards the enormous library, pretending your thighs aren't aching with overuse or that you're out of breath. Thankfully, the library itself isn't too far from the House of Wind, carved into the same side of the mountain.

As expected, Sergei is less than pleased with your tardiness.

"Sorry," The word rushes out of you in a wheeze, probably too loud for the library, as you scuttle in the entrance. A few priestesses turn their heads to look at you and you cringe, raising your hands in apology. "Sorry, I'm sorry,"

You focus back on your mentor and try to catch your breath, all while you explain. "I took the stairs and it took—" You huff out a breath. "—way longer than I thought."

Sergei's face softens a bit at your explanation, his face taking on a pitiful smile. "Still not enjoying the flying?"

"You are?" You ask in response. The thought of Sergei, your old-Fae mentor, swept up in Cassian's arms as he dips and dives makes you chuckle just a bit.

Sergei shakes his head as if to change the topic of conversation, deciding you've wasted enough time already. He turns, beginning to head further into the library and you follow behind him closely, eager to brush over your early morning fumble. The cavernous structure within the mountain yawns out ahead of you and you get all of two moments to wonder just how deep down it goes, when—

"You did not ask for a ride this morning."

Azriel steps up beside you, seemingly from nowhere, his steps falling in time with yours with ease. You jump, startled, and your footsteps falter for a moment. You're relieved to say that you only make one embarrassing noise in your surprise.

"I— oh, it's— I mean, I just..." You trail off, feeling flustered. "...like to walk."

You chance a glance up at him. He's wearing that same polite expression from yesterday, as though he's trying not to laugh and you get too caught up in the swirlings of his shadows to remember to be properly embarrassed. Both of you walk in tandem behind Sergei, slowly descending into the lower levels of the library.

"If you insist," He says, his voice low. It sends something warm down your spine and you pray he doesn't notice how your body temperature is definitely climbing.

His amber eyes pin you with another look, his lips twitching into a small smile. "However, if Cassian is giving you trouble, I would be happy to provide a smoother ride."

You flounder for a moment. You don't want to get anyone in trouble.

"I— he's not giving me trouble," You stammer.

Azriel smiles a little wider as if he can tell how polite you're trying to be. He slows to a meander and you realise only after you walk past him, it's because Sergei has stopped himself, turning down one of the many aisles.

You skid yourself to a halt and turn back, praying your flaming face isn't as obvious as it feels. You're not entirely sure if Azriel is accompanying you today but you're sure that Sergei would've mentioned it if he was.

You dip your head in a strange, awkward bow motion. Then point to the aisle Sergei disappeared into.

"I'll be... going this way."

Azriel's smile grows, like you've told a joke, and he ducks his head. He peers up at you through his dark lashes and you wonder if anyone's ever told him how damn beautiful he is. Probably. You're probably the last in a long line of people. Mother, his eyes though.

"If you don't wish to make the hike the other way," He murmurs.

He extends one of his hands and you watch the dozen shadows swarm around it, one of them separating from the pack to dive to the ground. It shoots forward and spins around your ankle, almost happily. "Just let the shadow know. I would be happy to assist."

When you look back up, he’s already gone without a sound. You try not to look so surprised— you’ve seen someone winnow before but you’re almost certain that the way Azriel moved about silently was something else altogether.

“Y/n!” Sergei’s voice echoes down the shelves, reminding you that you’re still late. You throw a quick glance around to check but it's fruitless; you can’t see the Shadowsinger anywhere.

You turn and bustle down the aisle quickly, not wanting to keep Sergei any longer. It takes only a second to notice the sole, black shadow that dances along behind you.

Guess you have company.

—

Okay, so, the shadows are definitely their own little guys.

Mainly because you can’t imagine how Azriel would be controlling them when he’s nowhere in sight.

And this one shadow is being awfully helpful.

The first time you drop your quill, knocking it to the ground as you lean over one of the many intricately carved desks, trying to reach another book, you don’t even notice it fall to the ground.

In fact, you have no idea how many times it’s picked up your fallen quill that you’ve undoubtedly knocked over countless times— only that it had given you the fright of your life to have it hover before your face, gripped only by the wispy shadow Azriel left with you.

“Holy shit!” You gasp, your loud voice echoing in the quietness of the library.

Sergei's head whips up, his eyes narrowing at the intruding sound with evident disapproval. You quickly snatch the quill out of mid-air and sink down in your seat. Gods, the echoes in here were doing you no favours.

“Sorry,” You whisper. Your eyes dart down to the shadow that retreated to your side, flickering around your ankle more wildly. “Er, thanks.”

It feels a bit silly to give thanks to something you’re not sure can hear you. But you figure if it can pick up your quill, you're better off using your manners.

Sergei gives you a somewhat bewildered look and you try to appease him with an awkward smile. It works enough for him to continue his work but not without one more lingering glance of worry in your direction. Great. You're talking to shadows and your old-man mentor thinks you're a bit nuts.

The shadow continues its helpful endeavours, following you when you head down different aisles at Sergei's request. It dances across the shelves, dissolving occasionally just to puff back up somewhere else, pulling your attention this way and that. It's playful. Friendly.

You deduce by the end of the day that you know even less about Shadowsinger's than you had thought. The abilities and personality of just one shadow are uncanny; like a silent friend keeping you company. You imagine that Azriel rarely gets lonely with as many as he has. Maybe you'll ask him.

When Sergei and you wind back up the staircases and he dismisses you for the evening, heading into the city for his own further business, you stand at the mouth of the library and ponder if you'll be brave enough to summon the Shadowsinger.

The shadow is still with you, circling your wrist absently. You peer down at it and think of all those stairs. Somewhat nervously, you raise your hand and try to be as casual as possible about talking to a shadow on your hand.

"Hi." You start, trying not to feel foolish. "Um, well, I guess I'm done for the day. Could— could you, if he's not busy that is, uh, let Azriel know? I don't mind waiting if he is."

The shadow zips off barely before you can finish your sentence and your head swings to watch it go, disappearing somewhere to your left.

You can't help but be a little amazed at its speed—it must be an incredible networking system to have a thousand little spies running around for you. No wonder almost all Shadowsingers tend to end up in the same line of work, you think to yourself, still peering in the direction of the shadow when—

"Y/n."

Even though he's said your name soft and quiet, Azriel still manages to take you by surprise. You jump and turn, all in one motion.

"Mother!" Your hand holds over your chest, relief curling in at the sides as your fright ebbs away. "That was fast."

"You called," Azriel responds, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. He gives you an almost shy smile.

It makes you fluster a bit and you gesture to the exit awkwardly and wordlessly, if only so you don't have to come up with a response to his intense and endearing answer.

Together, you wander out from the library and creep towards the edge of Velaris. It's a beautiful city and more than deserving of its title, especially when viewed from the House of Wind. You turn and cast your eyes up the mountainside, your familiar nervous fear pitching up from your stomach.

Then you look at the warrior beside you, tall enough that he's got what feels like more than a head's height on you, with his wings reaching above even his own head. His jaw is sharp and his eyes are already on you as your gaze trails up his face. Fuck. He's really pretty.

Now you're nervous for an entirely different reason.

"We can still take the stairs if you wish," He says, his hand sweeping back to the path you had followed along this morning. His shadows move with his hands, a black vortex that whirls around and around. "I'd be more than happy to keep you company."

Mother, he's not helping you in the slightest, being so perfectly nice to you. You regard the stairs and think back to how many hours it took before your thighs stopped aching—and that was on the way down.

"No, we can- we can try flying again." You say, nodding to yourself as if it'll help quell your fear. It takes another moment to realise that means you'll be bundled up in his strong arms, held against his broad chest and you feel a little shiver run through your body at the thought.

Azriel notices it too, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "You're sure?" He checks.

You nod, not meeting his eyes, trying to keep your nerve. Flying is already something you're not keen on. Flying whilst being swept up in the arms of a Shadowsinger who you think is the most beautiful Fae you've ever seen? You send a silent prayer to the Mother that you don't do something embarrassing, like puking down his front.

"Let me know if you're uncomfortable at any time," He says softly and then he bends his knees slightly, one of his scarred hands resting on your lower back as the other scoops beneath your knees. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing.

It's impossible not to flush as you get nestled against his firm chest, your hands panicking for a moment as you try to think of a normal place to put them. Around his neck? On his chest? Either of them feels far too intimate for a man you've known only a week.

"You don't have to but I would suggest holding on," Azriel comments with a smile, his chest vibrating with the words. You nod, agreeing with him, but don't make a move to do so, only holding your hands out in front of you to indicate you're not sure where to put them.

The shadows adorning his shoulders move on their own, their friendly presence easing your nerves as they slither down to circle around your wrists. There's a gentle tug and you let them move your hands til they're wrapped around Azriel's neck, moving you much closer in the process.

Gods, your faces are close together. Another couple of inches and you could probably press your lips to his perfect ones—a thought that makes you fluster all over again. Was he getting prettier every time you saw him? For not the first time, you thank the Mother that it was Rhys with the daemaeti gift and not Azriel.

"Ready?" He checks, which is sweet. Cassian had just shot up into the sky the first time, without any warning.

You grip your arms around his neck a little tighter and then nod. "Ready," You say, quieter than intended.

You catch just a moment of Azriel's demure smile, your heart swooping at the sight, before you're both launched into the sky with one flap of his wings.

The noise that escapes you is one you're less than proud of, a squawky sound noise of panic that you bury into Azriel's neck. You expect him to laugh like Cassian had, not meanly but playfully, but instead Azriel's arms just tighten around you. As if he was assuring you that he would not let you fall.

By the time you're up at the House of Wind, Azriel making a far more graceful descent than his brother, you're less freaked out and more ready to point some accusatory fingers in the face of the Night Court's General.

That bastard had been fucking with you! The flight with Azriel proved as much, considering how much calmer and smoother it had been. You couldn't help but say as much as you were placed down from Azriel's hold, glad to be back on solid ground.

"I have some words for Cassian, Mother above," You ramble, straightening out your rumpled clothes from the flight. "Did he think I was kidding when I said I was afraid?"

Azriel smiles at your fieriness, his shadows calmer than they were in flight, moving about lazily. His eyes take a fleeting glance at the house behind you before focusing intently back on you.

"Cassian can have a strange sense of humour at times. He means well." He says. Then he grins. "I should like to see you tell him off— not enough people do."

You hmph. "Maybe I will."

You suddenly realise the closeness between you and Azriel, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. His scent of cedar and mist swirls around you, tantalizing and alluring in a way you've never known before. You take a step back to contain yourself.

"I—uh, well, thank you very much." You say, as sweet as you can. "For the ride."

Your eyes catch on one of his dozen shadows and you smile, observing them for a moment. "And the shadow. It was excellent company."

Azriel brightens, an expression of surprise crossing his face before he schools it away. He smiles, brazen and breathtaking. When he speaks, he sounds a little disbelieving. "You like them?"

You nod quickly, noticing how one of his shadows has snuck off again and circulates your ankle speedily. You laugh at the ticklish feeling of it against your skin.

"They're incredible." You breathe, meaning every word. "I imagine you must've ge—"

"Apologies, y/n." A smooth voice cuts in, Rhys stepping up somewhere behind you and stealing both of your attention. He dressed in more casual clothes than you last saw, but not quite Azriel's fighting leathers. "Azriel here is needed for some brief business. Do you mind if I borrow him?"

The way he poses the question, as if Azriel is yours, does something wonky to your heart. You flounder for a moment, stepping back and waving your hand in the direction of the Shadowsinger.

"Of- of course, by all means." You trip over the words and hope you don't sound too eager to escape his company. That couldn't be more untrue.

You turn back to Azriel and fix him with a smile, hoping it's not as nervous as you feel. "I'll... see you around?"

Azriel steals a glance to the side where Rhys awaits before he nods with another reserved smile. Hold on, is that pink on his cheeks?

"Let me know if you need any more help getting to and from the library. I'd be happy to assist."

And then with a quick nod to you, he walks off to join Rhys, his wings tucked in tight, careful to not nudge you. You watch them go, unable to stop yourself from letting your eyes wander down. Damn, all that training did wonders. What was that saying? Hate to watch 'em go, love to watch them leave.

Ahead, Rhys abruptly laughs and peers back over his shoulder, letting you exactly how well you had shielded those thoughts. You flush and scurry into the house as if it'll save you from the embarrassment of what's just happened. You only hope he won't pass the message on to Azriel.

—

It continues like that for the rest of the week.

Azriel carries you down the height of the mountain and leaves you with a promise that if you need anything, you can tell the shadow and he'll come to find you.

The shadow keeps its usual playful company. Beyond retrieving your dropped quills, it helpfully turns the pages of books for you. When you're focused on what you're writing, it nudges back any loose strands of hair. Once it even brings you a flower from Mother knows where. One single Lily of the Valley, left resting on your desk.

It makes you wonder; are all Shadowsinger's shadows like this? You can't help but imagine these niceties are shaped by Azriel's own soft nature.

Today, whilst you study in the vast caverns of the library, you get an unexpected visitor.

As you take your time scanning through the books in one of the vast aisles, you realise the Fae coming down from the other end of the aisle is none other than the Highlady herself.

"Feyre!" You greet warmly. The two of you had met before when she had taken duties in your home court and if it weren't too bold, you'd say you consider yourself good friends. Feyre smiles, glowing like moonlight, as she realises who it is.

"Y/n," She says your name sweetly and her hug is just as such. She pulls away, ready to inquire about your studies when she spots the trailing shadow behind you.

"Making friends, I see," She comments. Her eyebrows raise almost teasingly as if she's made a certain insinuation. You take a moment to notice what she's referencing.

"It's nice," You say, a defensive lilt to your tone. You hold out your hand and the shadow jumps at the opportunity to skitter around it playfully. "It's like a little friend."

Feyre smiles at your words but chuckles a little. "Except Azriel is anything but little."

You pause at her words, glancing down at the shadow and back up at Feyre. "What do you mean? I thought— they're not- I mean, aren't they...?”

You trail off, unsure of how to word the question you're trying to ask. Feyre smiles, her gray eyes glittering with mirth as she realises what you're figuring out.

"They're all his. Azriel's. He controls them." She tilts her head a bit, watching the shadow that drifts about your hand and wrist. "True, they roam a bit on their own but... Not like this."

"Oh," You murmur, thinking back to that first day in the library.

The playful shadow that lead you back and forth, picking up your quill and turning your pages. It was him, all along.

Something immeasurably warm starts to glow in your chest, a thread that loops through your heart and sends the valves into overdrive. Its warmth grows, something molten hot beginning to bleed in your chest— and it feels wonderful. It feels right.

"Oh," You gasp as you figure it out.

Feyre grins, watching you piece together what the rest of the inner circle has clued together from the very first day. She stands to the side and gestures to the entrance of the library with a tilt of her head.

"Go on then," She urges you.

For a moment, you think back to Sergei who sent you hunting for a certain manuscript Cauldron knows how long ago but the thought is washed away in an instant. You can feel it now, the strong tug in your chest. The connection that binds you to another.

You stride past Feyre, giving a quick thanks! and all but run up the spiral staircases, heading for the entrance. The shadow pings along with you and as you near the top, you look down at it and say through huffed breaths, "You better go get him."

He's waiting by the time you get there.

Against the setting sun, for a moment there's only the silhouette of him— a warrior with tall wings, the edges of him rippling like a mirage. He might just be one; an oasis in your life, the answer that you've been searching for for centuries. You can't believe you didn't notice.

Your footsteps echo on the marble as you march right up to him and Azriel watches you closely the whole time, his amber eyes soft but his expression hinting at his nervousness. Gods, he's wonderful. You can't believe he gets to be yours and you get to be his.

"How long have you known?" You ask because it's the first thing on your mind. You're nearly panting from the exhilaration of your sudden exercise, from the dawning future that's blooming right in front of you. He's your mate. Gods, how could you have missed it?

Azriel smiles, that same tentative one that's been driving you crazy all week. His wings give a little shake behind him, a giveaway of his nerves.

"I... suspected from the beginning." He chooses his words carefully, wary of how you might respond.

You can't help your little gasp, feeling even more of a fool. You curse, ducking your head before you glare back up at him, no real heat in your gaze. You have the urge to give him a little shove, just for keeping you in the dark.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

One of his shadows spins up unexpectedly, dancing across your shoulders and tickling your cheeks gently. You startle in surprise but something sweeter curls up in your chest at the tenderness of its touch.

"Believe me," Azriel says with a quiet chuckle, his amber eyes darting over your face intensely. "I've been trying."

You melt. Eyes locked with his, you move slowly, letting your arms drift up to drape around his neck like they've done every morning and evening since he began flying you around. You realise acutely that Cassian's behaviour, his shoddy flying, had likely been on purpose. You laugh a little, eyes creasing shut in pure euphoria.

Azriel's hands find your waist and you can feel the slight tremble in them.

"In my defense," You murmur, pushing up on your toes. You're close, so close, your lips hovering just an inch from a kiss—his shadows go wild around you both. It makes you grin. "I had never met a Shadowsinger before."

"Yeah?" Azriel breathes shakily. "Disappointed?"

He says it like a joke but you can hear the note of sincerity in his tone. His hidden worry that he isn't all you dreamed of. It's nearly laughable how wrong he is.

This close you can see his long lashes and every shade of brown in his eyes. You wonder if you'll ever get used to how beautiful he is. Part of you hopes you never do.

"Not in the slightest," You say, nearly a whisper.

Then his lips are on yours, pillowy soft skin against yours, and it feels like coming home. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you til you're breathless and the glow in your chest could rival the sun in its warmth.

He kisses you and every atom in your body hums and fizzes and comes to life — and all you can do is hold him tight and kiss him back, just as fiercely.

Breaking the kiss to catch your breath, you pant and grin brazenly at Azriel, at your mate, happier than you've ever been. Faintly, you realise that you won't be heading home when the two months of your study are up after all.

Not when you have a man who looks at you so reverently, who kisses you like there's oxygen hidden in the plush of your lips, who holds you like there's nothing more precious in the world.

Not when you know that home is right here, in front of you.

#YIPPEE! written in like... 3 days #no editing less go #love it or leave it #a break from all the doom and gloom of wtssf #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger x you #sloane writes

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punkshort · 1 month ago

Text

A Christmas Miracle

Thank you anon for this prompt!

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Years of tension after a failed hook-up attempt with Joel boil over at your office Christmas party, but not in the way you expect.

Warnings: language, alcohol consumption, enemies to lovers, smut (18+ MDNI), hate sex that turns soft in the end because it's shortie writing this, fingering, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex

WC: 4.6K

"Goddamnit, why did he show up? He hates shit like this," you grumbled to your friend, Tina, when the elevators slid open to reveal the latest batch of co-workers trickling inside the hotel ballroom your company rented out for their annual Christmas party.

Tina glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd of well dressed men and women before her eyes landed on the one in question.

"Who, Joel?" she smirked, turning back to you.

"Yes, Joel," you seethed. You bellied up to the bar to flag down the cute bartender for another martini. If you had to listen to Joel share horrible stories about his latest conquests, sales or otherwise, then you had to make sure you had a decent amount of alcohol in your system first.

"Oh, come off it. Why don't you just fuck him already and get it over with?" Tina joked. You gasped in disgust and covered your mouth.

"Do not even joke about that. Who knows what kind of diseases that sleaze-bag is carrying around."

Tina tossed her head back and laughed, the sound dancing in the air like music. She was one of the prettiest women in your office, but much to everyone's chagrin, she was recently married and officially off the market. But that didn't stop the men in your office from harmlessly flirting with her now and again for the ego boost.

"Nah, he's all talk," Tina said with a wave of her hand.

"Not true - Lainey in the mailroom slept with him two years ago, remember that fiasco?" you shot back instantly before taking a grateful sip from your glass. Tina raised a suspicious eyebrow at you and propped one hand on her hip.

"You're keeping track?"

"No," you replied defensively. You rolled a shoulder and shifted your weight before taking another sip. "I just remember her crying over it every chance she got. Couldn't eat lunch in peace for weeks."

"Uh huh, sure," Tina said, rolling her eyes. She scanned the room again, hips lightly swaying to the music while you sat next to her, determined to have a miserable night. "Didn't you guys kiss once, though?"

You groaned and squeezed your eyes shut. "Don't remind me. Worst mistake of my life. Thank god I didn't fall for his shit and go home with him."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because believe it or not, I had standards," you clipped. "I didn't want to sleep with him after a sloppy office happy hour. I wasn't dumb enough to put out the first time we kissed."

"Alright, so if you were into him enough to kiss him and potentially see him again, what the hell happened?" Tina pressed. You sighed and let your chin rest in your propped up hand. Tina hadn't worked at your company as long as you and sometimes it was easy to forget she didn't know the full history.

"He took someone else home from the office that night, instead," you muttered under your breath. Tina whistled and shook her head.

"Damn. Alright, dick move, you win."

"Told you. Ever since then, I can't stand being in the same room with him. He's such a smug douchebag, always trying to push my buttons and piss me off just for the fun of it. Like the whole thing was a game to him."

"But it wasn't a game to you," Tina said, slowly connecting the dots. You nodded sadly and took a long sip from your glass.

"Nope."

Tina's expression softened when she saw the look on your face. "I'm sorry. I had no idea-"

"It's fine," you said, cutting her off. "I'm better off. It didn't mean anything, anyway. It was just one kiss," you chuckled, trying to play off the hurt you still harbored somewhere deep down.

"But still-"

"Evenin', ladies," a familiar drawl came from somewhere behind Tina. You didn't need to look. You knew who it was.

"Oh," Tina said when she swiveled around and saw Joel standing against the bar. "Hey, Joel."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and adjusted his tacky red tie.

"Apologies. My reputation seems to have preceded me," he said, glancing once in your direction before giving her a dazzling smile and stretching out his hand. "What's your name, gorgeous?"

"Tina, and give it a rest, I'm married," she said, holding up her left hand with her massive diamond while shaking his hand with her right.

"That's a damn shame," Joel said with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes and tossed back the rest of your drink but it didn't matter. You were essentially invisible. "He must be one lucky fella. He treatin' you right?"

"Fantastic," Tina replied, pulling her hand out from his grip before turning to you. "I need to use the restroom," she murmured. You stood to follow her but Joel stopped you.

"How 'bout you? You seein' anyone special?"

You huffed and shook your head. "Kiss my ass."

Joel howled with laughter before sliding onto the stool Tina vacated.

"If I recall, few years back I was willin' to do that and more, but you shot me down."

"Yeah, thank Christ for that moment of clarity," you grumbled. You swept your eyes around the room, pretending to lose interest in the man sitting beside you, but unfortunately you couldn't bring yourself to get up and just fucking leave.

Joel held up two fingers, signaling for the bartender in a frustratingly effortless way that set your teeth on edge and had your thighs pressing together.

"Whiskey, neat. And-"

Joel turned to you, waiting for your drink order, but you shook your head.

"I'm good."

"Shot of tequila," Joel told the bartender with an award winning smile.

You glared at Joel as the bartender walked away.

"Tequila? Really?"

Joel chuckled and swiveled in his stool to face you. "You thought I forgot what loosened you up that night?"

"You're a pig," you snapped, and you should have grabbed your purse and left, but your feet refused to move. "You're a pompous asshole who doesn't give a damn about anybody's feelings so long as you're getting your dick wet. I can't fucking stand hearing you walk around the office gloating like you're hot shit. Tell me, Joel," you said, leaning forward now that you were on a roll. "When you go home to your empty apartment at night, who listens to your bullshit? Hm? The fucking plants?"

Joel didn't say a word but you could tell by the look on his face that he was taken aback. For once you had the upper hand, and you weren't going to let it go.

"Enjoy this schtick while it lasts because one day you're gonna wake up and it'll be a thing of the past. One day, they'll hire a new Joel. Someone younger and hotter and probably nicer than you and suddenly you'll be all alone wondering where the fucking time went."

"You got a real mouth on you, huh?" he shot back. "Think you know a goddamn thing 'bout me? You got no fuckin' clue, sweetheart. But maybe if you gave me half a chance all them years ago, you'd know a thing or two."

You laughed, voice dripping with sarcasm as the bartender placed his whiskey and tequila in front of him.

"What are you saying? Do you even hear yourself?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. He scowled and took a long sip from his whiskey. "How the hell would I ever have known anything about you, Joel? Can't learn much about a person after a few drunken hours and a half-assed attempt at foreplay because let's face it - that's all you're willing to offer anyone."

As a last second attempt at a power move, you grabbed the tequila and tossed it back with a wince before slamming the glass onto the wooden bar top and grabbing your purse.

"Thanks for the drink. It's been lovely catching up," you sneered, then finally forced yourself to leave his orbit before you lost yourself completely.

You slid through the crowds of people mingling and laughing in the ballroom, eyes darting this way and that as you tried to either find Tina or the nearest exit. When you eyes began to blur with unshed tears and you were about to resign yourself to crying in the middle of your fucking office Christmas party, you felt a strong hand wrap around your bicep.

"C'mon, this way," Joel's deep voice murmured before hauling you in a completely opposite direction.

For some unknown reason, you let him lead you from the packed ballroom towards the stairs. It was quieter, the sound from the Christmas music dulled against the walls, the only people around to hear it were you.

"We need to set some shit straight, once and for all," Joel said when he pulled you into an empty hallway. From the looks of it, it was an area meant for the hotel staff. One door was labeled laundry and the other maintenance. The elevator bank was right there. You could have easily tapped the button and left, but instead you crossed your arms and defiantly scowled up at him.

"Yeah? This should be good," you told him. He growled under his breath and you had to stifle the primal reaction the sound caused between your legs.

"That night... the happy hour. When we... y'know..." he trailed off and you sighed dramatically.

"Yes, Joel. Unfortunately I remember."

"I didn't go home with anyone else," he said. You blinked, unsure if it was the alcohol or if you were truly losing your mind. Did he really just say what you thought he said?

"What?" you whispered.

Joel shrugged. "I didn't. I might've spread that rumor 'cause my feelin's were hurt but I didn't go home with anyone else. I only wanted you."

"Me?" you sputtered.

"Yeah, you," Joel repeated, annoyance lacing his voice. "You'd been drivin' me crazy for fuckin' months. Couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout you. Ask Harris, he'd tell you. I talked 'bout you non-fuckin'-stop. Then that night, I got 'nough liquid courage in me to make a move and, well..."

He trailed off and ran his fingers through his hair.

"You shot me down. Ruined all the confidence I had 'n left me heartbroken."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," you said. "I didn't want to sleep with you that night and you took that to mean I wasn't interested in you? At all? Did it ever occur to you some women don't sleep with men the very first night they're shown a little attention?"

"Did it ever occur to you I wasn't tryin' to sleep with you that night?" he shot back.

"Oh, please!" you exclaimed with a dry laugh. "'Lemme walk you home, baby,' and, 'my place ain't too far from here'." You snorted and shook your head in disbelief. "Don't try to rewrite history. I was tipsy but I fucking remember."

"I was worried 'bout you!" he practically shouted in despair. "You'd been drinkin' and I wanted to make sure you were safe! Goddamnit, I didn't expect you to freak out 'n fuckin' shove me in front of the whole damn bar!"

The more Joel talked, the more the pieces began to slide into place. Maybe you did misread his intentions that night.

"W-well... y-you still continued to sleep around with the entire office," you stammered, gathering yourself again and shaking off his bombshell. "You had sex with Lainey from the mailroom and god knows who else! You might not have gone home with someone that night, but who cares? It's obvious you were just looking for a quick fuck."

"There's that fuckin' mouth again," he grumbled angrily. "Yeah, alright. Fine! I slept with a few women but Jesus fuckin' Christ, what'd you expect me to do? You clearly had zero goddamn interest in me. I couldn't sit 'round and be miserable forever."

"I never said I had zero interest in you!" you exclaimed before you had a chance to catch yourself. But your admission was out there. It was too late, and Joel's eyes darted up to yours in surprise.

"What's that mean? You... liked me?"

"What is this, high school?" you scoffed, crossing your arms. When he just continued to stare at you, anxiously waiting for you to answer, you sighed and dropped your arms to your sides in defeat. "Yeah, fine. I like you."

"Wait, wait, wait," Joel said excitedly. "Like or liked?"

"Oh, my god!" you cried out before turning on your heel to storm back down the stairs towards the party. "I'm not doing this with you! I'm fucking not-"

In the blink of an eye, Joel snatched your arm and twisted you back around to crash against his chest. You gasped right before his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you in for a deep kiss.

For one blissful moment, you let yourself forget it all. You forgot all the anguish you felt when you heard about Joel's latest conquests. You forgot about the way it felt watching him breeze around the office without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the way he hurt you. And you definitely forgot about the way you turned down a perfectly good date just two weeks prior because he wasn't what you were searching for and you fucking knew why.

"I'm not some cheap, quick fuck," you panted when you pulled away for air. Joel had managed to turn you so your back bumped up against the wall. Your eyes slid shut and a soft moan escaped from your lips when he began to drag his mouth down the column of your throat.

"We can go fast or slow, whatever you want," he mumbled into your skin. Your hand connected blindly with his shoulder and gave him a forceful shove, making him chuckle. "I know what you meant. I don't want that, either," he said before straightening up so he could look at you. "I don't want this to be a one time thing. Never did. That's what I've been tryin' to say."

Your mouth opened and closed as you tried to come up with a response. The way things had changed so quickly left you scrambling to keep up, and although you couldn't deny the reaction your body was having to Joel crowding you aggressively against the wall, your mind couldn't give in as easily.

"I can't stand you," you growled before pulling him back down to your level. Your mouth crashed hungrily against his, chasing the taste of peppermint and whiskey on his tongue. You were so lost in the feeling of his surprisingly soft lips pressed against yours that you hardly noticed when his hand skated down your side. With a muffled yelp, he yanked you off your feet, using his broad body to pin you against the wall while his hand began to travel up the skirt of your dress. You quickly wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him with your legs curled around his waist so you didn't fall.

"Fuck," Joel groaned when his fingers brushed against where your underwear should have been had you not chosen to forgo them for the evening. You smirked against his mouth and grabbed roughly at his hair.

"Didn't want panty lines," you breathlessly explained.

"Yeah, can't have that," he murmured right before plunging his tongue back inside your mouth. At the same, his thumb grazed over the slit of your cunt, pulling a moan from you both.

"You like yellin' at me, huh? That why you're already this wet, baby?" he purred, nipping at your earlobe while his middle finger teasingly probed at your entrance. You dropped your head back against the wall with a thud, hips chasing his hand, eager for more.

"Shut up," you whispered, then gasped when he finally slid one long, thick finger inside you. Joel chuckled against your neck, curling his finger inside your tight heat every time he dove back in. Your chin was tilted towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape as he slid a second finger inside with ease. You were vaguely aware of your compromising position, knowing full well anybody could turn the corner or exit one of the rooms at any moment, but neither of you cared.

"Ohmygod, fuck! Keep going," you begged, rolling your hips as best you could with your legs wrapped around his waist. The palm of his hand began to slap steadily against your clit each time he thrusted his fingers into you, driving you to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

"How 'bout you talk a little sweeter to me if you want it so bad?" Joel countered, yet his hand never stopped between your legs. He pulled away from your neck to watch your face contort with pleasure, and when you opened your eyes to look at him, you saw the flush in his cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. You smirked amidst your gasps for air and rolled your hips faster.

"Why? I think you like it when I'm mean to you."

His eyes darkened a shade and his hand began to move faster, fingers curling and brushing against a spot inside you that stole your breath. His free hand was pressed against the wall next to your head for leverage, but his fingertips curled with the desire to grab you fucking anywhere.

"Least lemme hear you say my name when you come," he said through clenched teeth. And that defiant streak inside of you really didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but his skilled fingers were making short work of your resolve.

Joel got what he wanted. A few quick snaps of his hand had you loudly coming undone with his name on your lips. He laughed before shushing you and pressing his mouth tenderly against your own to keep you quiet while slowing the rhythm of his hand between your legs.

For a few minutes, you each forgot where you were and all the bullshit you were arguing about moments before. Joel kissed you so softly through your high that it had you melting against him. Your fingers were no longer tugging at his hair. Instead, you found yourself gently raking them through his dark brown curls almost affectionately while your tongues slowly danced together.

You gasped when he carefully pulled out his hand, breaking the kiss. With glassy eyes and swollen lips, you stared at one another while trying to catch your breath. It was almost too soft, especially with the way his eyes searched your face, desperately trying to figure out where things stood after what you just did. He was so fucking hard that his stomach hurt, but he couldn't tell if you wanted to take things further or if you were having regrets.

"So that's all it takes to shut you up?" he finally teased when the silence had gone on too long for his liking. You huffed and rolled your eyes before tightening your legs around his waist, tugging him closer. Joel smirked when his hips collided with yours and you felt the massive erection he had been fighting with for the past fifteen minutes.

"Hmm, no I don't think so," you breathed while allowing a hand to fall between your bodies. Your fingers brushed against the outline of his cock straining against his black dress pants and you grinned. "But maybe this will."

"Thank fuck," he groaned in relief. His breath instantly grew more shallow at the mere prospect of feeling you wrapped around his cock, but when you nimbly undid his pants and pulled out his throbbing length, his chest was practically heaving with anticipation.

"Easy," you murmured when he leaned forward, sinking his teeth into a sensitive spot on your neck. You relished in the way you managed to make him so weak with just a few strokes of his cock. His entire body had pushed forward, chasing your hand. You felt short of breath from the pressure of his body pinning you against the wall but you didn't make him move. You liked the feeling of his broad frame caging you in far too much to make him stop.

You lined him up with your entrance and pulled your hand away, but just as he began to press forward, a squeaky door opening and closing around the corner from your hallway made you both freeze.

"Shit," you whispered. Joel locked eyes with you and quickly shook his head, signaling for you to be quiet. Both your shoulders were rising and falling fast but your mouths remained clamped shut so your heavy breathing couldn't be heard by whoever was walking down the tile floor with high heels. You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your face when the footsteps sounded moments away from turning the corner, then by some miracle they stopped in their tracks.

"Oh dear, I forgot my phone," a woman's voice said softly to herself. You both began to relax when the footsteps turned in the opposite direction and finally disappeared all together.

"Jesus Christ," Joel laughed shakily. You smirked and wiggled your hips, impaling yourself further on his cock.

"Better hurry up," you told him with an arched brow after his eyes locked with yours in surprise. Then a slow smile stretched across his face, positively gleeful that almost getting caught didn't change your mind. With one swift thrust, he sunk inside you the rest of the way, pleased with the way your jaw silently fell open and your head tipped back against the wall.

"You told me to hurry," he reminded you as he began to move his hips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you hung on for dear life.

"Fuck... you..." you whispered with your eyes closed and brows knit together. Joel chuckled and nipped your chin.

"Yeah, baby, that's the idea," he grunted, snapping his hips faster. "Fuck, wish we had more time. Feel so fucking good."

"I thought you'd be used to - shit - thought you'd be used to quickies by now."

Joel grabbed your chin and stilled his hips, forcing your eyes open in surprise.

"Knock it off. Told you I don't want that. Not with you."

You were surprised to hear the seriousness to his voice. You fumbled for a moment with how to react before saying, "Guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

"Yeah, you will," Joel replied. He released your chin and began to move again before he added, "I'm a lot of things, a liar ain't one of 'em."

He sounded truthful, but it was difficult to reconcile what he was saying to what you'd been hearing over the past few years. But since time was of the essence, you chose to let it go. After all, how long could it possibly take for someone to grab their phone?

"What? Got nothin' else to say?" Joel chided. You could see the flush creeping up his neck and even a little sweat beading just above his collar. The urge to drag your tongue across his tanned skin was growing impossible to ignore, so instead of answering his question, you decided to lunge forward and do just that. He groaned and began to grind into you, the coarse hairs at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit fucking perfectly.

You whimpered and buried your face against his neck, doing your best to stifle your sounds as the heat in your belly grew once again.

"Just like that," you gasped into his skin, hands grappling at the back of his neck, trying to draw him closer. "Oh, god, Joel... I'm close," you whined. It was building up too fast after your last orgasm. Your eyes began to water the harder he ground his hips and you bit down harshly on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out.

"That's it, just let go," he whispered in your ear. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down your spine. "Lemme have it. Say my name again, baby, please... I-I need it," he added, voice strained.

You lifted your chin so your lips could find the shell of his ear, moaning his name without your voice being muffled. What felt like just a second or two later, with your orgasm still rolling through you, Joel stilled and groaned softly into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he came.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he rasped as he pumped the last of his release deep into your cunt.

Panting for air, you slid your eyes shut and pressed your forehead against his. You felt his nose nudge against yours and you smiled before searching for his mouth and brushing your lips tenderly over his own.

"Look at you," Joel whispered against your mouth. "All soft 'n sweet now that you finally got fucked right."

"Do you ever stop talking?" you asked, trying to sound irritated, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away.

"You fuckin' love it," Joel said right before his tongue slipped past your lips with a groan.

The door around the corner opened and once again the familiar tap of high heels echoed down the hall. You sprung apart and hissed under your breath after Joel pulled out of you too fast.

"Sorry," he whispered while he tucked himself back into his pants and you adjusted the skirt of your dress.

You had just enough time to run your fingers through your hair and swipe a finger under your lip to catch any smeared lipstick when a woman neither of you recognized turned the corner.

"Oh! Good evening," she said after she slid to a halt. Joel cleared his throat and adjusted his tie before reaching for your hand.

"Evenin'... Dolly," he replied, squinting at her nametag. "My girlfriend's lookin' for the bathroom, could you point us in the right direction?"

"Of course! Sorry to say you've gotten yourself quite turned around. If you just go through those double doors there, you'll find the restrooms up the stairs and to the left."

"Thank you," you called out over your shoulder when Joel tugged you back in the direction of the ballroom. Once you were out of earshot, you dissolved into a fit of giggles, the sound making Joel grin ear to ear.

"Didn't take you for bein' such a naughty thing," he teased before holding the door open for you to step through.

"Yeah, me either," you replied with a little shake of your head. "You must be a bad influence on me."

"Care to join this bad influence for dinner tomorrow night?" he asked when he found his place back at your side. The ballroom was just on the other side of the wall. You could hear clearly now the drunken voices of your co-workers singing Christmas carols off-key.

"What, like a date?"

"Yeah," Joel said, grabbing your arm and spinning you around before you entered the room. "Like a date."

His dark eyes were sparkling as he gazed down at you. You noticed some of your lipstick had transferred under his ear and you grinned before using the pad of your thumb to swipe it away.

"Yeah. Okay. Let's do it."

Joel couldn't resist ducking down to your level for one more kiss, but it wasn't quick enough. To your left you heard a sharp gasp and you pulled apart to find Tina and two other co-workers staring at you like they just saw a ghost.

The tension was thick for a moment. Nobody knew what to say or do until finally Tina whooped and cheered before shouting, "It's a fucking Christmas miracle!"

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

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minarisplaything · 3 months ago

Text

I Know What You Want ft. Wonyoung

premise: Inspired by those "your birth month is your ex gf and your current gf" slideshows on tiktok. Might do more of these because they are light and fun.

pairing: Wonyoung x Male Reader content warning/kinks: cheating, daddy kink, anal a/n: happy sunday, always lube up properly o7 audio version (note: audio version is without daddy kink bc i got too lazy to edit around it) wc: 2.4k

"Isn't she a little old for you?" Wonyoung asked, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

"You sound jealous."

She shrugged. "I'm not jealous. I just didn't realize Sunmi-sunbaenim was into robbing the cradle."

"I'm twenty-one," you pointed out. Surely grown enough to make your own decisions on who you dated.

"She's thirty-two," Wonyoung countered.

You let out an annoyed sigh, "I'm not doing this with you today, Wonyoung. Why did you want to meet?"

Wonyoung bristled at your directness, her posture straightening as she scoffed. "You start fucking some hag and you start acting brand new around me."

"Some hag? Really? Wasn't it you who kept saying how much you adored Sunmi-sunbaenim?"

"That was before she took what was mine."

You let out a bark of dry laughter. "I'm not yours. I don't belong to you, Wonyoung."

A healthy response would have been to accept the setting of boundaries and acknowledge their mistake. Which naturally meant that Wonyoung took your words as a challenge.

"Is that right?" she asked, taking a step towards you. "You belong to her now, huh?"

"That's right." Which wasn't exactly true. You didn't think you belonged to anyone but something about the entitlement she was acting with made you respond out of indignation.

What you didn't expect was for her hand to reach out, manicured fingers sliding down to grasp your crotch. "Then why do I still get you hard?"

"Wonyoung -- "

A thin eyebrow arched itself, the picture of arrogance. "Are you going to deny it?"

"Your delusional."

"Am I?" She began to massage your cock over your clothing, and despite your protest, your cock was all too eager to respond to her familiar touch. "Are you telling me if I bent over right now you wouldn't fuck me against this wall?"

God you hated her. Or at least you should. The reality was that despite your separation. Despite the toxicity that had existed in your relationship. Despite being in a happy relationship now. There would always be a part of you that was weak to her. To both her advances and her behavior.

As if sensing your wavering disposition, her touch became heavier. "I'm not wearing any panties under this skirt," she said her tone taking on an innocent air. "Just the way Daddy likes."

That was all it took.

It was pathetically easy in the end for Wonyoung to get you to snap. Though, if anyone was going to be capable of it, it was going to be her. She knew you too well, for better and for worse. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if her whole look today; the mid-thigh length skirt, the cropped blouse that was a size too small and hugged her frame as a result. She even let her hair down today so it'd be easy for you to grab it. Combine that with her lack of underwear and calling you daddy and, well, you never stood a chance.

You surged forward, gripping Wonyoung's shoulders and spinning her to face the wall. She lead out a delighted fit of laughter as she arched her back, pressing her ass against your groin. Your hands moved to your buckle, shoving down your pants to free your cock from its denim cage.

"I can't stand you, you know that?"

Wonyoung giggled as she tossed you a look over her shoulder, "Whatever you say, Daddy."

With cock in hand you used the other to shove her skirt up, revealing that she had spoken true in her words. You could see her bare pussy, practically begging for you. You bit your bottom lip, hating that the thought of missing this crossed your mind. "You were waiting for this weren't you?"

"Can you tell?" Wonyoung smiled wickedly, "Can't you see how wet I am for you?"

You could. And if you needed any further confirmation you ran your cock between her legs, coating it in her arousal. You had to stop yourself from delving into any further foreplay. This was just a one-time fuck to get it out of your system. At least that was what you told yourself. But as you slipped the tip of your cock into her and began to thrust forward, you were reminded of why it had been so hard to quit Wonyoung in the first place.

"Oh fuck yes, Daddy," Wonyoung said, her back arching further. "You feel how you're stretching my tight pussy? You haven't felt that in a while have you?"

You bit back the urge to tell Wonyoung that wasn't how that worked. Now wasn't the time for a biology lesson nor defending your girlfriend's honor. Instead you focused on stuffing her inch by inch, watching as her pussy swallowed more and more of you until you were pressed flush against her ass.

"Oh, fuck," you groaned out, your head falling forward slightly.

"It feels good doesn't it? It's perfect," Wonyoung cooed. "We're perfect."

Your brow furrowed slightly. "Don't think I'm won over that easily."

Refusing to give into the sentiment that she was suggesting you slipped your cock out of her before stuffing her again and again. You repeated the process, each time going a bit hard, a bit faster while making sure she felt every inch of your cock. The truth was it was fucking heavenly. Sex had never been the reason your relationship fell apart. And even now months later it was like returning to something familiar. Despite yourself you wanted to enjoy this, for however long it lasted.

Your fingers moved to tangle in her dark, wavy locks, pulling her head back as her lithe body shook with your rough thrusts.

"You like that, Wony? This is what you wanted right?" You taunted, giving into the moment as you seized back control.

"Yes!"

"You couldn't find anyone else to fuck you this good could you?"

"Noo," she moaned.

You tugged on her hair roughly, "No, what?"

"No one fucks me this good, Daddy!" Wonyoung cried out.

You rewarded her diligent response with a spank on her fit ass.

"Mmmfph!" She moaned, biting her bottom lip as you continued to fuck her roughly. You could feel her walls tightening around you, her juices already dripping around your cock each time you pulled out of her. The telltale signs that her first orgasm was on the horizon were there for you to see. The way her cheeks flushed, the way her mouth hung upon as she did her best to hold herself against the wall. All she needed was for you to push her over the brink.

"Are you going to come for me? Come for daddy," you whispered against her the shell of her ear as you stuffed her.

"F-fuck! I'm coming!" Wonyoung cried out, not even bothering with trying to contain her moans of pleasure. The look on her face was pure ecstasy and you found it was a look that, despite having near memorized it, it was one you missed.

Her walls tightened around your length as her orgasm shook her body. You were relentless, continuing to fuck the top idol through her climax. One arm slipped around her waist should her legs go weak on her. By the time it was all over she had leaned forward, her face pressed against the wall, her eyes slightly glazed over as her body rocked with your slower thrusts.

As you looked at her perfect ass still pointed out to you, an idea popped into your head.

"Don't move" you instructed her, though you weren't sure if she comprehended you.

You slipped your cock out of her, ignoring the lazy "Hey..." That came from Wonyoung at your action. You were still achingly hard and now thoroughly coated in her juices. That would come in handy soon enough. You got down on your knees, spreading her firm cheeks. Her pussy lips were swollen from your rough fucking but that wasn't your target, instead your tongue was probing her asshole, much to Wonyoung's surprise.

"W-what are you doing," she asked, the intrusion bringing her some of her senses back. Still, she made no move to stop you.

Her inaction only emboldened her as your tongue worked her backdoor. In all the months the two of you had spent together. In all the spontaneous sessions that broke out between you whether it was loving or after a fight, this was the one hole that Wonyoung had never let you claim. In fact, she had been adamant about it every time you even mentioned it. But you had a plan for that now. When you were satisfied you withdrew your tongue and moved to test her hole with your index finger.

"Really, what are you up to back there?" Wonyoung said, letting out a shaky breath.

"Ssh, just relax," you instructed her.

"You – fuck – you know that's off-limits," she returned.

Now was your trump card.

"Sunmi let me fuck her ass."

A poignant pause hung in the air. It was as if Wonyoung was considering what you had just said. Though, given her actions thus far, you had a feeling you already knew her mind was made up. Wonyoung wasn't nearly as cut-throat as some made her out to be but she wasn't someone who took kindly to coming in second place. Least of all when it came to you.

"Make sure you don't go to hard" she finally said. "And you better soak your cock, I'm not some stretched out hag."

"Unnecessary," you chided her. Still, she was right on one point. You returned your tongue to her asshole, preparing it the best you could before moving back to your feet. Your cock slipped inside of Wonyoung again, giving her a few rough thrusts before pulling out and applying some more natural lubrication of your own as you spit on your cock. Finally you were ready. Well, as ready as you could be. Mostly your cock was just aching at the thought of finally being inside Wonyoung's ass.

You positioned your tip at her entrance, gently beginning to push the head forward. "Remember to relax," you said, a hand on her lower back.

"Oh, fuck," Wonyoung swore, her cheek pressed against the wall. "You're too fucking big."

"I thought you liked that," you taunted her.

"Shut up," she groaned.

You couldn't help but chuckle. There was the Wonyoung you knew. Not the princess she pretended to be in front of the camera. You continued pushing ahead, slow and steady as the head of your cock finally penetrated her.

"Holy shit..." You muttered under her breath.

"Fuck. Just....wait there a second," Wonyoung muttered, one long arm reaching back to press against your hip as she got accustom to the new stretch.

You were more than happy to abide. Even just having past the head of your cock in her ass had you reeling. You knew that some of your reaction would be based on the novelty of it. On the fact that you were fucking Jang Wonyoung's ass for the first time. That you were the only person to ever do so. But the truth was it also felt far better than you could have imagined. It wasn't your first time. You hadn't lied when you said that Sunmi had taken you first. And, to be fair, you had loved it then too. But it had been different. You had merely experienced it as Sunmi rode you, in control the entire time. On top of that,t here wasn't the same history. As much as you hated to admit it, it didn't compare to this.

"Okay," Wonyoung said, breaking you from your thoughts, "You can move."

That was all you needed to hear. You pushed forward, inch by inch watching as her hole stretched around your cock until you made it about halfway down the length of your shaft.

"This will have to do," you grunted.

You began to move your hips, slowly at first as you rocked against her before adding more vigor. Steadily with drawing your cock before filling her backdoor again and again. Soft pants left Wonyoung as her nails dug into your flesh, her hand holding onto your thigh.

"How does it feel," you asked her.

"Like I'm being split in half," she groaned.

"And?"

Wonyoung was silent for a moment before a breathless, "...so good."

"Yeah?" Your cock twitched inside of her.

She nodded, her eyes closed, "Fuck yes. Fuck, your cock feels so good inside my tight little asshole."

"That's right," you said, picking up the pace. "And no one will make you feel like this."

"It's all yours," Wonyoung moaned. "Always yours, Daddy."

Somewhere along the way you had transitioned to the one who was laying a possessive claim as opposed to Wonyoung. Whatever, you tossed it up to the heat of the moment. This changed nothing but it did motivate you to see this through to the end. After that it'd be like this never happened but until then her ass was yours.

Your grip on her hips tightened as your pace increased, pounding her backdoor. Wonyoung's hand dipped between her thighs, rubbing her clit as she chased her second orgasm.

"Fuck!" She chanted, becoming more vocal as her climax drew near.

"I'm going to come," you grunted. "I'm going to fill you up."

Wonyoung didn't have the capacity to reply, instead her mouth fell open in a silent cry as her second orgasm washed over her. Not one to be a liar you finally managed to fit your entire length into her ass, just in time for your own release to hit you. Your cock swelled before spilling an obscene amount of cum into her bowel. As you pulled your cock out you watched your cum ooze out of her puckered hole.

"Jesus christ..." You muttered, chest heaving. The sight alone was damn near enough to make you want a round two.

For once Wonyoung didn't have a smart comeback, instead slowly sinking to the ground in a heap, her cheek still pressed against the wall as she tried to catch her breath. Idly you couldn't help but wonder if this was how she imagined this encounter was going to go when she first confronted you. Maybe you'd get to ask her once some of her senses returned. For now you just wanted to bask in the pleasure of what had just happened without thinking too hard.

TWO WEEKS LATER.

"Un-fucking-believable."

You stared at your phone, watching as the latest tiktok reel came across your screen. You watched as your girlfriend, Sunmi, and your ex-girlfriend, Wonyoung, completed a dance challenge together. Of course, Sunmi had no idea about your past relationships. Wonyoung on the other hand was well aware.

And yet here she was, doing a dance challenge with the same woman whose boyfriend had been fucking her ass not two weeks earlier.

You could only shake your head in disbelief and some mild concern. "What the hell are you plotting, Wony."

#wonyoung smut #wonyoung x male reader #ive smut #male reader #kpop smut #girl group smut

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mariasont · 8 months ago

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Parent-Teacher Conference - A.H

a/n: inspired by the show the nanny! major lover of mr sheffield and fran fine

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

summary: you are not happy with jack's teacher flirting with your boss

warnings: hotch staring at your ass!, jealous reader, flirty reader, would prob def get a complaint against her in the real world, but alas!

wc: 0.8k

I'm terribly sorry, but my cat died before I got here.

I actually was in a car wreck on the way. I know I look fine, but it was super traumatic.

Mr. Hotchner you look so good today! Me? Late! Never.

These were the series of apologies and excuses that you were rehearsing in your mind as you navigated your way through the school hallway. In your defense, your tardiness to the parent-teacher conference wasn't without reason. Jack's newfound rebellious phase had him ruining your pantyhose with deliberate runs. He found it hilarious. You found it anything but.

You mentally prepared for that all-too-familiar, intimidating glare from Mr. Hotchner, the kind that could make you feel like you were plummeting from a cliff. Not only were you running late, but you also anticipated a less-than-glowing report from Ms. Thompson about Jack's recent antics. And in the back of your mind, a nagging voice whispered that Mr. Hotchner would somehow find a way to blame you.

"Oh, Aaron, you're something else!"

You stopped dead in your tracks, gaze locked on the scene unfolding before you. Ms. Thompson's voice took on a higher pitch, full of animation, her elbows subtly drawing her tits together, leaning into Mr. Hotchner's space with an ease that bordered on disrespectful. At least in your eyes.

Aaron? The casual use of Mr. Hotchner's first name sent your mood from sour to downright acrid. You strode into the classroom, inching your skirt higher and affixing a practiced, beaming smile to your face. It was all charm and no sincerity.

"So sorry I was late," you began, allowing a gentle sway in your step as you glided into the room, your heels clicking a measured tempo against the linoleum floor. You mustered all your willpower to not shoot daggers at the blonde headed teacher. "I didn't miss anything did I?"

As you stepped into view, both Ms. Thompson and Mr. Hotchner turned their eyes to you. Ms. Thompson's showed a flicker of surprise, while Mr. Hotchner's were like slits, scrutinizing. But even his discipline gaze dipped, albeit briefly, to the curve where your skirt ended.

"Oh, I... I didn't realize you were married, Mr. Hotchner," she mumbled, her hands fumbling gracelessly with the papers on the desk, her lips pinched in a straight line.

You could nearly hear the thoughts churning in Mr. Hotchner's head as his lips parted to correct her. Hastily, you cut in, "An innocent mistake, I'm sure."

He raised an eyebrow, a wordless question hanging in the air. Ignoring it, you flashed a saccharine smile and took the seat by his side, linking your arm with his. His muscles tensed, a reaction that almost coaxed a giggle from you.

It was all too easy to get a rise out of him.

"My wife, the epitome of timeliness,"Mr. Hotchner states dryly, his grip of your arm tightening just a tad more than called for.

To your astonishment, the remainder of the conference proceeded seamlessly from that point on. Ms. Thompson restrained herself, both in wardrobe and word, and unexpectedly showered Jack with praise.

Exiting the classroom alongside Mr. Hotchner, you noticed he paused just long enough to ensure Ms. Thompson was out of ear shot. That's when you felt the squeeze of his hand on your side, coming to rest on the curve of your lower back, the pressure didn't move even as you found yourselves alone in the hallway--and you were far from objecting.

"Really?"

Your shoulders rose and fell in a pretense of innocence, well aware that his perceptive eyes weren't fooled. You tilted into his shoulder, doing a mental victory dance when he made no move to distance himself.

"What?" you asked, clutching your purse tighter against your side as you paced forward. "I was just helping you out. She looked like she was about to jump your bones at any second."

Mr. Hotchner's face was unamused, per usual. "Your generosity knows no bounds."

"Right?" You were aware of his sarcasm, but that didn't deter you. Your shoulders bumped together as you made it to the exit. "Consider yourself lucky."

An eye roll was his immediate response, but you could almost sense the smile he was staunchly holding back. He would never admit it.

"Yes, how could I ever manage without you?"

He paused to open the door for you, following behind as you stepped outside. You squinted against the sun's harsh kiss before giving him a teasing wink over your shoulder. He looked really good in the sunlight. He could use more of it.

"You wouldn't."

You caught his eyes lingering not on your face, but lower--fixated on your skirt, more specifically your ass. You raised your brows in question.

"I think you sat in something."

You let out a startled gasp, hands flying to the material of your skirt. It was your favorite. "What? Where?"

His hands found their way to your waist, gently pivoting you for a better view, while your eyes settled on the stretch of road before you. "Oh, nope, my mistake. Looking good."

Your laughter spilled out uncontrollably, realizing just what he was doing. Cheeky man. And completely out of character, but you liked it. "Mr. Hotchner!"

"I take my role as husband very seriously."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x nanny!reader #criminals minds fic #criminal minds fluff #Spotify

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heartandbow · 7 days ago

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Midnight Blue

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER SMUT

summary: Bucky hated you in many different ways, and tonight was no exception. tw; smut, choking, dom!bucky.

Despite Bucky's reputation of being big, bad, and dangerous, there is yet to be a time he ever scared you. Even now, where he was in the very building somewhere to kill you, you knew his only weakness — he couldn't sneak around.

It's not surprising when you think about it. With his death stare and metallic arms, anybody would spot him coming from a mile away. You just have to make sure you're faster than him, which happened to be your specialty. Being a thief for the last few years taught you everything there is to know about blending in with the shadows.

Which was a shame, you thought, because I look nice today.

You did look nice. You were currently in a gala for some valiant cause or other, hosted by some rich businessman you hadn't bothered to catch the name of. You had on your midnight blue gown, embedded with pearls that reflected off the champagne glasses and Rolex watches.

"Excuse me," one of the attendees said, tapping your shoulder. "Are you Miss Malley?"

"No," you smiled broadly, knowing the guy was about to hit on you any second.

"Oh, my mistake." He had a sheepish grin. "I'm Shane. Can I buy you a drink?"

"The drinks are free," you said, grinning right back.

"I know."

"Aren't you busy trying to find Miss Malley?"

"Who?" The smile hadn't worn off.

This particularly uninteresting conversation was cut short by sudden silence at the gala. The foolish sack of a man had diverted your attention just enough that you saw a metallic death stare at the end of the gala — a stare that seemed just for your particular demise.

Don't panic, you thought, staring right back. He wouldn't dare hurt you with this many people present. Even then, he was making his way towards you. You moved away, silent as a ghost.

With each turn of crowd, you realized you might quite possibly be stuck. Bucky had brought in reinforcement ranging from Natasha Romanoff to Captain America, all of them in regal formal attire and in different corners. No one except Bucky had spotted you, possibly because he was the only person who actually had a personal vendetta against you.

Get out, your brain said clearly. Get out before they bring you to Stark. You had enough beef with that man to last for a lifetime.

You grimaced, then looked for the exit. Not the one that the attendees use, no, that would be too easy. You headed for the staff exit, the one behind the kitchen.

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Half an hour later, you were walking through the dark alley, your heels clinking against the pavement. You were exhausted from all the walk, but you were used to this dance by now. Move until the target is off your back. That's how it's always been.

You wondered if you'd ever get tired of the steps.

Someone whistled. You turned to see a man around his late 40s, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"How much for the night, sweetie?"

You squinted. He looked harmless enough. You kept on walking, ignoring his continuous calls behind your back.

"Don't be like that! What, I'm not young enough for you? I thought your kind took money from anyone with a dick!"

You had half a mind to punch him in the face with the hidden knife.

No, walk on. Last thing you need is a corpse on the street.

A second passed, then two. The man's immediate silence ticked off your senses. You turned around to see him on the floor, unconscious. Somehow, it did not look like it was the alcohol that took him out.

You were almost impressed when a knife appeared at your throat from behind.

"You're getting better at sneaking around," you said proudly. "You didn't have to knock him out though. Chap was not laying a hand on me."

"Shut the fuck up." Bucky's raspy voice sent a jolt of adrenaline down your spine. His anger was controlled, but you still could hear it.

"Your wish." You stepped on his shoes. He let out a pang of hurt, not expecting your heels to feel that sharp.

One moment of distraction, that's what cost him. You whipped your gun and faced him, smile on your face.

"How did you find me?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"That hardly matters." He put his hand out, grabbing the gun, or trying to anyways. You stepped out of the way just in time and he grunted.

"You need to loosen up. Like the night we did the Catherbury mission, remember?"

That only seemed to rile him up more. You didn't think he even cared that much about the fact that you were in Avengers a good deal of time before you sneaked into Stark's office, got his card, stole a great deal of gadgets and sold them off the black market. You didn't think he even cared you were the biggest thief in the city, one that fooled even the avengers.

His vendatta against you was personal, because he considered you his friend. The cold, cruel Bucky was duped for the world to see.

"I really think we should sit down and talk," you said, the gun still held high. "Everything I did was business Bucky, stop taking it so personally."

Bucky's face showed just a tinge of hurt, but then he hurled — no weapons, no hesitation. Just full-on pounced on you, and your back hit the wall.

"If everything wasn't so fucking personal, shoot me," he practically spat out those words.

You realized you hadn't even thought of using the gun that lay hanging lifeless from your hands. You tried to grip it, but Bucky pushed his hand on top of it, bending the metal seamlessly in a way it was upside down. You let it go and tried to move.

Bucky clapped his hands on the wall on either side of your head. His eyes were smeared with charcoal and he smelt like musky cologne.

"Where's your disappearing act now?" he whispered, making you feel all sorts of things.

"Let me go," you said, gritting your teeth. God, he was standing too close.

He bent his head down and brought his lips near your ears.

"You've no clue how long I wanted to have you like this," he said, making your heart skip a beat. "Unescapable, vulnerable, scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You should be." He put his hand — the non-metallic one — over your throat. His touch was gentle, but the message was clear; he could kill you in a touch.

Though it didn't help that you liked it a little too much.

"How did you find me?" you asked again, calmly.

"Shane is my friend. He put a GPS tracker on you. I knew you'd run so all I had to do was wait."

You were impressed yet again.

"How did Shane find me? I was blending in the crowd well."

Bucky's eyes shone brighter. "You weren't going to blend in with a dress that beautiful," he stopped, removing his hand. It was as if he just realized how close he actually was to you. His eyes slid down to your lips just a second. His hands started lowering from the wall to your waist.

Then his lips were on yours, and you could have sworn he put all his anger into it. One kiss and he was prying your lips open, making out with you in that dark alley with a knocked out man five feet away.

"James," you whined between kisses, pulling him closer. The moans did things to his brain. He slid his hands through the slit of your dress, grabbing your thigh with a force that had you unnerved.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He closed your mouth with his other hand. "No, listen to me first. I want you to mean it. Completely. Because I don't know the things I'll do to you when you say yes."

In response, you took his hand from your thighs and slid them higher, right into your panties. You pressed your body against his and you could feel him being hard.

"I hate you," he said curtly, then picked you up with effortless strength. Two minutes and you were in a secluded part of the alley, and he was setting you down on an old bench. He bent down, keeping eye contact with you all the while.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, placing a kiss on your neck. You moaned, but didn't move. He dragged your lips from your collarbones to the edge of your neckline, and pulled the dress down.

Without waiting a beat, he took off your bra and kissed your nipples.

"Bucky," you whined, and all he did was bite down harder. He let his hand drag down and pushed two fingers right into your pussy. The pain was immediate and pleasurable. His pace was slow and you started grinding on his fingers for more friction.

"Shush," he said, taking off his fingers and setting you up straight. "Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?"

"Yes," you said, moving in for a kiss. He turned his head away.

"Beg."

"Fuck me Bucky, please." You moved your hand to his pants, and he looked like he might lose all control. A few seconds of unbuckling and he took you in his arms, pressing you down to the bench and spread your legs wide.

You were wet already, and the sight of his big, hard cock hadn't helped. You were dripping down your panties.

"Beg," he said again, taking off your panties and throwing them away.

"Please fuck me, James, fuck—" you gasped when he thrust his dick in you. A moment of holding onto his hand and he was fucking you like you were his. He leaned over and bit down on your neck. A kiss and a few sucking and you knew that was going to leave a mark.

You didn't care. You were being dicked out of your soul and you were taking every second of it.

Then it stopped. He pulled away from you, his dick still hard. You were confused to see that big smile on his face, even more so when he started zipping his pants.

"You left me three months ago," he said, straightening his hair. He leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Next time you think of me, I want you to think of me fucking you like you're my bitch. How having my hands on your throat was enough to make you wet."

Revenge. That's what it was?

"You wanted to fuck me to make me regret lying to you?" you asked breathlessly, feeling ashamed that it already worked.

Bucky smiled. "I wanted to fuck you for a whole lot reasons Y/N, but I also want you to knock on my door and apologize, preferably on your knees and begging. On all fours. I'd sacrifice the rest of the night to see that."

He pulled you up and put the dress on tidily. "Goodbye. And, you really do look beautiful."

Motherfucker, you thought to yourself as he left.

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commissions info

kofi

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #marvels #x reader #female reader #reader insert #bucky x you

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creativepromptsforwriting · 3 days ago

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Drabble List #12

75 prompts to write drabbles or longer stories.

"Everyone should be delighted to know me."

"Tick tock, the clock is ticking."

"What a fantastic idea!"

"Not going to destroy the world or anything."

"You're awful at solving riddles."

"That was a poor decision."

"Do you really think you can handle the truth?"

"I never thought I'd see you again."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"This isn't the end, it's just the beginning."

"You promised you'd never leave."

"There's more to this story than you know."

"I'm not the hero you think I am."

"Sometimes, doing the right thing means making tough choices."

"If you walk away now, don't bother coming back."

"I've kept this secret for far too long."

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"They'll never believe us, but we have to try."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"No one else knows, and it has to stay that way."

"Do you trust me?"

"We can't let them win."

"You have no idea what you're getting into."

"This changes everything."

"I thought I knew you."

"I've waited my whole life for this moment."

"You were the last person I expected to see."

"Why does it always have to be you?"

"We're running out of time."

"Do you think they suspect anything?"

"I've made up my mind."

"This isn't what I signed up for."

"How can you be so sure?"

"We can't afford any mistakes."

"You can't keep running away from your past."

"What are we supposed to do now?"

"Sometimes, the hardest thing is to let go."

"You know this isn't right."

"What are you hiding from me?"

"We have to stick together."

"I'm not giving up on you."

"There's no turning back now."

"I never wanted any of this."

"What if we don't have a choice?"

"It's time to face the music."

"You have to trust your instincts."

"Everything we've worked for is at stake."

"I didn't expect you to understand."

"This is our only shot."

"I'm not interested anymore."

"You owe me an explanation."

"We can't do this alone."

"I thought you were on my side."

"This is bigger than both of us."

"What do you have to lose?"

"I can't pretend anymore."

"You're not as invisible as you think."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"You're the only one who can help."

"We need to be careful."

"Are you with me?"

"No, this is enough."

"I don't think I can do this."

"Ok, so sue me."

"What a fine young man."

"This isn't about you."

"I know what I have to do."

"We need to find a way out."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not as simple as it seems."

"I can't believe it's come to this."

"This isn't over yet."

"What's the plan?"

"Take me to court."

"There's no easy answer."

Drabble Masterlist

Have fun creating and writing!

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#drabble prompt list #writing ideas #writeblr #writing prompts #writers on tumblr #drabbles

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lufyuu · 2 months ago

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,, Bloodstained Crown ''

Yandere emperor x vengeful ex-crown prince reader

Tw/s: obsessive love, kidnapping, heavy yandere themes, rough + shameless + clingy yandere, dubcon, voyeurism, cockwarming, sex in public, power imbalance, one sided enemies to lovers, mentions of killing/death, slight gore.

They never seem to stop, those clouds. Crying all day as if mourning something important. Their tears seem to wash away the thick red liquid on the dirty floor. It wouldn't have been possible if not for the roof of the manor being in shambles. "T-t-those damned Luminayres—", he coughs, and coughs, and coughs, almost reaching his limit and taking his last breath. The heavy rain drowns out the sobs of a young teen, clinging onto what little hope he had left. He was in utter shock, not even able to say a single thing. Nothing came out his mouth. Not even a single whimper looking at the dead bodies. Dead bodies of his parents, servants, everyone who had ever lived in that palace. Dead. In a pool of their own blood. No amount of apologies will stop this former royal from avenging them all.

Even after so many years. Perhaps even a decade has passed. You're determined to finish what they started. They made a huge mistake. They didn't check if you were already dead or not. The bullet that had been lodged into your arm is not replaced with a scar which is a reminder that no matter how much they tried to cover it up, you'll always be out for their throats. When the sun sets and the streets are empty, you look around for ways to get into the protected palace. Revenge really isnt an easy feat.

"[Fake Name]! Did I hire you to doze off or work?", a deep voice yells out from the otherside of the sunlit room. You wipe a bit of sweat off your forehead, "coming boss", you jog over with a semi clean cloth to where your higher up is. "This is very dirty, how do you expect our customers to like it?", he points at one of the many displayed weapons. You notice a few specks of noticeable dust, "my apologies boss, I'll clean it all up right away", you slowly and carefully brush off the dust off of everything to make sure they look good enough for customers to stop by and look at, perhaps even buy. Your salary here isn't worth the work you're doing but as long as you can keep a roof over your head and food on the table, you'll be fine. It's way better than being on the streets afterall. This is almost your way of moving on. Even if it's not affective in the slightest.

After dusting off most of the armour, the doorbell chimes. A man walks in wearing armour. Someone who works for the royal family that's for sure. The boss is almost taken aback but keeps his composure, "W-welcome honorable soldier!", he instantly lightens up, a huge smile on his face while you freeze in place, not daring to face the man who has just entered the shop. The soldier doesn't say anything, only looking around, searching for something. "Do you have a blade with a handle made out of gems? Specifically diamonds", the boss is even more taken aback, as if the shop has anything that valuable. "My deepest apologies honorable soldier, I fear we do not have anything that fits that description", he frowns, "do you take custom orders?", "y-yes but I'm afraid we don't have the gem—", the man is quickly sileneced by the soldier putting a huge sack on the ground, from a small opening, the diamond shines just enough for everyone to see, including you. "His Royal Highness, the prince will be needing this next week for his engagement, he will be personally coming to pick it up", with that, the soldier turns his heels and walks out the door, the bell chiming once more as he does.

Something about this ignited the flame in you once more. This may be your last time.

"This means more work for us", well, more of work for you. With your mind elsewhere, you almost dont hear his voice. When you realize he did say something, you give a quick nod and head towards the jewelry shop to look at some gems. Your boss didn't need to ask you too anymore, you already knew. You already know this street like the back of your hand. It was an easy task reaching to your destination.

"Mr Albert, can you help make a handle out of diamonds?", you ask as you step into the shop. Even if you didn't intend it, the two of you had became pretty close but you know that won't last long. "Of course [Fake Name]! What kind are they?", you hand him the heavy bag of diamonds, shocking him as the diamond shines brightly. "Whose are these?", "the prince's, it's regarding his engagement to the princess Elena", Albert is even more taken aback as he grabs one of the glistening diamonds with one hand while the other holds a magnifying glass to it. "This is really high quality..!", you nod, "so, how long will it take?", "perhaps 5 days if I rush it."

5 days.

5 days is all you have to prepare. This might be your only chance. Even if it's half a percent, you're willing to take that risk. This is an opportunity you've been waiting for. You don't even know if the prince will be there or not, it's just something you'll have to count on.

The rest of your work day passes by as usual, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unique, nothing to really make you feel content with life. Though, how could you? Even after all these years, you haven't given up on what you've been seeking ever since you were just a young teen. Whatever it is, it's still near impossible to achieve in these circumstances.

You take a seat looking out to the ocean, the sun setting as you do. The view reminds you a lot of the past. The very distant and unforgivable past. The little boy who had accompanied you all those years ago. The perpetrator.

Enough of the past. You're here to enjoy the sunset and ocean breeze. You sit in silence, relaxing your body and closing your eyes for a bit. Unfortunately though, even when the atmosphere is relaxing, something about it does annoy you a bit, the sound of people murmuring as they walk behind you, on the road. You can smell something sweet and know it's from the bakery not too far from your seat. This area used to be quiet, nice, full of trees and grass up until people decided they needed more land to use for shops. Everything changes overtime, nothing you can do about it.

After just a few minutes, the sun has dissapeared from sight, the moon taking its place. It's an everyday thing, nobody finds it unusual. Once the sun is gone, the moon takes over.

You look around, some shops are closing down while others stay open for the night. That's when you decide it's time for you to get some rest. No use staying here and dwelling on the past. It can't be changed anyways. As you're getting up, a carriage drives right by you, you catch a small glimpse of who the carriage is carrying. A mere glance from their midnight almost black eyes makes you shiver. It reminds you of the ocean at night and something more. Though, you can't quite place your finger on what it reminds you of.

Those 5 days pass by painstakingly slow. Too slow for you who wanted to have the prince's severed head on your shelf right this moment. When the day finally came, you waited in the shop. Acting as if it was any other day. Well, it sort of was. The only difference being the soon to be murder weapon concealed under your clothes. Your foot tapped impatiently, wanting to hear the sound of the townspeople murmuring or giggling, causing a ruckus. It would more than likely indicate the prince's arrival. "[Fake Name] why are you tapping your foot?", your boss asks with an annoyed expression. He hates the tapping sound, it drives him crazy. Though, when you turn around, wanting to answer or apologize for the action, the door opens. "Pardon me, I'm here to pick up a custom order?", a sweet and grace-laced voice calls out from just a mere meters from you. "O-oh yes of course your highness!", the old boss scrambles to the back, searching for where he had placed such an important order. Meanwhile, you stared bullets into the royal. This was it. Your chance. Maybe even your last.

As the prince takes a couple steps to admire the shop owner's handiwork, you took this as an opportunity to get closer. "Hm? I'm alright you don't need to show me around", you glance at the entrance, a few guards stationed to keep the prince safe but you wonder, why aren't any of them by his side? That's a stupid thing to do. Leaving their one and only heir all vulnerable to any and all attacks. With a swift move, you grab your weapon and direct it to the prince's throat, pinning him to the shelf. "Oh?", is all he lets out. An interested and excited 'oh' . The blade stops just a fraction from his skin, leaving him unharmed. Even as you try to press the blade closer, aiming to slice his soft skin, your strength is no match for his.

"Your highness! Here is your—", the old man nearly has a heart attack on the spot, nobody would blame him if he did. "[FAKE NAME]!? WHAT IN HEAVEN'S SAKE ARE YOU DOING!?", his screams are loud enough to reach the ears of the guards outside, prompting them to turn around and look at whatever was the matter. With no hesitation, they burst into the shop, almost breaking the glass door. "Drop your weapon immediately!", one of them says while the others surround you. "Step away and nobody gets hurt", their tone intimidating, unfortunately or fortunately, not quite intimidating enough for you. "Agh, fuckers", you turn to the guards, letting the prince out of your sights for just a splint second. A terrible mistake.

With a swift move, your blade is removed from your hands. "No need to worry, I'm afraid our attacker here is quite inexperienced", you look back at the prince who now has an even wider smirk. Little do you know, he's also scanning your features, taking it all in. "Huh, your face is familiar, that attitude, not so much", you glare at the man nad try to punch him using your non-dominant hand which is also stopped by him. "Y-y-your highness! I am incredibly sorry for the trouble he has caused!", the old man is clearly referring to you, "rest assured he's never allowed to work or come near here ever again!", he's almost crying, trembling with fear as to what the royal family might do to him. The prince seems to be thinking as he pauses for a few seconds before his eyes lit up. With a firm grip, the royal heir clasps both your hands in one of his, making sure you can't make any sudden attacks on him. With the now free hand, he stretches it to the boss, "where's my dagger?", and just like that, the boss is scrambling to hand it over. Once the prince had it in his hands, he looked over at your puzzled and angry face. "Is it pretty?", he holds up the dagger to your face. You think he's about to stab you with it so you remain silent. "I'm Prince Vaelius if you haven't already known", he scans you, "and you are..[Fake Name]?", he seems unsure of it himself, wanting confirmation from you but you don't give it. "Fuck you and fuck your royal family bullshit", you spat out with venom. Most would be incredibly angry by now but not him. He finds it amusing how you have a vendetta against him and he doesn't even know you!

Vaelius takes a step, then another, and another towards the exit. The guards open the door for him, wondering what his next move would be. As the carriage door opens, you're thrown into it, followed by the prince who climbs in immediately after you. You try to kick the man but all that does is amuse the royal sicko. "Let me..off this dammed carriage!", you scream and try to kick once more, only for your ankle to be grabbed by Vaelius who pulls you closer. Your leg now sitting on his shoulder as the carriage moves slowly. "Your life's in my hands now, [Name]."

"[Name], meet Prince Vaelius", your mother, the Queen of Aldoria introduces you to the little boy infront of you. He looks about 10. Now why would you befriend such a young boy when you can play with others your age? "Go on, talk to his highness", she gives you a gentle push which makes you a bit annoyed. The little boy looks up at you, his midnight eyes almost glowing as he looks into yours. It's as if he's mesmerized by you. "H-hi!", his voice is still high pitched unlike yours. You're in your early teens so it's been a while since you've heard an annoying high pitched voice. Nonetheless, you have to be nice. "Hello, I'm [Name] [Last Name]", you reach out to shake his hand but you mom quickly puts your hand down, "it's impolite, give a little bow", she whispers in your ear to which you oblige. You give the smaller boy a bow, to which he smiles sweetly at. "Mn! I'm Vaelius!", he excitedly replies.

Arriving at the place you never thought you'd ever step foot in ever again, you feel a sense of dread wash over. However, this feeling was soon followed by anger and frustration.

The prince steps out first and holds out his hand, anticipating yours to grab his. Instead, you ignore the outstretched hand and get out yourself. Dusting your clothes as your feet touch the ground. "Are you repulsed by me?—", as he asks that, your hand grabs his collar, glaring at him, "I won't cause a ruckus as long as you keep your hands off of me", "but you're the one touching me, are you not?", he looks down at the hand on his collar which you quickly pull back, turning your attention back to the magnificent castle infront of you.

With guards surrounding the both of you, you are brought into the castle, the prince never leaving your side. As the palace doors open, there are already maids taking the prince's coat off, making him feel at home while you look at him in dissapointment. Does he not even know how to take off his coat? Anywho, you look around, taking it all in. It's been years since you've last been here. "Do you like your new home?", "home?", you instantly turn around and ask, the maids retreating to their positions. Vaelius waltz towards you, a cunning look on his face that makes you want to punch it off him, "yes, you're marrying into this family, [Name]", he takes your hand, "didn't I say not to touch me!—", Vaelius places a peck on the back of your hand, "you wouldn't want to dissapoint the entire empire, now would you?", his eyes show a glint of obsession, though it passes faster than it appeared. For some reason, you can't pry your eyes from the lovestruck prince. "What are you saying...", you're suspicious of Vaelius, just what in heaven's sake is he talking about.

Vaelius gestures for one of his servants to come over. She's holding a blade with both hands which Vaelius grabs, handing it to you, "this is for you, my dear fiancé", his voice alluring and almost commanding you to take the blade in his hands. Despite his warm smile, the air felt heavy with an unspoken tension. Neither one of you wanted to lose this unspoken battle. "Or shall I remind you of how you tried to hurt the one and only heir?", his eyes open to look at you with a fierce look in them, you feel sick to your stomach. You hate him, you hate his family but this might be your only chance in surviving and carrying out your revenge. Lose the battle but win the war as they say.

You grab the blade part, bleeding a bit as it slices into your hand, "then, I'll gladly accept, my prince", you look at him with glaring eyes as he stares back with a smile, "aren't you sweet? Come up with more nicknames before our wedding, won't you?", he gestures again to the maids and in a few seconds, those same maids are guiding you to your new room. Temporary of course. You'd be sharing the same bed as the prince soon, patience.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

"At least the room's nice", you mumble to yourself after seeing where you'll be sleeping for the next few days or weeks. The maids all exit the room, with one letting you know that if you ever need something, to just ring the bell near your bed. You try to take it all in. What you did, what you will do and what he will do. The prince is unpredictable, making you all the more uneasy and wary of him, but for now, you should just enjoy a lavish lifestyle. Just like all those years ago.

"The prince is a beauty isn't he?", your mother catches you off guard. The two of you are sitting on a bench in the garden while ththe prince is with the emperor, discussing a few things with your father. "What do you mean, mother?", you ask in return and she giggles, "don't think I haven't noticed your eyes constantly following his figure now", your eyes widen, face visibly flushed. You can't say anything or rebuttal her words as you know it's true. She notices this and turns to you, a sweet smile on her face, "you might as well ask him out now before he gets snatched up by a girl or perhaps another guy", she jokes but sees that your expression is uneasy, "sweetie, I don't care who you like, you're allowed to love whoever, I mean, you're a teen now! I'm practically a soon to be grandma", she laughs and you do too. The small blonde prince turns to look at you with a huge innocent grin on his face. Little did you know, the emperor had noticed this and glared bullets into you.

"[Name]~?", Vaelius calls out, leaning a bit too close to you for comfort. You throw him off of you immediately, knocking him onto the carpeted ground, "ouch!", he rubs the back of his head which had collided with the ground, something in you compells you to lend him a hand. So, you extend one for him to take and he does so. "Why did you sneak up to me like that!?", you ask, furious. He stands up, almost towering over you, you don't remember him being this tall.."I wasn't, you were just spacing out", he sighs, looking like a hurt puppy who got scolded at by its owner, "don't pull that face and why are you here anyways?", he perks up at the question, "well, you are my soon to be husband, it's only natural I'd introduce you to my father", "I've already met hi-", "no time to lose!", he drags you out the room and into the hallways.

"Father! Meet my fiancé!", Vaelius pushes open the giant door to the emperor's office where Emperor Adrien sat. "What do you mean, son?—", his words are almost cut off as you enter the room, looking like you've been forced to be here, "who is that.", the emperor rises from his seat, looking down at you but not his son, "my fiancé", Vaelius happily says, holding your hand up. "Vaelius Luminayre. What in the world are you thinking", his tone is calm but you can tell he's beyond furious with his one and only son. "I'm perfectly capable of choosing my spouse, am I not, father?", Vaelius is passive aggressive with his words, daring the emperor to oppose his marriage with [Name]. "And what about Princess Elena", he is glaring at you, as if decades of hatred is surfacing once more. You can only look on in silence as the argument between father-son is going on. "Oh, her? You can tell her family we won't be needing them anymore", Vaelius says as if it's the most obvious and easiest thing in the world, ignoring the fact that they had been engaged for half a year. The families had hoped for Vaelius to take her as his empress but now..things have taken a turn for the worse.

"Vaelius. You two will not have my blessing", the emperor thought his son would listen after his little threat but that was far from true. "I didn't come to ask for your blessing, father", Vaelius slyly says, you can almost see an irk mark forming on his cheek. Emperor Adrien is shocked by this response, "Do you understand that you WILL NEVER become emperor if you marry that wretched man!? Has he corrupted your mind!?", the emperor yells and throws a vase your way, only for it to be blocked by Vaelius, what have you even gotten yourself into!? "Keep telling yourself that, old man", the prince turns around, taking you with him and exiting the room as yet another vase flies across the room, hitting the closed door.

This was only the start of your new life.

After that incident, your life became...easier? Well, it was all thanks to Vaelius anyways. Somehow, a few days after Vaelius met with his father to discuss about the marriage further, the emperor suddenly approved of your marriage. With the condition that the marriage would have to be postponed until 3 months later. This was also an opportunity for you to get rid of the royal family and not be tied to them in any way. You just had to figure out when was the perfect time for your plan to be executed.

And that moment came sooner than you expected. It was midnight, you knew everyone in the palace, other than the royal guards, were fast asleep by this point. The palace eerily quiet, the atmosphere almost horror-like as you roam the hallways to look for the emperor's chambers. To your utter shock and surprise, two guards lay dead on the ground of their own blood infront of the cracked open door. "Holy shit..", you cover your mouth. Even though you had seen this countless times...this time was different, it reminded you so much of that night

You also wondered, who could have beaten you to it? With your curiosity growing with each passing moment, you decide to take a peek. Avoiding the blood and corpse, you look through the small crack of the door. Your stomach drops at the sight. The moonlight shines on the perpetrator's blonde hair, in his left hand, the head of the now dead emperor, a blade on his right. The floor and walls covered in blood, the perpetrator himself is also covered in thick red liquid. Your eyes widen as the man notices someone staring at him. He turns to smirk at you, revealing himself as Vaelius Luminayre.

"Come in, why don't you?", he beckons you in, your legs move towards him, obeying his command. Once you reached him, your legs give out, falling into his arms as the bloodied head drops onto the ground with a loud thud. "Well aren't you so sweet? Falling for me like this", your head rests on Vaelius' shoulder as he holds you by your waist. You're almost frozen in place seeing what the prince, no, your fiancé, has done to the emperor. "V-Vae...", "sshh", he hushes you, "I did this for us, [Name], you've wanted this from the beginning, haven't you?", he chuckles in a low voice, a terrifying laugh. "Now we can get married the second the sun rises, isn't that amazing?", he holds your hand and makes you face him, lifting your chin to stare into his eyes as his bore into yours. "I'll be yours and you'll be mine, how's that?", with nothing left to say, you nod in agreement, did you want this from the start..?

"[Name] I'm gonna marry you one day!", the young boy says while pouting. Another lady had been flirting with you prior before this and unfortunately the young prince had witnessed it all. He was not happy. "W-what!?", you're taken aback by his suddenness, "you can't marry me..!", you yell to which he pouts even more, "why? Is it because I'm not a pretty lady!?", Vaelius seems like he's on the verge of crying so you give in, "o-okay then, I'll marry you", his mood takes a turn for the better and he smiles, "no take backs!"

The Prince always gets what he wants. Whether that's the title of Emperor or your hand in marriage. Today marks the day he gains it all. Not only is he the emperor by law, you are also now the Imperial Husband. A title that will be bestowed to you in a couple hours time.

The wedding ceremony was nothing short of grand. Everyone was invited to witness their new emperor's marriage to the former Prince of the [Last Name] house. Most cheered for the couple while some were dissapointed. Oh the look in Princess Elena and her family's eyes, priceless in the eyes of the now Emperor Vaelius. The wedding itself was held in the Royal Palace. Usually it'd be held at a church but Vaelius wanted it to be even more grand so he chose his palace. You even had a custom made outfit fit for the occasion, a pristine white dominated suit with the colors of your house. This was Vaelius' way in honoring the late King and Queen of your kingdom. You hated him and still do probably but you can't deny that what the both of you had in the past, still remains in the present.

Even though you didnt know whether he had been involved or not, something in you wanted him to be involved in your family's massacre, at least then..you can avenge them still, with the former emperor dead and all. You can't fail them but, is it worth murdering an innocent man for? The man whom you had fallen for all those years ago no less. In this marriage, you can't tell if it's either unrequited or requited love.

"Your Imperial Highness..!", a commoner girl says as you and your now husband pass by the crowds of civilians. They're all begging to get your attention, screaming, calling out and even crying, all so that you'd notice them. Maybe theyre trying to gain your favor or maybe they simply find you captivating, Vaelius sure understands where they're coming from. He finds you absolutely irresistible and it would be natural for the public to be captivated by your beauty too. So long as they know their place in his empire. You turn to face the girl who called out for you, her face full of joy despite her shabby clothing and dirty appearance. Why was she so happy just to get a glimpse of you? You'll have to get used to this life now.

What you probably can't get used to is your new life with the Emperor Vaelius. The moment the two of you stepped into your new shared chambers, Vaelius wasted no time in pushing you onto the bed, "Vaelius! What are you doing!?", "we're married now, aren't we? Let's spend the first night like husband and wife", he licks his lips at the sight of you sprawled on the bed. He's been waiting all this time for your return and his want for you can no longer be suppressed.

Without a second thought, Vaelius attacks your neck, littering it with kisses and hickeys. The pain was bearable, but the way he licked you really did send shivers down your spine, this sensation is very new to you. Instead of pushing him off, your hands pull him closer, something compells you to. It's as if the you from all those years ago came back, wanting to hold the now Emperor Vaelius. You close your eyes in pleasure, containing the moans threatening to escape your mouth. "You like this, huh", he speaks against your sensitive skin, making you all the more turned on. "M..mhm", you manage to get out. Vaelius then pulls back, looking at your mesmeric expression. "My...beloved [Name]...", your name rolls off his tongue over and over again as if he's afraid of the possibility of not being able to utter that name anymore. "Never leave me again", it sounds more like a demand rather than a plea. Before you could respond, he took both your hands with his left, his lips pressed against yours while his right hand is wandering down to your pants. Stopping to unzip them. If this was any other piece of clothing, he would have ripped it open. But since it's your wedding outfit, he'd like to keep it intact.

With his hand rubbing your cock, you reach out for said hand, wanting it to stop as you already feel to much pleasure. Never in your life would you have even thought that your first love would be touching you like this, as your husband no less. "Hm? Do you not like it?", Vaelius knows you like it, he just wants to hear those words come out your mouth. "Or would you like it more back there?", his hand wanders towards your hole, a finger pressing on the entrance as you moan just by his touch. His finger stays firmly pressed against your needy hole for a few seconds, enough for you to whine, "Vaelius..just put it in already!", a command he obeys as he immediately inserts a finger into your hole, you close your eyes due to the unfamiliar feeling, it feels weirdly pleasureful. Something in you wants more, something bigger, but you dont voice that out. Though, you neednt say anything for him to know what you want. He pushes in a second finger in, making you cling onto him.

"..ah...NGH...!?", you almost let out a loud moan as you feel your protaste being stimulated, closing your eyes in the process. Vaelius smirks, enjoying the way you're turning into putty under him. He didn't say anything as you moan out. Though, it was clear just by looking at his face, that he was thoroughly enjoying the lewd noises coming from you. Without wasting anymore time, he removed his fingers from your hole.

You felt empty, until something else pressed against your wet hole. Fuck! He's huge..! was your first thought as you took a good look at his lubed cock. You didn't even dare to estimate the size of it, "it won't fit..", a reaction which makes the emperor chuckle, "your body was made for me, of course it will fit", before you could respond or let out a snarky comment, Vaelius thrusts himself into you, gripping your waist as he does. You arch your back, eyes widen at the sudden intrusion, "f-fUcK!", you yell out, "you're so tight..", Vaelius was clearly enjoying the way your hole clenched around him. You, on the other hand, wasn't used to this. Tears form in your eyes but they dont fall. When you look back at the blonde, his face is red, seemingly lost in thought himself as he stares at his cock halfway in your hole. You felt his grip tighten and without warning, he slams his cock as deep as possible inside your ass. You let out a loud scream-like moan. The pleasure and pain hitting you all at once, "my dick feels...so good", he leans down to kiss you. You moan into the kiss, him exploring your mouth with his tongue, making you a mess as drool trickles down your chin.

You were getting used to his size due to him staying still but then Vaelius suddenly pulls out, leaving only the tip inside before thrusting it all in. "Ack..! Ah!", you moan as he thrusts in and out, leaving almost no room for you to breathe as he part his lips from yours, focusing on pounding your ass and filling it up with cum. You on the other hand, felt your eyes rolling back, your whole face flushed as you had a firm grip on the bed sheets. Your moans became louder than before, turning your now husband even more. His pupils were practically heart shaped as he looked at your messy form being fucked so hard and rough you look as if you're losing yourself.

You could see and feel the way Vaelius thrusted his cock in and out of you, your lower belly bulging whenever he went all the way inside. This sight made Vaelius all the more horny. Soon enough, he felt as if he was at his limit, "I'm gonna cum...!", as he said that, you grew more aware of your own orgasm. The more he pounded your hole, the more you felt close to your climax. "Cum with me, darling..!", he said inbetween grunts and gasps. Your body convulsed as you let out your first load in a while. Not only that, but the feeling of Vaelius' thick and warm seed filling up your hole made it all the more pleasureful for you. Unplugging his cock from your hole, his cum drips down onto the bed but the both of you couldn't care less in this moment. Lost in each other.

After a moment of silence and rest, Vaelius was the first to speak, "how was it?", "...well it was my first time so—"You're a virgin??", "...", you gave no further comment, regretting ever letting those words out your mouth. This makes Vaelius laugh and blush, knowing he was your first love and the one who took your virginity, "then...I'll make sure your body gets so used to my cock that nobody else's can satisfy your needs, I've got to make a good first impression for you", he throws himself onto you, wrapping his arms from behind you as you face the other way, "just a warning though, I have many needs and wont stop once I start"

And oh boy was that true.

Not even a month later, and he's already bending you over the table. The official meeting table. With nobles around the both of you as he took the farthest and tallest seat. Well, at this very moment, he's standing as he has his cock all the way inside of you. Your face buried in your arms, not wanting to face the tense nobles. Some are even turned on by the sight of you getting dominated infront of them. But, if any of them stared at you for too long, two blades would come flying towards their eyeballs. Afterall, the only one who should stare at you is Vaelius. "Regarding these problems, whose idea was it?", despite his cock being warmed by you, his personality was far from it. He was cold by nature, only warm towards you. You breathe heavily, embarrassed to be seen like this. The once crown prince, heir to the Aldoria Kingdom is now being bent over by the Emperor Vaelius, full of cock as the man towering over you holds important papers, dicussing as if he's not all the way inside you right now. "I-it was mine, your majesty", Vaelius lets out a dissapointed sigh, even you knew what this meant.

In an instant, he sits down on his seat, bringing you with him. This makes his dick sink even deeper into your hole, grazing your prostate ever so slightly that it makes your hole clench, making him grunt. He was clearly unhappy with the decisions the nobles made under his father's reign. With a hand on your hips, he moves you nack and forth, grinding on his cock. Vaelius somehow doesn't let out a sound that would make him seem weak infront of these powerful men but you do. You moan into your own arm and writhe in his touch, his cock so deep inside and hitting your prostate so good. "What made you come up with such a stupid and revolting idea", even if you aren't able to see it, just by his voice, you could tell he had a sinister look on his face, looking down on the noblemen. "I-I apologize your majesty", you watch as thr powerful men infront of you scared out of their wits when face to face with Vaelius. Though, you didn't pay their reactions any attention as you were too busy focusing on Vaelius' big cock inside.

With his strong hand, he lifts you up until they can see his cock halfway in before pushing you back down on it, he repeats this over and over again. Some of the noblemen got hard but dared not to touch themselves, but especially to you. Less they had a torture wish. "...and you call yourselves powerful? Smart? Hah!", Vaelius lets out a sarcastic laugh, it was loud enough to make them all tremble. "Your majesty..we—", "Silence.", a single word and they all felt their bodies shivering. "Get out of my face. I'll give you all a week.", they knew what he meant by this, he was goving them mercy. All of them got up, synchronized, bowing and thanking the emperor for his mercy before scurrying out the door.

This leaves you alone with the angry emperor. You wondered what would happen to you. Of course, you should have expected to be fucked dumb. Vaelius knew how to hit your prostate just right to get you screaming and slobbering over his cock. He drops the papers on the ground as of they're useless to him and holds your hips instead. You're turned around to face him and your arms wrap around his neck, "your expression...so cute", you weren't given a chance to respond, as if you could in your condition. He lifted you up and down on his cock extra rough. Those noblemen pissed him off and you're the only person who can calm him down. Using your hole. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the entire room. Even as it's air conditioned, the two of you sweat due to the intensity of it. Your prostate was basically being abused at this point, you couldn't think of anything but his cock, your brain all mushy now because of it.

Even as you came, he still continued his rough thrusts. Making you feel even more stimulated due to how sensitive you are after coming. "Take all of my cum inside, [Name], take it all..!", he says before coming inside you. Your head resting on his chest as he hold your waist. After a few minutes, he pulls out and helps you stand before bending you over the desk once more. "I love you [Name], please take all of me", in his eyes, the look of love and lust combined. The young boy, of whom you had once found annoying, has now become the man you despise. The one you wanted to rid the world of. Yet as fate foresaw it, he now stands as the dangerous emperor who has forcibly stolen your heart. But will you let him have it?

Took two months but here it is yall (Im so sorry😞)

#bottom male reader #yandere x male reader #x male reader #oc x male reader #male reader #top male character #yandere oc #yandere male #xin's vaelius luminayre ☆#「 by the hands of xin 」

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