#because then people had to pretend they liked me enough to touch me for at the minimum a handshake | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gothgoblinbabe · 11 days

Text

The Art Of Make-believe Matrimony

Logan Howlett x afab!reader

Summary: You can’t stand each other, so it’s a mystery to you and Logan why you’re sent out together on an assignment. To make it worse, you’d have to act much closer than you really were.

Warnings: mutant!reader (no specific power mentioned, though), afab!reader, enemies to lovers, swearing, fake dating (technically fake marriage), mentions of violence, a little bit of suggestive stuff, a little bit of fluff i guess, and mild alcohol consumption. I think that's all but if i missed any, please let me know! also this is def loosely inspired by the movies 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' and '10 Things I Hate About You'

Word Count: 5K

part 2

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ .

You hate the way he dresses.

You hate his stupid hair.

You hate the pet names he calls you.

You hate his voice.

You hate his hazel eyes.

You hate his smile.

You hate Logan Howlett.

It was no secret and neither was the fact that he couldn’t stand you either. You bickered like a married couple, constantly fought till you bled when you were training and couldn’t go a day without one of you insulting the other. Truthfully, it was probably because you were too alike - fire versus fire - and knew exactly how to press each other's buttons.

That’s why you were both confused when you stood in Charles’ office - dumbfounded expression on your faces - as he told you that he assigned you to a mission together.

“Oh, no way,” you nearly laughed, thinking it was a joke.

“Yeah, not happening,” Logan agreed. It may have been the only thing you’ve ever agreed on.

“That’s unfortunate for both of you, as I am sending you anyway. You are the only capable people that aren’t already out on an assignment or teaching a class full time.”

“How do you expect us to do it without killing each other?” you raised your eyebrows.

“You are adults. I trust you will navigate that on your own.”

Logan scoffed beside you, his arms crossed over his chest.

You sighed, closing your eyes in frustration and biting the bullet, “what do we have to do?”

“There is a safe hidden in the home of a very wealthy socialite who’s been involved in orchestrating attacks on mutants - injecting them with a serum that replaces their mutation gene with that of a normal human,” Charles began to explain.

Your chest felt heavy. It always made you anxious and a little ill when you’d hear the stories of people who hated you so much that they’d go as far as to harm or violate you in some way, all in the name of trying to rid the earth of you completely or turn you into one of them.

“The only known sample of the serum is locked in that safe,” he continued, “and I will need you to retrieve it. You are to infiltrate a gathering being held in her home, obtain the contents of the safe and return promptly.”

“So, we’re…going to a party?” Logan asked with one eyebrow raised.

“A dinner party,” Charles replied, “and another thing - you must not attend as yourselves. You’ve been invited on the good word of another guest - someone we trust - but you’ve been invited as a married couple to avoid arousing suspicion.”

He must’ve been getting some sick enjoyment from this.

“Married couple,” you repeated, your eyes narrowed, “Us. You want us to pretend to be a couple.”

“What, do I have to like - touch her? I’m not doing that,” Logan piped up.

“Oh, i’m so disappointed,” you rolled your eyes, sarcasm clear in your voice, “Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off.”

“No, you.”

“I said it first!”

“Enough,” Charles interrupted, “you will be attending as Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“Huh,” Logan hummed, “that’s creative.”

“Its inconspicuous,” he replied.

“What are our first names, then?”

“You have creative liberty. I trust you will come up with something just as unremarkable.”

“How about Sid and Nancy?” you scoffed, chuckling a little in disbelief.

“Does that mean I get to stab you?”

“You’d miss.”

Charles had his head in his hands.

“How about Jack and Jill?”

You both turned your heads to him when he spoke, pausing the back and forth between you that you were sure to continue later. You glanced at Logan and shrugged, indifferent to the names.

“That’ll work,” Logan mirrored your actions.

“Lovely. Tomorrow evening at five. I will have the address ready. In the meantime, here,” he opened his palm and placed two rings on the table, “these are your wedding bands.”

You huffed and took the smaller of the two, Logan picking up the plain silver band. Yours was simple - a false diamond in the middle and two smaller ones on each side.

“What, you couldn’t get me anything bigger?” you joked to Logan, holding up the ring.

“Oh, you want somethin’ big?”

Your eyes went wide and you elbowed him in the arm, groaning in disgust, “Gross.”

—----------------

Five o’clock came fast, your nerves seemingly increasing the speed of time. You’d made a mess of your wardrobe looking for something to wear that was comfortable, but not too ‘you’. What would a rich person wear to a dinner party? How the hell were you supposed to know?

Some nice pants, a blouse and complimenting shoes would have to do - it was the only thing you had that looked relatively formal. Adding some jewelry made it just a little more convincing.

You went down the stairs to meet Logan at the front door, dreading the coming hours. You turned the corner and finally saw him, leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He wore a white t-shirt tucked into his jeans, his boots, and he’d traded his usual leather jacket for a suit jacket. He actually cleaned up pretty nice, but you weren’t gonna tell him that.

He heard your footsteps and turned towards the sound. He could feel the sweat starting to form at the back of his neck.

He’d never seen you in anything nice like that - you never really had any occasions to dress up for - and he hated how much he liked it. Your pants hugged you perfectly, your blouse was buttoned low and you even had on a little bit of makeup.

“You don’t look too bad,” he managed to comment, opening the door for you.

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you realized aloud, the both of you heading towards Logan’s truck, “You look alright.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Smith.”

He opened the car door for you, uncharacteristically gentlemen-like.

You shot him an odd look and got in anyway.

“I’m practicing,” He explained, shutting your door and walking around to slide into his seat, “can’t have anyone thinkin’ I’m a shit husband.”

“Good luck.”

“Uh-oh,” Logan had an amused expression, his eyes glued to the road as you began moving, “that’s not wife behavior, sunshine.”

“Bite Me.”

He clicked his tongue, “Feisty. Oh - I can use that when people ask about us! I’ll say it's one of your absolute worst qualities that any man would be repulsed by, but that our love is blind.”

You scoffed, “Great, and I’ll get to tell them you spend sixteen hours brushing your hair into cat ears and shed all over the bathroom like an animal.”

“See - now, that one seems a little personal.”

“It is.”

“Just pretend for a night that I’m the man of your dreams, okay?” he asked, “pretend I’m, uh - I don’t know, some celebrity guy you have a crush on.”

You were silent for a second, engrossed in thought, “you look nothing like Hugh Jackman.”

“Who? You know what - sure, pretend I'm him, alright? Just squint.”

Truthfully - and you’d rather be stabbed than admit it - Logan wasn’t far off from who you could picture yourself with. Strong, kind of handsome, good with kids. He was humble, most of the time. He was just terribly annoying and way too cocky.

It wasn’t long before he was shifting the truck into park and yanking the keys from the ignition. You let him open your door and walked beside him up the front steps.

“You ready, Jack?” you teased.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Jill.”

He rang the doorbell and you stood awkwardly, eyes scanning your surroundings. The house was huge - probably only a bit smaller than the mansion - and modern, something probably built in the last ten years. The front lawn was impeccable, as were the marble statues strategically placed between foliage and flora.

The door opened and you inhaled sharply, trying to prepare yourself to lie your ass off.

“Hello! You must be Mr. and Mrs. Smith! So lovely to meet you, please - come in,” a woman ushered you in, her neck and ears decorated in pearls. You recognized her immediately, Charles having shown you both a picture of the hostess beforehand. You politely greeted her and introduced yourselves, already scanning the room for an emergency exit in case things went sour.

“So,” she continued talking, leading you to sit in the living room with the other mingling guests,”tell me a little about yourselves! John wasn’t very descriptive when he mentioned you. What do you do for work?”

Whoever John was, you silently thanked him.

“Uh, well,” you began, nervously glancing at Logan, “I’m a bank teller.”

Plain, boring, inconspicuous,

She then looked to Logan expectantly, awaiting his answer.

“Cage fighter.”

Jesus Christ. You were glaring daggers into the side of his smiling face and he pretended not to notice.

“Really?” the woman in front of you inquired, a hand on her chest. You watched her eyes scan him up and down, landing on the pecs prominent through his shirt. You scoffed out of instinct, faking a cough to cover it up.

‘Oh, yeah. Undefeated MMA champ.”

You looked away to hide the scowl on your face when your eyes locked on the vodka bottle sitting on the table a few feet away with a collection of other booze. Bingo.

“Will you excuse me for just a moment?” you smiled politely and walked away before Logan could protest, leaving him to his own devices.

You twisted the top off the bottle and picked up a glass, filling it with Vodka and some soda that was left on the table.You almost walked away with it, planning to keep it in your hands until you felt your nerves subside, until you remembered you were supposed to be a wife. Wives brought their husbands drinks, right? Not doing so would look rude and rude might blow your cover. So, you reluctantly picked up another glass and filled it partially with whiskey, knowing it was something he’d drink. You happened to glance across to the kitchen and notice a neat little rack of spices and condiments on the counter. A bottle of soy sauce was front and center, like a message from the universe, and you giggled to yourself as you snatched the bottle and hid it up your sleeve - this could be a good night if you made it entertaining.

You returned to Logan with both glasses, handing him the one filled with significantly darker liquid. He looked a little surprised but accepted it anyway.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said with narrowed eyes, a look that asked ‘what are you up to now?’

You simply nodded in acknowledgement, smiling at the hostess still standing in front of you.

“She’s a keeper,” he continued, holding the glass up to his mouth, “ always knows exactly what I like.”

You bit back a snicker as you watched him tilt the glass and finally take a sip.

His eyes went to yours immediately. He pulled the glass from his lips, mouth still obviously full of whiskey and soy sauce. If looks could kill, you’d be long dead.

“Good, honey?” you smiled wide then, taking a sip of your own drink.

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly fighting a grimace. He swallowed and nearly gagged, coughing into his fist, “mhm, just a little strong.”

“Oh,” the hostess began, “Jack was just about to tell us how you met!”

A couple of guests had gathered in the same spot, all lingering in a semicircle. Logan was quite the charmer and it wasn’t a surprise that he already had a couple of women gawking at him, hanging on his every word as if any of it was true.

“Was he?” your tone was shrill but you attempted to appear playful, lightly smacking him on the arm, “Oh, honey, you should really let me tell it.”

Whatever he was about to come up with, you hoped it was not in the same outlandish category as cage fighting. Before you could begin, though, he dismissively waved his hand in your direction.

“No, no - you’re a little forgetful, sweetheart,” his grin was mischievous as he turned to speak to the surrounding guests, “so, it all started with a tshirt competition at a bar where the girls had to - “

“Nope! Nope,” you interjected, doing your best to keep your tone light and shaking your head, “haha - that must have been another girl, honey!”

That earned a few chuckles from the guests around you and you took the opportunity while everyone's attention was on you to try and spin a tale of your own.

“So, we actually met a couple years ago,” you started, mulling over what true details to sprinkle in or if you should make it up entirely, “uh - in a library.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue. You’d been at the mansion for a couple days before you bumped into him in the library while gathering books to try and put together your first lesson plan. You had a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of books in the other - admittedly stupid - but you’d always been careful. Except for that once.

You had a book open in your arms, resting atop the stack you already gathered. You were walking and reading - again, admittedly not very smart - when you bumped into someone, spilling coffee on both of you and sending the stack of books to the floor with an audible thump.

“Fuck, sorry -” you began to apologize, finally looking up to the strangers face. It was Logan, of course, though you didn’t know that at the time. You remember thinking he was handsome with his scruffy mutton chops and well groomed hair - until he opened his mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?”

You knew it was partially your fault but were irked by his attitude.

“Dude, you weren’t paying attention either, obviously!” you snapped back, looking down at the beige stain now adorning your white button up.

“I’m not the one who carries coffee and a shit ton of books at the same time.”

“Whatever.”

That was your grand introduction, neither of you even exchanging names.

Logan remembered it about the same way you did, though the version he tells is a little different. He loved to tell people that when you bumped into him, it was because you were so lovestruck that you just walked right into him. The part he always left out, though, was the first thing he thought when he saw you. He’d scolded you before even looking up to see who you were and when he had, he wished he’d reacted a little differently.

You were beautiful, even with coffee spilt all over yourself. You looked like a girl he’d only ever dreamed of, all the way down to the color of your hair and eyes. Unfortunately, he’d already been an asshole. So, from then on, that was basically your shtick - bickering over little things, calling each other names - all to the amusement of everyone around you. It wasn’t meant to be funny, but it was obvious to everyone else that the kind of teasing you did was only because you had feelings for one another - like two elementary school kids - and neither one of you seemed to know how to approach it. The mask would slip sometimes for either one of you - when he’d place a hand on your lower back, the times he’d managed to pin you to the mat during training - and you’d always find yourself staring at the ceiling that night, overthinking every interaction you’d had until the sun came up. He was never any better off, pacing in his room to try and decipher what the hell it was he actually felt for you.

Anyway, you decided to stick to the real story, minus the part where you insulted each other.

“We bumped into each other, literally, and I had coffee and a bunch of books in my arms. So, I drop the books, coffee spills everywhere - of course. Then I looked up at him, and..” you paused, the truth caught in a lump in your throat.

“And it was love at first sight,” Logan added, grinning down at you, “for both of us.”

His eyes were trained on yours and he continued to contribute to the story.

“The second I saw her, I fell in love.”

He was still looking at you. Why was he still looking at you like that? You were supposed to be husband and wife, right, but he was leaning into it far heavier than you expected. It felt like you were the only ones in the room.

A couple ‘aw’s were shared between guests and you smiled politely at the reminder that you were in fact not the only people in the room. As the conversation switched to another topic and someone else began to speak, you felt Logan’s hand at the back of your head, gently playing with your hair. Your face was pink - he was being too nice.

A short while later, you were sitting on the couch beside him, listening to someone’s drawn out story that you stopped paying attention to after six minutes.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” Logan uttered unceremoniously and stood from the couch. He disappeared into the house and not even a minute later, another guy came to sit in his spot.

“Hey,” he put his arm around the back of the couch, his fingertips brushing your shoulder, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

You looked at the fingers grazing your shoulder and sat forward to shrug them off, “nope.”

He told you his name and you couldn’t have cared any less, deciding to actually tune back into the story being told rather than converse with him. He was alright looking, but his approach was far too off putting.

“So, did you come alone?”

You rolled your eyes at his question, opening your mouth to answer before he cut you off.

“Cause It looks like it, and I can’t stand to see a pretty girl alone.”

You groaned in disgust, hoping if you were dry enough in your answers, he’d leave you be.

“mhm.”

It wasn’t really an answer to anything, just a noise of affirmation. You hoped he’d get the hint then, but of course, he didn’t. In what would probably be the stupidest thing he’d done that night, the guy moved his arm from the back of the couch so he could squeeze your thigh. Right as you were about to tell him to fuck off, you saw a hand grip his shoulder from behind. Logan was leaning over the sofa, bringing his face a little lower so he wouldn’t cause a scene, his dog tags hanging when he leaned forward. He had a death grip on the guy's shoulder while he used his other hand to steady himself against the sofa.

“Hey, bub.”

The guy looked a little terrified, to say the least, but Logan didn’t let up there.

“Do you always go around hittin’ on people’s wives? Or is it just mine?”

His eyes were wide and he looked like he wanted to run but that wasn’t going to happen as long as he was in his grip.

“I-I didn’t, uh, I didn’t know she - “ the guy sputtered, trying to nervously laugh it off.

“Mhm. Hey, tell you what - why don’t you leave my girl alone and maybe I’ll give you a five minute head start to get the fuck out of here.”

He let go of his shoulder and that was enough to drive him away, the guy scurrying to his feet and finding somewhere else to mingle.

You didn’t know why you found yourself smiling the moment he’d said ‘my girl’. You rid yourself of it with a shake of your head, reminding yourself you were there to do a job.

“Hey,” Logan leaned himself down even further so he could whisper, “I gotta show you something, c’mere.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him but got up to follow. He stopped in the hallway in front of the bathroom, looked around to see if anyone would notice you, and promptly dragged you in with him before closing and locking the door. He hit the light switch and you looked around.

“Do you always take girls to the bathroom on first dates?” you teased, crossing your arms.

“You’d have to go out with me to find out,” he remarked, “besides, it’s not like that. Look.”

You watched him get low to the ground to open the cupboard under the sink and you crouched with him, following his pointing finger to the wood paneling in the back. It looked like a fake back - a board that appeared to be the back of the cabinet but definitely had something behind it. There was a sliver of metal visible behind it when you shined your phone’s flashlight.

“I figured we should look everywhere, so while I was in here I was checking it out - saw that. You think that’s it?”

“Could be,” you answered honestly, “that, or it’s some sort of electrical box we’re about to rip out of the wall. It’s an odd hiding spot for a safe.”

“Not really. Think about it - where's the first place you’d look for a safe?”

“Bedroom or office, maybe.”

“Right, and where's one of the last places you’d check?” he gestured to the open cabinet.

“Under…the sink,” you realized aloud, looking between him and the wooden board.

“Exactly,” he nodded, swiping the contents of the cabinet onto the floor to gain access, “here’s the thing, though - I’m too big to get in there.”

He could maybe stick his head in, but in order to duck under the pipes from the sink, he’d need to have shoulders that were much less broad.

You sighed, knowing what that meant.

“Alright, alright - move. This better be it.”

You reluctantly crawled under the sink and into the cabinet on your hands and knees. You yanked the wooden board with all your strength and it came free, revealing a metal safe.

“Got it! You were right, it’s the safe.”

Logan simply hummed in response, clearing his throat. You figured he’d be a little more enthusiastic.

Truthfully, he was too busy staring at your ass in the nice pants you were wearing to pay attention. When he heard your voice, he shook his head, as if to rid himself of the thoughts he was having about you so he could think of a response. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but seeing you all dressed up drove him a little crazy.

“Yeah? Is it locked?”

You inspected the metal box, holding the absurdly large padlock hooked around the latch that opened the door.

“Uh-huh. Padlock - we’re gonna need the numbers.”

“No, we don’t. Bring it out.”

You did as you were told, crawling back out with the safe under your arm and placing it on the bathroom rug. It was a pretty small one - probably a little bigger than a basketball.

Logan picked it up and set it on the counter beside the sink. He unsheathed a claw and sliced through the metal latch that held the door closed in one swift motion.

“Well, yeah - that's one way to do it,” you shrugged.

“Easiest way to do it.”

He reached in and took out the small glass vial. He put it inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

“What if it falls out?” you asked.

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Alright, kid,” he sighed, “what do you want me to do with it? ‘Cause i’m sure as hell not lettin’ you carry it.”

You rolled your eyes and looked him over.

“How about you wrap it in your jacket, like cushioning?”

“Fine.”

He reluctantly shrugged off his jacket, keeping the vial in the pocket but folding the jacket into a ball. You hastily replaced everything in the cabinet, safe included, and you followed Logan as he opened the door to step out - only to be met with another guest, her fist raised to knock.

“Oh! Dear,” she chuckled, clearly a little startled. She looked to the both of you, a grin appearing on her face, “Young love, what a gift. Don’t worry, I didn't see a thing!”

You shot her a confused look, chuckling nervously before you happened to catch a glance of your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Your hair was mussed and your blouse was untucked on one side from having to bend up and down. Logan had taken off his suit jacket and you realized what it was she was implying.

“Oh, oh - we weren’t -”

“It’s alright, honey,” she responded as you stepped out, “like I said - my lips are sealed.”

She shot you both a wink, went into the bathroom and shut the door.

“She thought we were fucking in there,” you mumbled, eyes wide in embarrassment.

“Is that so bad?”

You snapped your head towards him, a confused look on your face, “what?”

Logan shrugged, “we're supposed to be husband and wife, aren't we?”

You shook your head in disbelief and decided to ignore him, both of you joining the other guests back in the living room. Dinner was finally ready and everyone took their seats in the dining room. There were a couple of things on the table you couldn’t even pronounce.

“Is that…meat? A vegetable?” you leaned over to logan, whispering behind your hand and nodding towards one of the dishes.

“Hell if I know,” he muttered, “I don’t think I wanna find out.”

You both piled on the few things onto your plates, poking at it with your forks.

“Do you wanna get a pizza after this?” you whispered.

“Definitely,” he replied, pushing around an unrecognizable sludge with his utensil.

“So, how long did you two say you’ve been together?” You both looked up, only to be met with the hostess’ stare. You had never mentioned how long you’d been ‘together’. Her smile was polite but her stare was piercing, as if she knew something she was not supposed to.

“About three years,” you replied, looking to him for back up.

“We got married a couple months in,” he added, grinning at you. Again, he had that look - like he wasn’t just pretending to be in love with you.

“We were in this restaurant - this little place we go to all the time,” he kept talking, “and I just told her I thought she was beautiful, that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life.”

“Really? I have to say,” she began, sipping from her glass,” for a young couple who got together so quickly, you two don’t seem very affectionate towards each other.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You shot Logan a panicked look, but he appeared unbothered.

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue,” it’s this rule she’s got about PDA. I’d be all over her if I could.”

You hated the way your face became hot. You couldn’t tell if he was leaning into it to be convincing or flirting just to make you flustered. You heard a muffled snicker from somewhere across the table and your eyes shifted to the source - it was the woman from earlier, the one who’d thought you and Logan were getting busy in the bathroom.

“Can I at least get a kiss, babe?” Logan cooed, a smug look on his face.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“Being a husband,” he replied in a hush voice.

It all happened within seconds. His hands cupped your face, warm and soft, and he leaned in to plant a kiss right on your lips. It was gentle and you melted into his touch, kissing him back. When he pulled away, you were still stunned, your lips parted in surprise.

Logan kissed you.

His lips tasted like the remnants of cigar smoke. His touch was nearly intoxicating, like you were drunk off just the way he held you. You inhaled sharply and finally turned your face out of his grip, eyes glued to the table cloth. You had almost forgotten where you were - feeling like the room was spinning - and you let out a nervous laugh.

The topic of discussion moved on quickly and it seemed like any suspicion the hostess had about either of you had dissipated. You and Logan decided to say your goodbyes immediately after dinner, making some excuse about having to wake up early the next morning. When you stepped out and he shut the door behind him, you couldn’t hold your tongue any longer.

“What the hell was that?” you spat, eyebrows knitted.

“What was what?”

He was completely nonchalant as he continued to walk next to you towards his truck.

“You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He stopped with you at the passenger side of the truck, standing in front of the door so you couldn’t get in.

“What if I wanted to?”

You swallowed hard. It was dead silent outside, save for the chirping of crickets.

“What?”

“I wanted to,” he admitted, chewing his bottom lip, “I wanted to kiss you.”

You didn't know what to say. He hated you, didn’t he?

“Logan, I - “

“You can’t tell me you didn’t feel anything in there, pretending to be together.”

His voice almost sounded strained, like he was pleading.

“You don’t even like me, you hate me,” you deflected, but he shook his head.

“That’s not true. I never hated you. I figured you’d hate me after I acted like an asshole when we met, so I went with it. I don’t hate you. I think you’re funny, I think you’re pretty - I just never really knew how to tell you that.”

When you only stared in response, he moved aside and opened your door with a defeated sigh. You were still speechless but you hesitantly slid into the seat anyway, letting him close the door. When he got into the driver's side and started the ignition, you couldn’t stop looking over at him.

“So, you like me,” you finally said aloud.

He kept his eyes glued to the road when he responded in a low voice, “why do you think I bother you so much?”

“You pick on me because you like me? Like a little kid?” you couldn’t help the amusement in your voice as your confused expression turned to a smile.

You saw him bite back a smile that mirrored yours, shaking his head.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Well, you’re not too bad, you know, and I guess you’re kind of handsome.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm, but don’t make me take it back.”

The rest of the short ride home was spent in comfortable silence, both of you seemingly trying to figure out where you’d go from there. When Logan parked his truck and got out, he came around your side to open your door. You hopped out and he shut the door for you, but grabbed your hand before you started to walk away.

“Hey, c’mere for a second.”

You let him pull you a little closer, intertwining both your hands. The evening air was chilly and you could see his breath in the air when he spoke.

“Can I kiss you, for real this time?”

You could feel your heart beating fast and you nodded eagerly. The second you did, his lips were already on yours. His hands let go of yours to settle in your hair, threading the strands between his fingers. His touch felt warm in comparison to the cold air and you leaned further into him with your hands gripping his jacket to pull him close. When he pulled away, he rested his hands on your waist and planted another kiss on your forehead.

“Maybe we could, uh, try again,” he cleared his throat, running his hands up and down your sides, “be nice to each other this time.”

Truthfully, you couldn’t hate Logan, even though you tried.

You couldn’t hate his perfect hair.

You couldn’t hate his sweet voice.

You couldn’t hate his kind smile.

You couldn’t hate the way he dressed.

You just couldn’t hate Logan Howlett.

So, you kissed him again, smiling against his lips and letting him hold you as close as possible, almost lifting you off the ground with his arms around you.

“We should probably go inside, huh?” you mumbled when you leaned back, lightly scratching the mutton chops on the side of his face in an affectionate manner. Those were another thing you’d pretended to hate - probably because you were embarrassed to admit you thought he pulled them off well.

“As you wish, Mrs. Smith.”

He held his hand out for you to take and you did, eyeing the ring on your finger.

“You know,” you held up your hand to show him the jewelry, “I think i’ll keep this.”

He grinned, bringing your knuckles to his lips and leaving a chaste kiss, “I think i'll keep mine, too.”

You were both still holding hands when you went inside, blushing like two little kids. You were so engrossed in one another that you didn’t notice Jean and Ororo in the hallway ahead of you as he leaned down to kiss you again. Now that he knew he could actually do it, he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll take it your night went well,” Ororo giggled, Jean doing the same. You jumped a little in surprise, covering your pink face in mild embarrassment.

“What changed? I thought you hated each other,” the latter of the two asked.

“Eh, he’s not so bad,” you teased, shrugging your shoulders.

‘’Turns out, we make a pretty good fake husband and wife,” he explained, “I guess we got a little too carried away with it.”

As the two of you walked hand in hand further down the hall, Ororo elbowed Jean lightly, leaning over to whisper behind her hand.

“You owe me twenty bucks.”

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

A/N: If you've made it this far, thank you sm for reading!! I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep this as is or add smut so I'll leave it how it is and if enough people ask for it, I can make a part two <3 pls reblog and like if you enjoyed/want more and my inbox is always open :)

Edit: here is the link to part 2!

#wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine fic #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fic #logan howlett smut #logan howlet smut #wolverine smut #logan wolverine

2K notes · View notes

capslocked · 7 months

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

3K notes · View notes

venmondiese · 3 months

Text

The needs of a prince are the work of a whore.

slight spoiler for season 2 episode 3 of house of the dragon

masterlist ✧works in procress ✧ A03

✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader ✧Rating: +18 mdni explicit ✧word count: 3.3k

-ˋˏsummary: after aegon's mockery at the brothel, he pushes Aemond into having another whore. Anything royalty asks for, it is the brothel's duty to provide. ✧Warnings: MDNI 18+, p in v sex, most of aemond's kinks lol, oral sex (m receiving), tiddy suckin, reader works in the brothel, tw: aegon in ep3, behaviour that reflects trauma. ✧ note: i had to write about this scene lol. i looooved to hint at aemond's response to trauma and how his mind works bc #psychology

“Brother!” The slurred voice came from behind him, and Aemond could practically smell his pestilence. He ignored his eldest brother, walking between the debauchery in the brothel. He never stayed longer to presence how whores were getting fucked and groped, as he didn’t enjoy staying longer than needed.

The cold stone on his feet feel like a hold onto reality, as he tries not to stumble across drunkwards and their whores, as to where Aegon behind simply collides and curses them out, following Aemond.

“Your King commands you to stop walking” Aegon says loudly, a voice that he hears, but the rest of the brothel seems not to care. Aemond sighs, he breathes in, tired of Aegon. He doesn’t have any weapon, but he will strangle him to death in this very brothel, not caring if they are going to kill him the moment he touches Aegon.

Aegon might humiliate him, but he is the most powerful attack and defence they have. Without Aemond, without Vhagar, they are nothing. They can stand a chance because of him. Because of Vhagar. Because he was brave enough to claim her, to the cost of his eye.

He turns around, his face expressionless as he looks at his brother, naked as the day he was born.

“Don’t be such a twat” Aegon says, his voice still dripping that mockness and cruelty Aemond was so used to.

It’s like Aegon tries to walk without staggering, but a young couple collides with him, almost making him fall.

“You imb-” The other drunkard insults him as he falls, and Aegon turns to see him. “My King-” the man stutters, as he tries to do the most pathetic curtsy Aemond has ever seen. And he has been used to seeing people bow to him all his life. “I didn’t mean to, forgive me”

Aemond looks away, sighing as the man clings to Aegon’s feet, begging for forgiveness for cursing the King, and Aegon rolls his eyes, almost shaking his foot to get rid of him. Aemond rolls his eye as he starts walking away.

“Stop.” Aegon says as he sees Aemond walking away. “Brother, you will– It’s my duty, as king and elder, to finally initiate you, to make sure you are–” He rambles and Aemond sighs. If it's very hard taking his brother seriously before, now it is impossible with a man clinging to his feet and kissing his boots for forgiveness. “With… her”

Aemond turns his gaze to the young lass, standing dutifully behind the man clinging at Aegon’s feet, her hands clasped together as she looks at the ground, pretending not to exist. Doesn’t seem interested in getting in the mess that the royals have been in.

“Yeah, you” Aegon says, smirking as if he got a brilliant idea. “Quite new, aren’t ya?”

You hesitate, looking at Aemond and then Aegon, nodding. “Yes, my King”

“Look” he says in a mocking tone, still slurred, as he steps closer to Aemond, finally having his feet free from the man. He places a hand on his shoulder, and gives him encouraging slaps. “A pretty young maiden for you.”

You look at the prince. If you were as young and a maiden as he presented you, you probably would not be here, he knows.

“If it pleases my prince…” it’s your soft voice.

Aemond clenches his jaw. You were pretty. The type of pretty that highborn ladies should be, and the eyes of a seductress. Not the type Aegon fancied, the ones who were lewd, and probably would crawl to Aegon and start grinding to get off. You see the type of woman that he fancies.

He is not used to it. Fuck a stranger. It’s… odd. He knew the madame, and she knew him. The comfort she gave him was different from fucking a whore amongst the rest.

“Your King commands you to” Aegon says smugly, turning to see Aemond. “Time to get it wet”

Aemond has to breathe, considering murder. He closes his one eye, teeth gritting as he is so done with his brother. And to think that he has the power to tease him with no repercussions.

“Find a room for his royal highness to use you” Aegon says to her, passing her a sack of golden coins, not having the decency of counting the money he was spending. You just grab it in your hand, as Aegon tries to push Aemond towards you, which he doesn’t grant him the right to. “Go on. Have fun, after all, one whore is as good as another”

As Aegon walks away, Aemond inhales sharply and looks at you. He already paid you, and he knows that with that amount, you’ll probably cling to his back and follow him until he dismisses your service.

You are shy to grab his hand, and guide him to one of the free rooms. The hour is late, so it’s busy. You have expected to get fucked in a corner, not in one of the fancy rooms with the prince.

It’s relatively easy to get a room when Aemond is behind you, naked and with an unpleasant expression. Even if his face isn’t as familiar as the King’s, the sapphire is enough to recognise the Kinslayer.

You accommodate the bed a bit, and you sit in the middle of it, looking at him with big eyes. He noticed you were good with your eyes, inspecting things about him, as if you were one of the ladies that sat in the dirty streets and offered to read palms. You just did it quietly, as you sat in the bed.

“What things do you fancy, my prince?” You ask softly. “I know many things”

He scoffs at the question, sitting on the edge of the bed. He knows you mean diverse acts of debauchery, from a lap dance to using your mouth for his pleasure. What would you know of things he liked?

“Shall I fetch you some wine?” You add softly.

“Fine”

You move rather quietly, taking some wine and a cup for him. He is as good as inspecting as you; he watches your nervousness that you hide behind a calm facade. As you extend the cup to him, he makes his mind, standing up as he sips the wine, scanning at you, his only eye is as intense as it is intimidating. Yet you look back at him, sitting on your heels, in the middle of the bed.

“Undress”

As you unlace your dress, his eye lingers over you, watching your soft body be unveiled before his gaze, making him inhale again. You noticed that he did that quite often, as if to reorientate his thoughts.

What he thinks is a mystery, because he is not expressive. He seems calculating, and you are not sure of what he actually wants. But you see his eye, lingering a moment on your body; your breasts.

You might not know his thoughts, but you know the look of lust in a man’s eye.

You crawl closer to the edge of the round mattress, looking at him as he has stayed standing there, inspecting you. It is clear that he doesn’t trust you, not as much as he did with madame Sylvi.

Perhaps it was the mockery of his brother, the cruelty that you witnessed, but you know that Aemond sees something in you that arouses him, and for you, that’s enough to keep going. It’s not like you don’t want him, he was not only a prince, but he was completely divine. His physique, and the way he was pure muscle, delighted you in the best ways possible. It was the body of a Targaryen prince, often said to be closer to god than men.

“Allow me, my prince” you say, looking up to him.

He looks down at you, and as he considers his options, you take the chance to look at his hardening manhood, sighing a bit, longing to feel the prince’s cock on your mouth.

“Go on” he murmurs, his voice raspy as he looks down at you.

You wish you knew better what he likes, but you’ll improvise a bit. You press a soft kiss on the lower part of his abdomen, slowly moving the kisses lower and lower, feeling his hard abdomen under your lips and moving to his crotch. You look up to him a last time, which he has not taken his eye out of your face.

You take his hardening and growing cock on your hand, moving it slightly to the side to keep on pressing kisses on it. You feel the desire growing on your belly, and you accommodate your legs to lean forward a bit more, still moving your kisses down, fondling his balls in your hand as you keep on kissing him. More sloppy, wet kisses, kissing him almost tenderly, almost at the edge of pure lust. A primal need to keep on worshipping his cock this way.

Lazy eyes turn up to see him once again, as he has his mouth open, panting as one of his hands moves to your hair, moving it out of your face as he licks his lower lip, before moving your face, just to slip his cock in your mouth softly.

The mere fact that you are pleasing a prince, makes you shiver with pleasure. And not any prince, but Aemond. It was more like a privilege, in which you had no interest in wasting it.

His cock invades your mouth, as he slowly moves your head for your throat to engulf him, but you are greedy; bobbing your head, looking up at him as he throws his head back, his silver hair spills over his shoulders as he savours the feeling.

The way his hips rock rocks and push his cock past her lips, made her eyes roll back ever so slightly, as her tongue moved along the length. He pushes your face further into his groin, as he fucks her mouth with slow and deliberate strokes, his balls hitting her chin repeatedly, as he chases the arousing sensation of having his cock deep in your throat.

“Brother!”

You don’t take your mouth off because you are not asked to. The King is rather drunk, and you see that prince Aemond is not in the mood for his antics.

“See?” Aegon asks in a mocking tone, as he steps in the room. “A good whore would get you-”

“We are busy here” Aemond says between gritted teeth. The humiliation tinted his cheeks pink, as his hand holding your hair hesitates on its grip.

Aegon looks at you, and you gaze at him for a moment. An error, you realise as he speaks to you now.

“Do you enjoy him, girl? Or is he still a crybaby?”

You don’t miss the way Aemond’s fist clenches around your hair, and pulls you out from his cock. You look at him, as if asking for advice on what to answer.

“Answer the King” Aemond murmurs, gritting teeth as he looks away.

“He’s the best I’ve ever had, my King”

“His royal highness has finally accomplished something on his own, I could probably enjoy you after he-”

“Though you might enjoy a-” Your voice interrupts him, and both men turn their gazes to you. “You might enjoy a new Lyseni girl here, your grace. Pure blood Valyrian”

Perhaps it’s the drunkenness of His Grace’s senses, but he doesn’t decide to have your tongue for interrupting him. Instead he claps, amused and happy. “Oh, finally some good advice around here” He says, patting Aemond’s back. “Good cunts around here”

Once he leaves, you turn to see Aemond. His jaw clenched, and biting his lower lip. You are a bit shy to keep kissing his body, as his hand leaves your hair. He seems to immerse himself in his thoughts.

You accommodate, looking up to him as you leave a shy kiss on his breastbone.

“Do you wanna carry on, my prince?”

He blinks, slowly. You can see how the sapphire is brighter with the candle lights, and you hesitate if he wants to keep going.

“Get on fours” he murmurs, not in the mood for more. You notice, a bit taken aback. But who are you to disobey? You are a whore, paid to do whatever your master wants.

The position is rather familiar to you, as your knees touch the mattress and you slide your body forward to lean on your elbows, and you feel the weight of his body as he moves in the mattress, behind you.

You breathe in for a moment. King Aegon had partially killed the mood, but it didn’ stop your arousal for Aemond Targaryen. He was divine, and so was pleasuring him. You would follow him around, like a dog, always available when he needs you to pleasure him. And however he wants, you’d agree.

You feel his hands on your thighs, and his thumbs moving your folds as if trying to know your body by his hands.

Sighing softly, your back is arching, relaxing more and more as you feel his heavy gaze on your body. You gasp a bit when you feel the tip of his cock passing through your wet folds, as if gaining the arousal back from it. You hear his groan, delighted as he pushes his hips quietly, passing his cock through your wetness like this.

He doesn’t waste much time slipping his cock in, and your choked cries as he forces his way in, makes him know that perhaps you were not as experienced as other whores. He looks at you for a moment, cunt fluttering around his cock.

“Oh gods…” you moan as you feel his hands on your hips, as his cock starts thrusting in and out of you.

Whimpers and moans fall from your mouth, as he fucks you. The genuine sound of your pleasure delights him further, fueling his desire for you as he fucks you deeply. The wetter you get, the rougher he gets.

“Fucking- whore” he says through gritted teeth, and you feel your head blushing red with humiliation and arousal as he crudely say those words.

“Y-Yes, my prince, u-use me…” your soft voice came as weak, breathlessly as your body bounces with each hard thrust he gives on you.

It’s a delight to feel him like this, as you feel him slapping you ass. You bite your lower lip to stifle a moan, and grip on the bedsheets a bit more.

“Greedy whore” he murmurs, looking at you “You are drooling like a maiden would”

Her body burns with shame at being called a greedy whore, but it only serves to make her want him even more.

Prince Aemond turns you on your back, as if something… feral woken up inside him. Animalistic and primal. You couldn’t know what, but it happened and the gods knew you were enjoying it.

“Please… don’t stop” were weird words to come out of your mouth. To truthfully beg someone to keep going.

Aemond’s big hands came to slap your tits, and it stings, but more than hurting is making you feel only desire, heat and need.

Seeing your body bounce as he fucked you, his cock slamming deeper eachtime, did something to him. You could see it, as he had his gaze firm on your breasts, from time to time taking a break to look at your face or your cunt, taking in his cock.

Another slaps on your tits, his hair falls down from his shoulders as his hips keep pounding into you. You see his chest, pure muscle as his abdomen tightens. And as you watched him, he watched you, before leaning in and moving his head to take one of your breasts on his mouth.

Perhaps it is mere instinct as one of your hands comes to hold his head against your breast, a bad idea when it comes to a prince, but it only serves to fuel his arousal, and his cock is leaking more and more, as his greedy mouth keeps on sucking.

Slight tears prick her eyes as his cock hits that delightful spot inside her, which many men often miss. But his cock hits it repeatedly, time after time, just to make your cunt clench around his more and more.

“I am going to cum, my prince” your voice comes as whiny, fine tears of arousal streaming on her cheeks, as you look at him, moaning around your breasts, before separating.

He feels every detail of your orgasm, as the lewd sounds coming out from your mouth,vhow your body slightly trembles and your cunt clenching his cock, trying to pull him into an orgasm as well. He doesn’t miss the way you roll your eyes and bite your lower lip, and how your hips moved around his cock.

Doesn’t take him much to cum either, as he feels his balls tighten up, as she pushes her hips slowly to meet his last lazy thrusts. He cums inside her, feeling her pussy milking him greedily.

“Fuck” he groans, breathlessly, as one of his hand is next to your body as he leans, fucking the remains of his orgasm into you.

As the work is done, he pulls out and you take some minutes to gain your breath, looking up at the ceiling and trying to regain your thoughts after being blank from the pleasure.

But he doesn’t leave.

You move your head up, a bit curiously as you don’t feel the mattress lighten up due to the missing of his weight. He is still here, leaning back on the pillows as he pants a bit.

So he isn’t the type that disappears after fucking.

You reincorporate, sitting up on the bed, in front of him as he has one eye closed. You suppose his missing eye, and the damage on it prevents him from closing his eye around the sapphire, and you find it a delightful detail of him.

“You can stay as long as you want” you murmur. Perhaps he doesn’t want to go back to the castle, to the cruelty of the king. You are not one to know, but you saw how crude the King was.

“Hm” his hum is the only sound he emits.

“And… you can still request more things, if you desire so” you add, sitting by his side. “Anything, my prince”

He knows of your lower status, because it is obvious. Calling him ‘my prince’ or Aegon ‘my King’ as the lowborns do. He looks at you, curiously.

“Very well then” he murmurs, laying back on the pillows, with you at his side. He is afraid of asking for comfort, of seeing Aegon walk in again and mock him more.

He is different, you sense. In a way, he isn’t like the king, groping whores at his own delight, fucking them as if nothing, just to go on to the next one.

Prince Aemond might fake it otherwise, but he is not like that.

“Was it good?” It’s his voice. “I don’t have time for lies, girl. So don’t waste my time”

You turn your head to look at him. He seems tense still, his hands are on his knees as he is sitting, and you say the truth.

“It was the best I’ve ever had, my prince”

If it is a clear truth or a dirty lie, he doesn’t share his appreciation. He cuddles after some time next to you, and you open your arm to him.

The needs of a prince are the work of a whore.

3K notes · View notes

its44intheehouse · 6 months

Text

CHARLES LECLERC-NSFW alphabet

this is very. spicy. enjoy🍒

A - Aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

Charles is sweet. After destroying your guts or making love passionately to you, he’ll always make sure you get the proper aftercare. He’ll offer to clean you up, run you a relaxing bath, get you water, whatever you need. He is a very attentive boyfriend.

B - Bodypart (their favorite body part of his and his partner’s)

He is very proud of his physique. Especially his abs and hands. He spends a lot of his time training and making sure he stays fit, not only for the sake of his career but also for him. One time he asked you to ride his abs, and it turned him on so bad that he almost came in his pants just watching you get off like that. And he loves it when you stare at his hands. You do it unconsciously sometimes and he likes to pretend he doesn’t notice it until later on when he’s making you come with them until you can’t take it anymore.

On you, he loves LOVES your boobs and your legs. He can’t get enough of the sight of your boobs when you’re riding him and they just bounce in his face. He has to have his mouth or at least his hands on them everyday. It’s a must. Whether he’s coming up behind you for a hug or he’s spooning you while sleeping, his hand is always underneath your shirt, touching them. And it’s not always sexual, he just loves them so much it becomes a reflex. It’s comforting for him.

And your legs. He loses his mind everytime he sees you wear one of your short skirts or dresses and he can see your long, soft legs. He loves it when you put them in his lap while you’re reading your book, when they’re propped on his shoulders while he’s fucking you raw or eating your pussy. It adds an extra spice when he just fucked you dumb in his car before an event and you just have to walk around the whole night talking to people while his cum is slowly dripping down your legs.

C - Cum (anything to do with cum)

He’s versatile. But always respects your wishes, so he’ll come wherever you want him to. But if he had to admit, he is obsessed with the idea of coming inside of you. He is very sensitive to touch. So if fucking you with a condom made him feral, imagine letting him feel you without one. Once you got on birth control and gave him the green light, he went nuts about it, fucking you anytime and everywhere he could and making sure to pump his cum deep enough so you would feel it slip out of you even hours after.

Also, he thinks its very hot when you blow him and swallow right after, smiling at him as you stick your tongue out to show him how good you are for him. And even though most men find it disgusting to kiss their girl after they suck their dick, Charles is definitely an exception. He’ll grab your chin and press his lips to yours everytime, then he’ll smirk and tell you “You did so well, baby. Good girl, made me feel sooo good.”

D - Dirty secret

He wants to make a sextape. He is absolutely, head over heels in love with you, and although he’s always enjoying the moment when you two fuck, he’d love to have a video of you doing it so everytime he’s away from you for racing he has a visual reminder of how wet you get for him, how good you’re taking him, how destroyed and unreal you look when your eyes are tearing up and your mouth is swollen from his kisses and how pornographic your moans and whimpers sound everytime he’s thrusting inside of you.

E - Experience (how experienced he is in bed)

He is a relationship type of man. He’s had some girlfriends in the past, not a crazy amount of them though, but he knows what he’s doing. He always goes all in when it comes to sex, because he loves to be able to feel good and make his partners feel good also. He’s kind of cocky and wants to do a good job so that he can see the results of it afterwards. How your legs are still shaking, how you’re having trouble walking or sitting just because of how good he got you.

F - Favorite position

As I said, he’s versatile. He’ll have you in every position he can think of, as long as he knows it’s gonna benefit the both of you, especially you. Charles loves challenges, so you two tried a bit of everything almost. But his favorite positions have to be the good ol’ missionary, because he gets to see you in all your beauty underneath him, cowgirl, because it does something to him when you’re the one in charge, and doggy, so he can slap and grab your ass anytime he feels like it. He also likes to wrap your hair in his fist and pull on it so he can have your back pressed against his chest while one of his hands is busy rubbing your clit.

G - Goofy (how serious is he in the moment?)

It depends. Usually Charles appreciates a light energy, and enjoys being his playful goofy self. He’ll crack a joke in bed sometimes, but most of the time he takes things seriously because he wants to show you a good time.

H - Hair (how well groomed are they? how do they prefer their partners?)

He doesn’t like to be messy, personally. Also, due to his racing and excessive sweat that always results from it, he prefers to keep things clean and shaved. He’s always trimmed nicely and fresh.

On you, he doesn’t really care, as long as things don’t get too much out of control and you take good care of your hygiene.

I - Intimacy (how is he during sex)

He’s always making sure to put you first. He isn’t afraid to slow things down or stop if he sees you’re not particularly enjoying something, and will always ask you if you’re okay or if you need something. He’s also very romantic. During foreplay, during sex, all the time really. Will have you swooning after his sweet words and affectionate touches and he always looks at you as if you are the most beautiful woman to set a foot on this earth. Because he believes you are.

J - Jack off (does he masturbate?)

He rarely has the time to do that and he doesn’t have to think about it too much because most of the time you’re with him, so it isn’t hard for him to find a way to get off. But when you’re away and he’s lonely in one of the hotel rooms on race weekends, he’s always facetiming you. And no matter what you do, that man will get an erection. You can always tell he’s needy when his breathing gets uneven and his voice is slightly shaky, so you offer to talk him through it. Dirty talk was something that never came to you naturally even though you craved it secretly, but since dating Charles, you’ve both experimented with it and now it became a habit for you when you’re on the phone masturbating with him or helping him come.

K - Kink (what kink/s does he have?)

He gets feral when you’re bossing him around. Especially in bed, he loves to see you comfortable enough to seek control and have him do whatever you want. If you’re on top, he’s a dead man. He thinks it’s so sexy.

Also, Charles is a family man. He wants to have a family and kids at some point, because he absolutely ADORES them. We been knowing. He can’t help the smile on his face or the glint in his eyes when he sees you with kids. He knows you’re going to be the mother of his children and that thought never fails to make his heart flutter. But it also makes his dick throb violently. He can’t stop imagining it. Your tits swollen and full of sweet milk and your stomach big, carrying his babies with so much love. God, he can’t wait for the moment you’ll both be ready so you can start trying. But that doesn’t stop him from fucking you multiple times and pushing his cum back inside of your abused cunt. Even though he knows you’re on birth control, he’ll still fuck you stupid and imagine he’s getting you pregnant right then and there, while groaning and whispering to you “You’re so full of me, ma belle. Fuck. One day I’m gonna get you pregnant. You’re gonna let me put a baby in you and I’ll make you my beautiful little wife, yeah?”

Anyway 😏

L - Location (favorite places to have sex)

It doesn’t really matter to Charles. If he’s horny, he’s gonna want to take you anywhere. Not a corner of his or your home was left untouched, you fucked everywhere. The bed, the couch, on the table, on the kitchen counter, the floor, in the shower, the wall… You’ve even done it in his drivers room a few times. He also has a thing for car sex. Charles loves his cars and he loves you, so fucking you there gets him pretty enthusiastic.

M - Motivation (what gets him going)

So easy to make him want you. Like I said, he is very much in love with you so he’s always down. But he has a thing for teasing. He’s a big flirt and a very successful one, he never fails to make you blush or make you wet. But when you turn the tables and flirt with him back, teasing him and batting your eyelashes at him, he thinks he’s going to pass out. Your whole energy makes you irresistible to him.

N - No (turn offs, things he wouldn’t do)

He believes sex is for pleasure and exploration. So with that being said, he would never hurt you. He’s down to try almost anything sexually, but he can’t stand the thought of being too rough to the point of inflicting real pain on you.

O - Oral (how good they are at it, preferences on receiving/receiving)

Charles is a both a big giver and receiver. He’s got quite the ego so making you feel good also feeds his confidence. This man’s purpose is to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your legs shaking. He gets off on the sweet taste of your pussy, on the sounds you’re making, your scent, the way you grip his hair and roll your hips on his face. God, he could stay between your legs for hours. He’d never get tired of it. He even asked you to sit on his face a few times, even though you were a bit unsure at first and needed a bit of convincing. But once you got to see how hot it was and how amazing it felt, you were the one starting to ask for it.

Going back to the ego thing, sucking his cock does inexplicable things to him. He thinks it’s so cute when you try and take more and more of him everytime just because you want him to feel good. Seeing you struggle to fit all of him in your mouth gives him a big confidence boost. He likes to throw some praises here and there to encourage you when you look up at him with teary eyes.

P - Pace.

Usually depends on the mood. He’s always sweet, romantic and considerate. You’re his princess, the love of his life, and he’ll make love to you just the way you deserve it. But he can switch up real fast and become more rough and fast if you ask for it or if something is really bothering him and making him mad. One time after a DNF and a nasty fight with his team, he just made his way to you, grabbed you without a word and rushed you to his drivers room to take out all his frustrations. He was so mad he couldn’t even care about someone hearing you. You rarely see Charles mad, but you couldn’t lie and say something about him fuming wasn’t making your knees go weak.

Q - Quickie

You two had mastered the art of quickies. It isn’t unusual for you to have one before or after a race, between interviews, before events, even in the private jet’s bathroom. Although he loves to take his time with you. But everything will do, as long as he has you.

R - Risk (how risky he is)

If it wasn’t for his career, he’d be more unhinged. For now, he has only tried making you cum with his fingers under the table while you were out with some of the drivers. He loves his job and he knows he can’t afford to act too reckless if he wants to keep it.

S - Stamina (how many rounds can he go for?)

He’s more of a one looooong round typa guy. It can last up to two hours or more, and he’s going to drain all the energy out of you.

T - Toys (how does he feel about toys? does he own some?)

Charles is a grown man and knows that toys are his teammates, not his enemies. He doesn’t own any and neither do you, but he has thought a lot about buying some for you, just to switch things up a bit or for you to use them when he’s away. He’ll definitely facetime you and ask you to use them on camera so he can see.

U - Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s going to tease THE SHIT OUT OF U. He’s always playful and loves to make you frustrated. He always enjoys watching you slowly crack from his teasing.

V - Volume (how loud he is in bed)

He prefers to hear you more, and sometimes he is just too focused on what he’s doing so he doesn’t make a lot of noises. A few moans, groans and whimpers here and there. But oh boy, when he’s close? He turns it up a notch.

W - Wild card

He kind of loves it when you deny him pleasure. One day when he was streaming you decided to make things a bit spicy and crawl under the desk to give him head. To say he was surprised was an understatement, since he was used to you being more on the shy side. He wanted to end the stream right then but you made it very clear that if he did that, you’d stop. And even though it was the hardest thing he had to do, especially with the risk of people catching up on what was actually going on, he has to admit it was hot as fuck. He came so much then.

X - X-Ray (what’s under)

Charles is above average, thick and veiny. It’s a delicious stretch and hits the spot every.single.time.

Y - Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

Very high. This man is almost always bricked up. He could go for it anytime.

Z - Zzz (how fast they fall asleep after)

After making sure you’re both comfortable and you’re in his arms, he’s dead asleep.

1K notes · View notes

lennadanvers · 1 month

Text

Drunks tell the truth

Rommate!Simon Ghost Riley x Reader

Simon has a roommate. His roommate has a secret. Johnny has a knack for meddling in other people's business.

A/N: Hi! This ended up being way longer than I expected (3.800+ words), but it's okay because I had fun writing it. I'm not sure it went in the direction I had in mind at the beggining, but I'm not about to start all over again. If I ever feel like it, I might rewrite it, though. But it won't be soon. Also, as I was copypasting it from word, it occured to me I might need to start using dividers. If you know where I can find cute ones, please let me know. Hope you like it! <3

When he opens the door and finds the apartment silent and dark, Simon is both relieved and disappointed. On one hand, he gets to take a deep breath and let the rests of Ghost dissolve in the empty space. He doesn’t have to see you yet- you don’t have to see him yet. He still has time before you worry about all the new bruises, before he has to insist he really doesn’t want you cleaning and patching them up, before he has to suppress the shivers that always respond to your fingers on his arm.

On the other hand, Simon spent all the way from the airport picturing your eyes and your welcoming smile. It’s hard not to be a little heartbroken over the fact that you’re not home in your pajama, willing to hug him hello and make all the gunpowder disappear. He even left Soap at a bar to drink by himself, hoping to have some time alone with you. Of course, his excuse was that he was tired. Never in a million years would Simon admit out loud that seeing his roommate is the only rest he needs after months of deployment.

As he makes his way to his room, wondering if he has time to cook something before you get home, Simon realizes his mistake. It’s Friday. Not only that, it is also dark outside: it’s Friday, and it’s late. That only means one thing: danger.

All the fatigue and relief are gone instantly. He knows the time you get off work, and it was ages ago. Even if you had stayed late, you’d be home by now. Also, your work badge is in the bowl next to the door, he checks. You definitely came back home. And then -Simon confirms with one look at the wet shower- you got ready to go out.

Now, this is not a bad thing per se. He’s glad you’re having fun, spending time with your friends and dancing. You deserve to have a good time. Simon knows your girlfriends take care of you if they need to; you’re safe.

But he’s not.

You going out means one of two outcomes: you either come back home, or you don’t. He isn’t sure which is the worst one. If you find someone and leave with them, he’ll spend the night convincing himself you’re okay and forcing his eyes closed. He’ll have to pretend his stomach doesn’t hurt, his eyes aren’t a little too red and that the sleep doesn’t come because of the jet lag.

If you do come back to sleep in the apartment, it’s worse.

See, Simon is terrified of you when you’re drunk.

As if you could smell his fear, he hears your keys jingling in the hallway. Simon must be a masochist, because he doesn’t find cover. Instead, he watches as the door opens and you appear, almost tripping over your heels. When you look up and find him staring at you, your smile shakes him to his bones.

Simon sees in slow-motion how you let your keys fall to the floor and you stagger up to him- he’s two shades of scared now, because your balance while drunk is notoriously inexistant. He gives a few hesitant steps in your direction, cautious arms extended in case you fall. Which you do. Right on his chest.

Suddenly, there’s a shortage of air. You are soft and warm. He’s big and close to having a panic attack. Your perfume has so many layers- and he can smell them all. Your hair is touching his neck, involuntary caress, and your hand is holding his bicep. That’s great: the next hundred times he’s at the gym training his ass off, he’ll be thinking of you. Exactly what he needed. As if it wasn’t enough having you haunt his dreams.

Your giggle he’s used to, but it still feels different when it vibrates so close to his ribs. Oh, and what he feels there is your chest, isn’t it? When you smile up at him, he thanks the god he doesn’t believe in that he was too frozen to hug you: it would have destroyed him.

Luckily, he manages to get a hold of himself and slowly push you away. It’s useless, though, because you take advantage of the small distance to grab his chin.

“Si! You’re home early! I missed your pretty eyes…”

He tries to force some sarcasm into his smile.

“You’re drunk.”

You laugh again, taking a step back.

“I just went to get some drinks with the girls, Mary got a promotion and…”

Still talking, you bend over to start unclasping your heels. All Simon can do is swallow, forcing his eyes to stay focused in your clumsy fingers and not in the hem of your dress- that was short to begin with, but now is probably by the middle of your ass. Definitely showing the full length of your legs. And at least, a sliver of your underwear…

No.

No, he reminds himself. Simon forces his face to stop blushing and kneels to help you take off the godforsaken heels. A quick escape from the view that will follow him to bed tonight- and the next couple thousand nights-, but a stupid move overall. Because now you’re smirking at him from above.

It’s fun, seeing his desperation. He’s such a big man, always in control of himself… Making Simon lose his cool always feels like an accomplishment. You mutter a giddy thanks, but still try to untie the ribbon around your ankle, forcing him to grab your hand to take it out of the way.

°°°

“Let me do it, okay? Or we’ll be here all night.”

You pout playfully, but let him do it. When you’re finally on your feet, you sigh and pat his shoulder. So much better. He’s now a couple feet taller than you- it’s always nice to feel comfortably small.

Without looking back, you wobble towards the bathroom. Over your humming, you can hear his steps. Usually, he’s quiet. Sometimes, though, he makes noise on purpose, to make sure you know he’s there. Based on experience, you’d say he hates to scare you.

You don’t close the door behind you. Why bother? You simply kneel to open the last drawer to grab the make up remover. Yeah, maybe the floor is a little cold and leaves your knees slightly red. It’s okay, the counter is cold too when you sit on it. Feels good, your skin is warm and you’re feeling fuzzy.

The mirror shows him looking at you from the door. His arms are crossed, tattoos at full view. Hands clenched.

Wiping your right eye, you try to soothe him.

“You’re home now. Safe. See? Just me. Relax, Simon.”

He chuckles. Sometimes he does that, too. You probably said something he finds almost funny. He relaxes against the door frame, but it still looks forced.

“Mrs. Byrne brought me cookies yesterday. They’re in the blue jar, if you want any. She got a new puppy. She’s grey, some small breed with a lot of hair. Her name is Princess. Sometimes she cries at night. I told Mrs. Byrne it’s okay, I just hope the poor puppy gets used to her new home soon, but she insisted on baking cookies for everyone in the building. I don’t think it bothers anyone, really…”

You keep yapping and Simon slowly starts to look calmer. More like he’s at home, and less like he wants to run away. You finish wiping your make-up off by carefully erasing any traces of red lipstick. It’s a shame, really, because it looks so nice. Simon seems to think so too, judging by the way his gaze caresses your reflection in the mirror.

Instead of just jumping off the counter and going to bed, you start taking your jewelry off.

“…and the café two blocks away has this new carrot muffin- that doesn’t sound tempting, I know, but it tastes so good!”

Okay, maybe you didn’t need to moan. In your defense, they are really that good. And you’re drunk, you’re allowed to have less inhibitions. Simon shifts against the doorframe.

“You need to try them. We could go tomorrow… Or, maybe you’ll want to sleep in. I bet you missed having an actual bed, huh? All warm and soft. By the way, I washed your sheets. They didn’t have our usual laundry detergent, but I got one that smells quite nice. Nothing too strong…”

Simon suppresses a groan. His sheets?

°°°

“… So you can have your beauty sleep. Not that you aren’t beautiful now, you just look tired. But dark circles never hide eyes like yours. Still, it’ll do you good to…”

Beautiful? Him? Is it too late to go back to base? Maybe if he’s a couple hundred kilometers away you won’t be able to see the way his blush makes a return, this time all the way down to his neck. It makes it even harder to not stare at your legs, that swing smoothly, skin reflecting the ceiling light.

Instead, he focuses on your hands, and the way you slide your rings off. You do it slowly, probably because it’s a task that requires a non-alcoholic level of coordination. Somehow, you can keep talking, though.

“… I mean, you are looking good. More muscles. You’re always so fit, I bet your abs are like a table… Like, all firm…”

You interrupt your yapping for a second, just to untangle one of your bracelets from the other. He pictures you eating at his table. Simon stops himself from closing the bathroom door- he isn’t sure which side he would like to stay in.

“And that hair! How come it’s so soft…? I mean, it looks soft. Can I touch it?”

One thing about you in this state is that you just do things. Invading his personal space is one of them. Usually, you just leave his body alone. You cross other lines, teasing and sarcasm being an everyday occurrence. But touching him? Not more than necessary.

Now, however, your hand is on his head. Your tiny fingers- everything is tiny next to him- are caressing his hair. He can feel your nails lightly stroking his scalp, going in gentle circles. Simon realizes he can’t move. The bathroom is not wide enough for him to step away. You’re sitting on the counter, barely leaning in his direction, but you’re everywhere.

Your perfume is in his chest, for the second time in a couple of minutes. It’s burning like his cheeks, and all he can do is stand there. Your eyes are so big and bright, how come they’re in his apartment and not up in the sky with the other stars? And your smile, it’s too round and pink for his sanity.

Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen. How would he live if he gave up and kissed you. If he was just a little brave. Not even brave enough to go for your lips, but for your cheek or your wrist. Maybe your shoulder.

But he’s not that kind of brave. He’s suicidal brave, instead. Heroic brave. The kind of brave that makes him a good soldier and a bad person. Simon is a coward, who can barely swallow a whine when you pull his hair playfully. He hides it by clearing his throat.

“I’ll tell you my beauty secrets when you’re sober enough to appreciate them. C’mon, you need to go to bed.”

Grabbing your wrist is easy. Pulling your hand away from him is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Holding your waist to help you get off the counter, easy. Taking a step away, new world record of hard.

Taking another step back, because you stepped close again; alarmingly harder.

And you step closer again. He doesn’t have the heart to step back this time. All Simon can do is hold his breath while you lean in. You stand on your toes and his hands start shaking. There it is again, your perfume. Your lips. Your smile. Oh, you’re smiling up at him. So, so close. Simon can see the look of want in his own face that’s reflected on your pupils.

“Simon?”

He means to reply, he really does. At the very least a “Yes, love?”- something gallant; something that’ll make you put your hands on his chest. Something that’ll open the door for him to grab your waist again, this time like he’s not hiding. Something that’ll bring you even closer.

Instead, he just exhales. A pathetic, pained, whiny breath. It seems to be enough of an answer for you, though.

“Si…”

He stops himself from nodding.

“You’re blocking the door.”

It takes Simon a second to process. You’re still looking at him with dreamy eyes, hair like a halo in front of the mirror light, cheeks rosy and fresh. When his stupid brain finally comes to terms with what you just said, Simon crumbles.

He throws himself to the other side of the hallway, tongue heavy with shame. It’s like his shoulders are glued to the wall, and his stomach to the floor. You don’t seem to notice, shuffling over to your room while humming the same pop song from earlier.

Sometimes, Simon is sure he must be in hell. He sure deserves it. He sees you walk away- bare feet, naked legs, messy hair- and he’s certain.

Some other times, though, he knows he’s in heaven. Shocking, because Simon doesn’t believe in heaven- and he doesn’t think he’s earned it, either way. But when things like this happen, when you pop your head out of your bedroom door to look back at him, it’s easy to pretend. It’s easy to laugh when you ask him why he’s not putting you to bed.

Simon stills himself and walks into your room. It’s tidy and warm, smells like you, and he makes a mental note to let you decorate the rest of the apartment. If he uses that as scenography for his fantasies- where he lives in your room, where you share it, where he can fall asleep in your space-, then it’s nobody’s business.

Luring Simon into your room is quite easy. Most things you do with him are easy. It makes you giggle again. It’s easy being like this, too. Open and bubbly, no mental barriers to stop you from touching him or saying whatever you happen to think. No inhibitions to forbid you from taking off your dress once you’re facing your open wardrobe.

°°°

You could swear you hear him choke. He coughs, and you ask him if he’s okay. There’s some water on your bedside table, if he wants a sip. You hear his steps. He does, great. You put on an oversized t-shirt and turn around.

His eyes are a little too wide. It’s not easy to catch him off guard: tonight is a lucky one. Simon is not the only one surprised, though- you could swear you’d left your purple vibrator on top of the bedside table, and not on the floor. Oh, well, a problem for tomorrow-you.

As you shuffle towards your bed, he steps back, putting distance between you.

“That’s my shirt.”

Sounds a bit like a question. You climb into bed.

“Nah. It’s my pajama. See?”

You look up at him from under the covers. You curl up, the sheets are cold. Luckily, his stare is hot against your face.

“…sure. Sure, it is.”

Simon doesn’t move. You blink a couple of times, before a yawn takes over.

“You’re not gonna turn the lights off?”

He hesitates. His eyes look at your bed, more than half empty. Then steps forward.

“Goodnight, then.”

Simon bends down and kisses your forehead. You’ll blame the sigh you let out on the alcohol. When he turns the lights off, becoming just a silhouette at the door, you wave your fingers at him.

“Sweet dreams, Si.”

Simon barely sleeps that night. He dreams with your forgotten heels on the bathroom floor, and your smile that looks like sunrise decided to light up his midnight.

°°°

He gives up before the actual sun comes out. His voice is so desperate when he calls Johnny, that his friend barely complains about the time. Simon warns him not to ring the doorbell- and maybe includes a little threat that Soap laughs off.

They are still chatting in the kitchen when you wake up. Luckily, you’re wearing pants now. But, by the look in your tired face, you weren’t ready to find a stranger in your house. Frowning, you mutter something like “good morning”- even though it’s closer to noon.

Johnny smiles, charming as always, and Simon squints. Before it can get too uncomfortable- for you, Soap can be uncomfortable all he wants-, he speaks. He keeps his voice low, anticipating your hungover.

“This is Johnny. Soap, this is my roommate.”

You wave at him and grab a cup. As you’re preparing your late breakfast, you start humming quietly the song from last night. It grabs Soap’s attention.

“Aye, I ken that song. Yer the lassie from last night, aren't ye?”

You freeze.

The music is loud. You yell along, grabbing one of your friend’s hands and making her do a spin. She does the same with you.

°°°

It’s a nice night. The bar started to empty some time ago- no more touchy men to bother you and your friends. It is a little hot, though, so you ask if anyone wants something to drink.

You slide up to the bar, not far from where you friends are still dancing. You need to gesture for the bartender to understand your order over the music, but he eventually nods and walks away. While you’re waiting, you feel someone stand next to you, back resting on the bar. You glance sideways- it’s a handsome man, with electric blue eyes that look at you like he’s found a pot of gold.

“Hi, bonnie. Are ye having fun?”

You smile politely and say yes. He doesn’t seem to hear it, but he understands nonetheless.

“What’s yer name? Ah’m John.”

Again, you reply. He seems nice enough- John’s not looking at your boobs or ass, so it counts as a win.

“Kin ah buy ye a drink?”

Now, he’s forcing you to decide. First option is saying yes, you can let him dance with you the next song and see where it goes. His eyes get more beautiful every second you spend looking at them, and his smile promises fun… Which leads you to option number two: saying no. He’s handsome, yes, but you don’t know him. You think about Simon. He’d scold you for considering going home with a stranger. Besides, he’d kill you if you brought him to the apartment.

Well, it’s not like he’ll find out, will he? Simon will be away for God knows how long.

You offer John your most sincere smile and a cheeky wink.

“Sorry, I don’t drink.”

Just on time, the bartender hands your bottle of water over the counter and you thank him. Without looking back, you join your girlfriends again.

It doesn’t take long for you to decide to head back home. The idea of an empty apartment is weighing on you. At least you can be sad in pajamas when you get home. As you hug your friend goodbye, you see John laughing next to a blonde at the back. Well, at least someone will have a happy night.

“Sorry, I don’t think I remember you.”

°°°

Johnny looks taken aback.

“Ah offered ye a drink, bit ye said...”

You cut him off, still not looking at them.

“Yeah, drinks. I had quite a few of those last night. I don’t remember much, sorry.”

Simon doesn’t like the way you close the cabinets, with a little too much force. Nor does your quick talking calm his nerves. Now he’s fully frowning at Johnny, who looks confused out of his mind.

Before he can keep bothering you, you grab your cup and turn around.

“Tylenol’s in the bathroom.”

His careful voice stops you in your tracks. You look guilty, almost sorry, when you offer a shy smile.

“…thanks, Si. Nice to meet you, Johnny. Sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have had that many drinks.”

Simon can barely hear your steps as you flee directly to your room. Your embarrassment, pink on your cheeks and nose, are added to the collection of things he’ll dream of every time he closes his eyes.

Next to him, Soap has a weird expression.

“Ah met her last night, she ainlie drank water. Ah swear… I watched’er all ni-”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need to.

He’s worried you’ll hear Johnny’s annoyingly loud voice from your room. You’re innocent enough to think you can fool him. And Simon doesn’t have the guts to let you know that he knows just yet. There’s a reason he doesn’t say anything about the way you smell whenever you come home from the bar- all nice perfume and zero alcohol-, or how he knows you didn’t take any Tylenol. A reason why Simon lets you pretend to be drunk, grab his hair and smile at him. A reason why he himself pretends to believe you.

And he’s not going to let Johnny spoil figure that one out just yet.

#fanfiction #lennadanvers #cod #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #rommate!simon x reader #ghost x reader #x reader #simon riley x you #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish

824 notes · View notes

cregansdingdong · 1 month

Text

ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ.

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!reader | no use of y/n | warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, soft!insecure!Aemond, mentions of his scar and missing eye, comfort himmmm; this man is so lana coded i cant even

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

“I can do it myself, you know.” He murmurs, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. She’s quiet for a few moments after, her hands moving skillfully to distribute the oil along his silver hair. “I know you can. But I enjoy it.” Aemond couldn’t argue with that. Seated obediently at her vanity, allowing her to take her time doing his hair after their bath, he sat patiently and topless. On occasion, her fingers brushed against the lean muscles of his back, pretending it was an accident. He loved when she did that. His hair was still fairly damp under her touch—the comb gliding through the strands with ease. “Would you like for me to braid it?” She hums.

He thought about it for a moment, his eye taking in the sight of his angular face in the mirror, bare and visible with his blonde tresses combed back. There was a hint of anxiety brewing in his chest. “...Do you think it would suit me?” She seemed a bit surprised by his question, but answered in an instant. “Of course. You look handsome in everything, husband.” The corner of his lip quirked up at that. “You’re biased. Because we’re married.”

“I am not.” She laughs, leaning over his shoulder to look at him. “I am not. Have you ever considered that you're simply perfect?" He scoffs, a quiet sound that holds no malice and only the vulnerability of a scarred man. "Hardly, ābrazȳrys." His wife tuts at the dismissal, hands coming around to rub along his chest—a soothing motion she'd done since they'd gotten married. Her gaze meets his sapphire one, undeterred by the scar. It had taken him months to remove his eyepatch in front of her, and even longer to let her touch it. "You're perfect, Aemond. Regardless of what you believe, you're whole and deserving of my affections. Nothing will change that. Come on. Repeat it."

Despite the quiet sigh that flows past his lips, he pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her comfortably. There was a low rumble of appreciation from him as he nudged his nose against her shoulder. "I am deserving. Happy?" She rolled her eyes at his lackadaisical attempt, but she was pleased enough that he'd said it. "Very. I love you, husband. All I want is for you to love yourself. No matter what people at court whisper. Because...?" She waits for a different answer this time, one they loved to practice when they were alone. "Because I'm married to the most beautiful woman in Westeros." He hums, gently taking her chin in his fingers to press a warm kiss against her mouth.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x wife reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #Aemond Targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x reader fluff #hotd fluff

890 notes · View notes

alchemistc · 2 months

Text

eta: based on my spiral in the tags of this post

Tommy's quiet as Buck nuzzles his nose into his neck, fingers stretched wide against Buck's back, rubbing absentmindedly.

Buck tilts his gaze up. He's staring at the ceiling.

There's nothing wrong with a little ceiling staring. Buck is actually a really big fan of ceiling staring, when needed, but Tommy's been so good at being a sounding board when Buck needs it, way better than the silently judgey rafters, and Buck wants to return the favor.

"What're you thinking about?"

Tommy hums, lifting his head just a bit, the skin under his chin wrinkling like a shar-pei.

His hand slides up, down, palm lifting so he can swirl his fingers a bit.

Buck's always been a big fan of cuddling, but there's something extra sweet about Tommy's version of it - skin to skin, even if it's just rucking up Buck's shirt so he can get a hand in there, arms and legs all tangled up in each other, his hand always drawing aimless patterns. Buck's getting too used to it - had caught himself pouting, a little, the last time Tommy hugged him in a rush out the door and didn't do the little circular motion against the small of Buck's back that usually indicated when a hug was over. He's a little worried someone else is gonna hug him and he's gonna melt into it, tuck his face into someone inappropriate's neck.

"Eddie asked me something earlier, and I didn't have a clue how to answer it."

Buck tips his chin against Tommy's chest, a little eager at the idea of providing answers. Tommy knows how much he likes that.

"What about?"

"About you." He pinches at Buck's side. "Us, technically."

Oh. Well. Buck doesn't have facts and figures and statistics about that. Yet.

He hums.

"He wanted to know why I don't call you Buck."

"Do you two talk about me enough for him to notice that?" He's pretending not to be pleased about that. He's doing a shitty job, but still.

Tommy blows out a breath, hands drifting down, over the hem of Buck's briefs to squeeze. "You are one of the things we have in common. It's not all shirtless men beating the crap out of each other and trauma bonding over enemy gunfire," he says, wry, fingers sliding over Buck's ass and around to his hip, no real intention in the motion, just touching to touch.

And that's - oh that's kinda nice. The idea of that, just being a shared interest between them.

"I didn't know what to say," he continues, like he can't see Buck really fucking enjoying the idea of being a topic of conversation between his boyfriend and his best friend. "You introduced yourself as Evan. You've never corrected me, so - I didn't see a reason to change it up."

Buck grins, a little bashful. "Yeah. It took me a while to figure out why I did that."

Tommy raises a brow, hands still wandering as he waits for Buck to expand on that.

"Buck was a work thing, to start," he tells him, still working his way through it, because he's only recently considered exactly why he'd never told Tommy to call him Buck. "And then the 118 kind of became my family, and Buck - it just felt like Buck was who I was. The person I wanted to be. Evan was just - the guy I was before I found my people." Tommy's hand sweeps over his back. "And, like - I never hated that guy. Evan. He was just - he was just there, in the background. People only used it when they had something serious to say." Except his parents, but that - that's not the point he's trying to make, anyway.

"Good serious or bad serious?"

"Just - important. Something - something that needed both of those parts of me to be present in the moment."

Tommy hums. "So when we met, and you introduced yourself..."

"I think I was just trying to manufacture some intimacy." Buck admits, like he hadn't spent a ceiling-staring evening of his own figuring out this exact thing. "Get you to call me sweetheart right out the gate."

Tommy's eyes go soft and sweet. Buck never means to do this, give Tommy all these chick flick moments of introspection, but when they stumble into his lap he can't deny the little thrill that races up his spine at the sight of Tommy tucking them away. Tommy's hand settles between his shoulder blades, fingers spanning wide. "I'm not telling Eddie that," he teases, and Buck nips at his arm in retaliation.

#bucktommy #bucktommy ficlet #expanding on my tags i'll link the post when i'm not on mobile

561 notes · View notes

ja3yun · 8 months

Text

Undercover Lover (pt.2) | P.JS

detective!jay x detective fem!reader

warnings: smut (mdni), angst, unprotected sex, oral (f. rec), edging, begging, teasing, kinda rough, mentions of guns and alcohol, gambling, confrontation, jay is kinda mean again but he makes up for it! not proofread.

wc: 9.1k+

synopsis: after yesterday's antics, you're still obligated to work alongside jongseong. however, when you're forced into a life-threatening predicament, feelings become tangled.

(part 1)

a/n: hi! a LOT of people asked for a part.2 and although i initially set it to be a one-off, you all enjoyed it so much i had to give you a conclusion. jongseong in the final two scenes has me swooning icl! enjoy <3 feedback is always appreciated, don't let it flop pls

_______

As you delicately adjust the spaghetti straps of your dress in the mirrored reflection of the elevator, a subtle uncertainty creeps into your mind regarding the chosen outfit. It doesn't exactly exude a rich man’s wife, but your limited wardrobe options leave you with no alternative, the only fancy clothing you own is the dress that got mercilessly ripped in half at the hands of Jongseong.

Even thinking about last night is giving you a dry mouth. Jongseong had manhandled you, fucked you so good you’ll be thinking about it for months and then proceeded to just leave you, your self-worth shattered like glass. You knew he was an asshole but that was a new level of low.

Even this morning, he had the audacity to reach out, seeking your assistance once again. You might be on a mission but you do contemplate whether you even have enough respect for him to pretend to be his wife.

To call him yours, kiss him, and be in love with him. It was a mission within itself.

However, the gravity of the case at hand hangs over your precinct, too important to be jeopardised by personal feelings. This case has the potential to change everything, and you want to be credited for your part in it. Perhaps there's a twinge of spite aimed at your work rival, but the prospect of infuriating him further by sharing the glory spurs you on.

As the elevator comes to a stop in the main lobby, a firm resolve forms inside you - that you’re going to become the best wife Jongseong could ever dream of, and make sure your name ends up on the case report.

Your eyes land on Jongseong’s broad back, the white solid ribbed knit top is tight enough for your brain to work out the contours of his back. Before you can stop yourself, you’re thinking about how his shoulder blades felt under the tip of your fingers and how you could feel every muscle working as he fucked into you. If there was one good thing about having sex with Jongseong last night it’s using the lust and memory to your advantage. If you can’t fake love, you can at least reminisce about the desire you felt for him last night.

Placing your hand on his arm and stroking down until your fingers interlock, you begin your Oscar-winning performance, “Hi, Jjongie. I’m sorry I slept in,” With your free hand you turn his face to look a you before bringing him down for a kiss.

Despite the suddenness of your presence and physical affection, Jongseong kisses you back delicately, and those lips touching yours again send a bolt of lightning down your spine. Involuntarily, your body arches into his touch as he lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around your waist.

The kiss feels different than the one last night; it's gentler than the way his lips were battering yours. Probably because Mr. and Mrs. Kim are looking straight at you both, Jongseong felt pressure to pour some sweetness into it, rather than hatred.

When you go to pull away, Jongseong pulls you back for more, his tongue swiping your bottom lip. You don’t know why he’s dragging this out considering Kwangmin is thoroughly convinced about the both of you, if not by your words of affection at dinner yesterday, then certainly by the way you’re both holding one another. Regardless, you let him continue because the feelings he’s portraying in this one kiss are more of an apology you’ll get verbally from him.

“You’re both so perfect for one another!” Mrs. Kim shrieks, looking at you both with adoration.

Her voice brings you both back to earth. You turn to face her but Jongseong’s eyes are still on you, assessing how you might be feeling underneath your charade but you’re so good at hiding your true emotions, he can’t work it out.

“Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Kim for being so late, we had a long night last night, Didn’t we, baby?” Your pupils are still blown from the kiss and exhilaration of this case that the light reflects almost a starry gaze as you look at your pretend husband.

Jongseong sits his arm along your waist and smiles, “We did, angel. You look beautiful so I think we can all agree the delay was worth it.” He confesses.

“She does look radiant, Hwang,” Mr. Kim comments, “Come, let’s go to the lounge for brunch,” The Kims walk ahead leaving you and Jongseong trailing behind them, the air filled with unspoken words.

Nevertheless, he takes your hand and tightens his grip, not offering you a glance but reassurance. This was a big deal, this was your last chance to get in on the drug smuggling scheme and coax a confession from Kwangmin about all his wrongdoings. He knew how much pressure was on you both.

As you walk into the lounge, you see lots of the same people from last night; upper-class men with their suits, talking about nothing of substance. The place was made for VIPs of the hotel, however, Mr. Kim’s influence earned him a special section on the far right-hand side. The only way you and Jongseong could get in there was with Kwangmin escorting you, however with the drug king opening up his private lounge for you, it brings envious stares of those around you.

Jongseong notices the shift in your manner and pulls your hand to his lips, kissing it lightly before moving into the area, his protective body barricading you in case something happens. If he was half the man he was as Hwang Jongseong, Park Jongseong would be far more bearable.

He takes a seat and pulls you beside him, keeping you close. For the first time on this trip, you’re both alone with the Kims, no eyes scouring at you or observing your every move. Although you were putting on this act for the criminal, you weren’t naive to the fact that he would have eyes on you both at all times.

But now that you're alone, Jongseong, and you've raised your guard, the uncertainty of what might happen makes the situation stressful.

“It’s so nice to have you here with us today. We can only apologise for the abrupt leave of absence at dinner last night, you both seemed to need some privacy.” Mr. Kim laughs, pouring a glass of 18-year-old Yamazaki single malt for Jongseong and himself, “I assume my wife’s wonderful suggestion brought you both closer.

You could say that.

“Yes, Mr. Kim. It was an excellent idea, we’ll steal the idea for future occasions if you don’t mind.” Jongseong swirls the glass, admiring the fragrant alcohol. This might be his only time to try a £1,700 bottle of whiskey, so he jumps at the chance.

With a click of his fingers, Kwangming summons a waiter over to give you a glass of champagne, the bubbles at the bottom fizz happily, meaning it’s on the more expensive side. He truly liked to spend money, which raises your suspicion considering he is known to be cautious with his finances unless it’s on his wife. He’s up to something.

The conversation flows between your husband and Mr. Kim. You suppose Jongseong has been on this case for months, setting up a rapport with him, otherwise, why would you both even be here?

Jongseong seamlessly transitions into his role, portraying the character so convincingly that, if it weren't for the mere two desks that separate you back at the office, one could easily be fooled. He navigates a series of probing questions about how he used the inherited money, his investment strategy, and his ambitious aspiration of matching Mr. Kim's wealth. To the casual observer, his demeanour appears cool and collected. Yet, small indicators show the subtle strain beneath the surface - a tensed hand on your thigh when confronted with difficult questions, or the rare slip over facts.

Your role as his wife, whether the affection you express is genuine or artificial, remains the same: to provide comfort and reassurance. Your hand delicately strokes his arm, and you kiss his shoulder tenderly. It seems to work each time as if your presence calms him down.

The vibration of Jongseong’s phone gains the attention of everyone in the room. He thought he had turned it on silent, scared that any interference from outside could jeopardise your case.

He delves into his back pocket, retrieving his mobile. Of fucking course, it's Heeseung calling – of all the times, he chooses the most inconvenient moment.

Glancing over, you spot the contact name, panic briefly flashing in your eyes. "Baby, just ignore it; we’re with company," you suggest, offering him a way out of the awkward situation. However, Mr. Kim dismisses your words, extending his hand to signal Jongseong it’s okay to answer the call.

Your husband looks at you with concern, hesitant to leave you alone with the couple. Yet, you communicate through your eyes that you can handle the situation perfectly well and assure him that you'll be fine on your own.

He pats your head and answers the call, careful not to be too loud.

“Y/N, tell me, how would you like to accompany my wife to the spa?” Mr. Kim poses the query nonchalantly but it throws you off. Being a detective, you have a natural curiosity and question every intention and this is no different.

Shifting your gaze to Mrs. Kim she has a bright smile on her face, “Please, Y/N, it would be so lovely to spend some time with you,” You have to admit, she did seem like a genuinely warm and lovely person compared to her man. Spending a few hours with her would also help her open up; If you can’t get Mr. Kim to speak about it, maybe you can convince Mrs. Kim.

“I would love that, some R and R is just what I need,” You giggle, “Plus, it’s been so long since I’ve had some girl time.” The words you speak aren’t a lie, you could do with some relaxation, the knots in your shoulders that have been there for the past 3 years need to be unravelled.

“Excellent!” Mrs. Kim claps, “Come, Y/N,” She takes your hand, pulls you from the couch and blows a kiss to her husband who happily catches it. Aside from all the drugs and murder, you do wish for someone to dote on you like that, just once in your life.

Walking out of the lounge, you both bump into Jongseong who looks at you with wide eyes, confused, “Sorry, Jongseong, I’m stealing your wife for an hour or two.”

His demeanour stiffens, reminiscent of his initial uneasiness in the lounge. Given his previous interactions with the Kims, his suspicions are understandable. "I see. Can I speak with Y/N, and she can meet you there?" he asks, surprising you with his unexpected request. Wouldn't it be strange if he initiated having a conversation with his wife straight after receiving a phone call?

Seizing Mrs. Kim's arm, you titter into character, "Jjongie, you can talk to me later. I'd like to go have some fun. Okay? Mr. Kim is waiting for you."

He sighs, conceding, "Of course, baby." He leans in and kisses your cheek, the touch lingering, "Please be careful," he says quietly enough to go unnoticed by your spa companion.

"Do not worry, Jongseong. I'm good at taking care of myself, remember?" You whisper through gritted teeth. It was a true statement but also a dig at last night and he knows it. Your genuine feelings for him remain disgusted beneath the facade of a completely loyal wife.

He passes you and Mrs. Kim with a nod and a tongue poking his cheek, his departure accompanied by a sour attitude.

_____

As you and Mrs. Kim walk into the spa, it is like nothing you have ever seen before. The ambience surrounding the lobby is tranquil, the echos of waves from the white noise machines fill your ears. Despite being a girl who loves maximalism, you can’t help but find beauty in the sleek gold and orange furnishings that adorn the place. It’s dimly lit, with only a few lamps on throughout the area which only puts you into instant relaxation mode.

Your job doesn’t come with many perks but you could get used to this, you wonder if Mr. Kim has any friends.

Focus, Y/N. You drill into yourself. If you get too caught up in the serenity of the spa, you’ll lose your chance to move this case forward.

Truthfully, you aren’t expecting much from this conversation but any sort of intel is better than nothing. Mrs. Kim could either know every inch of her husband's secret dealings or be completely oblivious, either way, it’s an avenue you have to explore.

The receptionist sees you both stroll up to the counter and stands, bowing slightly, “Welcome, Mrs. Kim, Mrs. Hwang, It’s lovely to have you both join us this afternoon,” How did she know your alias?

“Thank you, Seola, do you have the room ready?” Mrs. Kim asks.

The receptionist nods and directs you to two masseuses who guide you into an almost pitch-black room, the only light emanating is from a Wood and Lavender Yankee candle in the middle of the room.

Mrs. Kim starts to undress and lays on the massage table, and you follow suit. It’s a little weird, getting naked in front of three people you don’t know but that feeling instantly goes away when your masseuse drops some oil onto your back.

You let out a little groan in satisfaction as she starts to work her magic, you definitely need to come here with your girls for a proper retreat away.

“Y/N, can I ask you something, woman to woman?” Mrs. Kim speaks up, breaking the peaceful silence after about 15 minutes.

“Sure, Mrs. Kim,” Your eyes roll as the girl’s hands apply pressure to your shoulder, working out the tension you’ve pent up.

“Please, call me Heejin,” This is good, first name basis with the drug lord’s missus is a step in the right direction and all you had to do was lay there and be pampered. If only everything was that easy, “You and Jongseong, you’ve been married for how long?”

Shit. Shit. Why can’t you remember what your profile said? 2 years, no, 3? No wait, married for one, it was definitely one.

While you internally battle with the facts, Heejin twists her head to look at you, eyebrows raised, “One year, it’s all gone by so fast it feels more like forever,” You joke, hoping to play it off. Being in this setting is making you complacent, you need to get your head back in detective mode.

She smiles at you, tucking her arms under her head, still looking at you, “Honeymoon phase is still in full swing I see. Tell me, was it the money?”

“Huh?” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

Clicking her fingers, the masseuses leave the room urgently. Like a wave washing over you, you realise what’s happening. She’s duped you, “Y/N, you’re not fooling anyone here, you both aren’t. I know what Jongseong wants from my husband; I’ve been observing him for a while.”

This is not good.

You sit up, wrapping a towel around your body to maintain some decency. This is twice in 24 hours you’ve been naked and vulnerable in front of someone. Next time, you’re not taking your clothes off so easily.

Heejin mirrors you, both of you are knee-to-knee. The shadows from the candle on her face make her look totally different, she looks dangerous. You should have known she wouldn’t have been as innocent as she looked, she was a Kim after all.

It’s hard to read the situation because her voice remains monotonous as she speaks, “He wants my husband’s money.”

Do you play dumb? Your persona is to be clueless and just madly in love with Jongseong but that isn’t going to play right now. She’s smart enough to see through it.

"Actually, I want your husband's money," you respond, sitting up with purpose. The confession piques Heejin's interest, and she leans back slightly to gaze upon you in a fresh light. "My Jjongie is wealthy now, but he needs more. Your husband has the means to put him in a healthier position," you say, changing the tone from serene to animosity. This is your opportunity to play her perfectly.

"What 'means' are you referring to?" She retorts. Heejin is smart, too smart.

If you wanted to catch them, you couldn’t say ‘I want my man involved in your drug ring’ outright because then it isn’t a confession, it’s you leading the witness which wouldn’t hold up in court. Your heart is pounding and for some reason, you really wish Jongseong was here.

"Heejin, you're not naive. You understand what I mean," you assert, and she nods, smirking, clearly grasping the gravity of your insinuation. "How can we establish a working relationship between our husbands?"

She leans on her palm, elbow sinking into her leg as her gaze burns into you akin to the candle beside you, “What’s in it for me?”

Like most women, she has far more power than her husband. Jongseong had been so concentrated on winning over Kwangmin that he should have been sussing out and building an alliance with Heejin.

You scoff out a laugh, “My husband is new money, do you know how many contacts he’s made in just a few years? Get Kwangmin and Jongseong into business together and I’ll make sure you have every name and detail of each one of them,”

“Y/N, I have all the contacts I nee–”

"Yang Jungwon" The name strikes the woman in front of you. The case file specifically addressed Mr. Yang several times, as well as Kwangmin's attempts to reach him for many years without success. Yang Jungwon is the leader of hundreds of black-market schemes across South Korea; whatever agreement Mr. Kim could make with him would render the drug lord invincible. Your colleague, Sunoo, has been working on catching Yang for years, but he's like a ghost, never staying in a single place for too long and far too distrustful, so he gets rid of most of the individuals he works with.

It’s an empty promise and if the rest of this mission proceeds longer than this week, you’d be the first on the chopping board either from your superior or the Kims.

Crossing her arms, she nods, “For several years, yes. And how do you know where he is?”

“He offered to work with my husband in exchange for exclusivity, Yang would work only with Jongseong, and in return he would do the same,” The lies fly out of your mouth like you’re in secondary school and you’ve been rehearsing for your Spanish oral exam.

Heejin’s eyes narrow but in thoughtfulness rather than suspicion, “Trust is not easily earned. What guarantees do I have? You could be lying for all I know.”

You pause for a moment, choosing your next words carefully, “Actions speak louder than words. Get my Jjongie a meeting with your husband to discuss it, and I’ll give you Yang’s current location.”

She appears to be carefully considering your proposal because, to her, even if there is a slight chance you are lying, it is too good an opportunity to pass up. As she begins to speak, a knock interrupts her. As the door opens, you both turn to face the spa attendants, who are holding a tray of sparkling water and cucumbers.

Exchanging a glance with Heejin, she nods her head and smirks, taking her drink from the tray.

“How good is Jongseong at poker?”

_____

“Jongseong?!” You burst into the Ambassador suite, your excitement is palpable as you search for your co-worker. “I have some amazing news. I got you a-”

However, your words catch in your throat as you witness Jongseong harshly packing Petunia with your clothes. Is it over? Did he already secure what was needed for the case?

Ignoring your attempts at conversation, Jongseong briskly zips up your case and places it in front of you. His voice takes on a stern edge as his perfect jawline clenches, "You're going home."

Confusion flickers across your face as you process his unexpected actions, “Why? Jongseong, listen to me, Mrs. Kim gave us a gateway in.”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze piercing into you. This morning, he seemed to have been softer in his manner but now it’s back to good old cold Jongseong, not giving you the time of day. After the apology, albeit through text, you thought he might have some remorse but now he’s just kicking you out like you aren’t about to give him the lifeline he needs to break this case open. He never valued you, not as a person and not as his partner on the undercover mission.

“The poker game? Yeah, Kwangmin texted me about it. I appreciate your efforts but I don’t need you here anymore. It’s a done deal.” His words sting, after all the work you put into this case he can’t just kick you off.

“I’m not going.” You stand your ground, picking your suitcase up and unzipping it, taking out the clothes you planned to wear tonight.

Jongseong releases an almost growl-like groan, forcefully pushing you away from the suitcase. He snatches the dress from your hands, roughly throwing it back in, "Listen to me, Y/N. This is MY case, alright? Not yours. I decide when you stick your fucking nose in." His face is flushed with frustration, and his eyes flicker alarmingly over you as if harbouring unspoken sentiments. There was more to this, you just didn’t know what, "Go home. Now."

Defiantly shaking your head, you retort, "I got you this chance. I am just as involved in this case now as you are." Your tone hisses with determination, "Plus, how would it look if I suddenly don't turn up tonight? A little suspicious, wouldn't you say? They'll know something is up." The attempt to negotiate with him feels futile, especially in the midst of his seething anger.

How can he be so idiotic? Surely, he understands the repercussions of his actions. If he shows up tonight without his ‘wife’ it’ll foil the entire plan.

"Get it through your thick skull, L/N. I don't need you. You served your purpose for me, so fuck off out of here," Jongseong bites out with a cold finality.

The sharp sound of a slap resonates through the room.

With all the force you can muster, you've just slapped Park Jongseong. It feels as if a primal instinct took control of your body in a moment of fight or flight. His words struck you because you know he’s not talking about the mission, he’s talking about last night.

Your hand tingles with the aftermath of the hit, and you can only imagine the soreness on his right cheek. The room hangs in an electric silence, the consequences of your impulsive action reverberating between you and your partner.

Quickly, he grabs each side of your face with force, pressing his forehead to yours. You should be scared, terrified of his next actions but for some reason, you know he won’t hurt you, an inexplicable trust courses between you and him. The way he connected both of your heads was as if he was trying to telepathically communicate with you, the intensity of his gaze serving as a silent aid to the cause.

“Please, Y/N. Please go home, don’t come tonight.”

He was scared, you could see that now. The way his voice trembles as he says your name tells you all you need to know. Reaching up, you wrap your arms around his neck, massaging him softly but before you can get too comfortable with the embrace, he pushes you away gently, holding you at arm's length.

Caught in a whirlpool of competing emotions, you try to find the right words but the mixture of emotions is too loud for you to gather any coherent thoughts in your head.

He takes your silence as surrender and moves you to the side, finding his way to the bathroom to start getting ready for tonight’s big event.

______

Lugging Petunia behind you, you make your way through the lobby with a heavy feeling in your chest. Jongseong left an hour ago to go into the poker game, not speaking a word to you.

The entire situation leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You should despise him, tell him to go to fuck after the way he's treated you this weekend – insulting your work ethic, battering your self-esteem, and ultimately deeming you worthless. He's been an unapologetic asshole.

Yet, a sense of concern for his well-being gnaws at you. You've always been an empathetic person, but this takes it to another level. When his eyes bore into yours earlier, you felt his fear, the apprehension of what the night's outcome might bring. The poker game wasn't going to be a simple, friendly competition; it held the potential for disastrous consequences.

You can’t let him do this alone.

Despite your valid anger and hurt, a sense of responsibility drives you to return to the lift, retracing your steps back to your room to change. Jongseong will probably kill you for intervening, but deep down, you know it's the right thing to do.

Minutes later, you emerge from your room, having changed your casual clothes for something more appropriate for the poker game, a skimpy gold dress that shows your tits and ass perfectly. The weight of your decision rests heavily on your shoulders, but you can't back down now. You need to be there.

As you return to the lobby, your thoughts swirl. The contradictory feelings of disdain towards Jongseong yet still having the need to protect him against your better judgment create a storm within you. It's a difficult decision of empathy versus self-preservation. Jongseong was scared because no one could predict Mr. Kim’s moves, which meant even stepping into the VIP area was a risk, you know that but how could you go back to the precinct knowing you could have helped in some way? What if something happened to your partner?

Taking a deep breath, you fix your posture and stride into the lounge, heading directly for the poker game. Just like earlier in the day, the VIP area is heavily guarded by Kim’s men but you stay unfazed, you’re getting in there one way or another.

“Can I help you, Ma’am?” One of the guards asks.

“My husband is in there, Mr. Hwang. He’s expecting me, I’m a little late,” You smile brightly but he doesn’t budge, “Could you let me in to see him?”

Turning, he talks into his earpiece and you stand there, swinging on your heels as you wait, eager to get in there. You see his head nod as he faces you again, “Go ahead, Ma’am.” That was a lot easier than it should have been but you don’t question it too much, bowing as you walk past the guards.

The room is filled with burley men in suits, they all keep a strong gaze on you as your feet reach the room ahead where the game is. It’s about an hour and a half into it, so you can only hope everything is peaceful.

It must be your lucky day because as one of Kim’s men opens the door for you, you see the Kims and Jongseong silently playing the game. At least he’s safe.

“Ah, Y/N. Jongseong said you had an emergency and had to leave?” Mr. Kim queries, glancing up at you.

Jongseong’s back straightens and he turns to you with wide eyes, his hands almost dropping his cards.

“I managed to sort it. I can’t let a little matter like that ruin the weekend, right?” Your voice is higher pitched to match your character. Honestly, it’s grating you every time you open your mouth. One of the guards pulls out a chair for you but you swerve him and sit on Jongseong’s lap, circling your arms around his neck as you give him a quick kiss on his lips, “Hi, baby.”

His left hand holds your ass up, providing some support as you get comfortable on his thighs, “Y/N, what are you doing here?” He whispers into your lips, kissing you gently. You can feel his heart rapidly beating in his chest as he rubs his hand on your lower back and ass cheeks. Since your dress was so short, half of your ass is hanging out, so the warmth of his hand on your bare skin is setting a fire in your lower belly, thoughts of last night creeping back into your mind.

“I’m not letting you do this alone, I’ll take the risk.” He hears your determined voice and nods, it’s not like he could do anything about it now, you’re in this mess with him whether he likes it or not.

You take the cards from his hands and smile, “Mr. Kim, you don’t mind if I help him out, right?” You’re hoping you’ve played your persona well enough that you aren’t deemed a threat to his chances of winning, what with being just a stupid little girl with her husband's money. Heejin knows you better than that now though and smirks at you out with her husband’s view, she’s impressed at how you came in and took over.

“Of course, Y/N, I think your husband could use some guidance.” Kwangmin jokes and gestures to the table. Jongseong is losing big time it’s almost embarrassing.

Looking at his cards you analyse the situation, whispering to Jongseong, “Follow my lead, yeah?”

40 minutes later, you and Jongseong are literally wiping the floor with Mr. Kim, all the hands seeming to fall into place. Turns out, the issue Jongseong was having was that he had never played poker in his life, reading a quick guide before coming down. It was rookie play but thank god you came when you did.

The Kims look frustrated as they lose and it’s about the get even worse because you’re staring at the straight flush of cards in disbelief. Unless Kwangmin has a royal flush or higher-ranking cards for a straight flush, this game is as good as yours.

Feeling a pinch on your side you glance at Jongseong who is looking at you intently, “Should we throw it?” He whispers. You understand where he is coming from, throwing it would give Mr. Kim no reason to throw a gasket and lash out but if you lose, there’s no guarantee he will see Jongseong as a worthy partner. It could go either way.

You shake your head, concealing the gesture by rubbing your nose against his. "No, play it. Don't fold."

“It could go south,” He debates back.

“Trust me, you need to win and we’ll deal with what comes, okay?” You kiss him, telling yourself it’s his fake wife’s actions but in reality, you did it to try and still his nerves, hoping he focuses on your lips rather than the potential threat of what is to come.

He kisses you back, his eyes shutting, deepening the kiss and prolonging it way more than you intended. Each glide of his tongue carries a weight of apprehension, the gravity of the situation prompting him to embrace the moment fiercely. If things go awry, he wants this kiss to linger as a lasting memory.

"Hwang, are you going to play?" Mr. Kim's snap pierces the tension-filled air, his frustration is evident in the tone.

Amidst the strained atmosphere, Jongseong meets Mr. Kim's impatient gaze and nods, "Apologies, Mr. Kim. Let's continue." his voice carries a confidence that contradicts his internal turmoil. As you lay down the cards, revealing the straight flush, a hushed gasp ripples through the room.

Mr. Kim's frustration transforms into an icy glare as he surveys the winning hand before him. The weight of the moment hangs in the air, and for a heartbeat, everything seems suspended in anticipation. His face contorted with suspicion, and he abruptly rose from his seat, eyes still fixated on the straight flush laid on the table.

“This is impossible,” His previous frustration is transforming into accusation, “You two…you cheated me!” His voice is heavy with venom.

Jongseong lifts you before standing up himself, his face a mirror to the gravity of the situation. Kwangmin is going to do exactly what he was scared of. His grip on your hips tightens.

The entire room is silent following his accusation but is suddenly broken by the ominous click of his holster being undone. You and Jongseong both freeze as Mr. Kim pulls out a gun, the steal of the semi-automatic catches the light.

Your throat dries up as a desperate echo of wishing you had brought your own weapon with you swirls your mind, it would have come in real handy right now. Before you have time to think, Jongseong has stepped in front of you, acting as a protective shield.

“This was a set-up, you hustled me for nearly £2 million! Your little wife knew you were losing and you called her back here, didn’t you?” Mr. Kim's voice is a vicious snarl, and the Beretta in his hands is now aimed directly at your head.

Jongseong pulls his gun from his jacket pocket, pointing it to the madman in front of you. His action caused a domino effect of guns being pointed from every angle, each of his men has both of you in their line of sight.

However, although you’ve basically accepted your fate, Jongseong doesn’t waver, “Kwangmin I promise you, you don’t want to touch a hair on my girl’s head.”

“Or what?”

“Or else your wife will become a widow.”

Jongseong's words hang heavy in the air. He means each word, his finger poised to pull the trigger. It's a testament to how far he'll go to defend you, even amidst the violent confrontation. As the safety on his gun clicks off, the room becomes enveloped in hostile silence. In this moment, Jongseong is the shield between you and the looming threat of your opponents gun. You find yourself unable to reciprocate the same level of protection for him, mustering a guilty feeling in your chest.

You wanted to help him but you’re stuck. The whole point of coming to this stupid game was to help him and now you can’t even do that, in fact, you might have made it worse by actually aiding him to win.

The standoff seems to go on for an eternity, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in the charged atmosphere. It’s a battle between the glares in their eyes, you’ve never seen your partner so focused.

“Jongseong, think about this,” Mr. Kim sneers, trying to one-up his opponent, “If you pull that trigger, you won’t leave this room alive.”

Jongseong’s expression remains stern, his gun unwavering, “I’m not afraid to die if it means protecting her.”

You don’t know what to say, whether he meant it as your fake husband or as a fellow detective, it still made your heart leap from your chest. Was he truly willing to die for you? Honestly, in this situation, you don’t want to test it out.

As you step forward, Jongseong holds you back, warning you silently not to move but as you gain a new perspective, you see Heejin staring at you with a knowing glare in her eyes. Raising your eyebrows and flicking your eyes to her husband, she understands, nodding slowly.

“Kwangie, baby,” It’s funny how she also puts on a persona around her husband, “They won fair and square. It seems Y/N is just really good at poker.” Her hand rubs his arm, snaking its way to the one holding the gun, pushing it down.

You feel like you can breathe again, the burden of possibly losing your life slowly easing. The only one who could tell Mr. Kim what to do was Heejin. Her husband’s eyes land on her, a momentary flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as he battles with the decision to listen to his wife or end this with one bullet.

“Heejin, they can’t get away with this even if they won. He threatened you.” He debates with her.

“Yes, but baby, you also threatened the love of his life. You can protect yours but he can’t protect his?” They’re both playing a tennis match with each other’s reasonings, and Heejin hits an ace. It all comes down to Mr. Kim being a family man, that’s what saves you.

Mr. Kim’s shoulders relax and instructs his men to lower their weapons. Once all guns are no longer pointed at your heads, Jongseong follows suit, bringing you close to his side. You can sense his heart slowing back down as his breathing regulates.

Subtly, you mouth a ‘thank you’ to Heejin who lowers her head in a courteous nod, “Now, why don’t we break this up and reconvene when you’re both in better minds, yeah?” She suggests.

Unsurprisingly, the whole room agrees, holstering their weapons. Kim’s men gather the poker chips in a suitcase and hand them to Jongseong who hesitates to accept. This is more money than he could have imagined he’d ever own but it also wasn’t his to keep. In one last attempt to gain trust, he pushes the case to Kwangmin, “Keep it. I don’t need your money anyway.”

It’s tactical to give the money back, you know Jongseong has a plan and you definitely trust him after his heroic display towards you.

______

As the elevator pings, you glide into your room, laughing in disbelief. You can’t believe that a poker game that began as a way to build a bridge between the two men ended in a near-death confrontation.

“I can’t believ-”

“I told you to go home, Y/N,” he interrupts, his fists tightening, “You’re so fucking stupid,”

Any chance to defend yourself is swiftly halted as his lips meet yours. His right hand cradles your face while the other holds you in a tight embrace. His actions speak volumes, conveying the fear he felt at the thought of you being in danger.

Considering his recent behaviour, you should push him away. After all, it wasn't long ago that he belittled you. Yet, his current actions and the fact that he just saved your life leave your moral judgment in disarray.

Slowly, your hands untuck his shirt, granting you access to run them up his bare torso and chest. A gasp escapes him when you dig your fingers into his pecs, and his open mouth invites the exploration of your tongue.

“I could have fucking lost you back there,” he whispers, his words trying to convey both frustration and concern. The way he says 'I' doesn’t escape your notice, as if you were his to lose in the first place.

“But you didn’t,” you lean back, locking eyes with him. “I’m right here because you protected me.”

He lifts you, reconnecting his lips with yours as he carries you to the bedroom, your legs wrapping around him tightly. Indulging in this with his track record feels wrong, but he's undeniably addicting and intoxicating.

Tossing you on the bed, he chases your mouth until he’s on top of you, his hands roaming all over your body, “I shouldn’t have had to protect you, you should have listened to me,” He moans when your leg rubs against his crotch as you desperately seek contact from him.

Even as his mouth trails kisses down your neck, he continues to challenge you. The dynamic that has defined your relationship for years isn't easily left behind, even after a near-death experience. The intensity between you both is undeniable, a blend of desire, frustration, and a history too intricate to understand right now.

The power shifts as you assert yourself, flipping him onto his back. Straddling him, you lean down to capture his lips once more. There's a hunger in the way you kiss him, “I didn’t want the precinct to blame me if you died and I didn’t do anything,” You tease him, smirking into the kiss.

His hands grab your ass as you grind against him, creating a sense of mutual desperation. Clothes are shed in a flurry, leaving behind fragments of the personas you wore only hours before.

"I don't know why I bother with you," he says, his tone tinged with both irritation and tenderness.

"Maybe you can't help yourself," you say, a taunting gleam in your eyes as you lean in to capture his lips again but he pushes you back so your head is on the soft pillow, spreading your legs forcefully, each of his palms holding you down by your thighs.

Licking his lips, he almost drools seeing your pussy laid bare for him like this, it was only yesterday he was buried deep inside you but he never got a taste of you. He smirks as he delves down, his nose nudging your clit softly, the sudden touch flooding heat to your core.

With his eyes staring into yours, he licks up your slit purposefully, his tongue ridgid as the tip of it reaches your nub. The eye contact is insane, the way he’s trying not to miss one change in your facial expression turns you on more.

His teeth nibble the sensitive area, making you yelp and groan at the same time, “Holy shit, Jongseong,” He was teasing you to get back for disobeying his orders, he knows what you need and he’s only giving you a taste before he takes it right back.

One of his hands alleviates the pressure from your inner thigh and trickles its way to your entrance, making you thrust your hips up, pleading for his fingers, “What do you want, hmm?” He asks, his voice velvet smooth. You buck your hips up again and mewl out but he doesn’t bite, “No, Y/N, use your words,” He places one more soft lick on your folds before retracting again, “Beg me.”

No chance in hell are you going to beg for Park Jongseong to finger you. The woman inside you wouldn’t allow it, no matter how desperate you are, you have too much pride.

Your defiance only makes him chuckle, a wicked smile graces his lips as he shakes his head in mock disapproval. His fingers, skilled and deliberate, find their way back to your entrance, teasing the edges without fully committing, “Come on, say it. Beg for it like I know you want to,” he goads, and the anticipation builds between you both.

His eyes are narrow as he looks up at you again, waiting. This is what you found so captivating about the sex you had last night, the charged energy you both get from how you play off one another.

Tutting, he circles his middle finger around your hole, applying just enough pressure for you to whine out. He waits again for the surrender he knows is inevitable.

"Fuck you, I can get myself off," You challenge him, but as you clench around nothing while he sucks your clit for a single second, you understand your words are meaningless, floating in the air with no substance because even if you can get yourself off, it won't be enough for you. You need him.

“Give in, come on, don’t be pathetic,” The words strike a nerve in you, urging you to slap him like earlier, but he slowly inserts his middle finger, curling it slightly as he drags it out and it makes you squirm under him, “See? You want it, I want to give it to you, all you have to do is ask for it.”

He makes it sound so simple and in reality, it is. Just one of his fingers is enough to have you aching for more.

The throbbing within you becomes an insistent pulse, the defiant act you put on now dissipating with each thump of your heartbeat, “Jongseong,” He smirks, knowing exactly what’s coming next, “Please, I need you,” The plea escapes your lips before you can stop it.

A triumphant glint sparkles in his eyes as he hears your soft voice, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” his middle finger returns to your canal but this time he’s adding his ring finger with it. Between the fucking he gave you last night and the arousal you’re feeling now, your entrance is already prepped from him, he’s just doing this for fun.

His digits set a rhythmic pace, he feels each inch of your walls as his mouth attaches to your clit once again, this time for a longer, more gruelling experience. He works the bud perfectly in his mouth, the perfect combination of lips and tongue.

The coil in your stomach starts to heat as his fingers hit a soft spot in your pussy repeatedly. He was unreal, like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

Sensing your impending climax, Jongseong intensifies his movements, seemingly coaxing your release. His mouth and hand work in unison, skillfully stimulating every nerve in your sensitive region. The pleasure builds, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy. However, just as you teeter on the edge, he abruptly stops.

Withdrawing himself from you, he watches as your body squirms, aching for the release he has denied. Confused, you open your teary eyes, searching for an explanation. "You didn't listen to me earlier," he says as if it's a sufficient justification for withholding the orgasm you were on the verge of releasing.

“Jjongie, please fuck me,” You moan out, grabbing him so his weight is on top of you. It’s a last-ditch attempt to gain back some power in this sexcapade.

“You can’t stop begging for it now, huh?” If you weren’t so drunk for him, you would have bit back a comeback but he was right, you are so overcome with need you’re willing to do anything to get it.

Teasing you, he runs his firm length up your slit and sits it on your sensitive clit, tapping it a few times, “Tell me you’re sorry for putting yourself in danger like that,” His voice is overcome with lust and some remnants of concern as he recalls the poker game.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” You practically cry out, holding his face, “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” The confession hangs in the air, shocking him for a moment. Your sincerity, combined with the desire, results in a raw and vulnerable moment. It’s not like Jongseong thought you didn’t care about him, but the depth of your actions in entering such a crazy environment for his sake leaves him momentarily breathless.

He captures your lips with his, moving fiercely as he tries to convey the thankfulness of your selfless actions, “You’re seriously so stupid, Y/N. You shouldn’t care about me that much,” The electricity around you both shifts from pure desire to tender intimacy.

You rub his shoulders, “But I do, I don’t know why, but I do,” You say in a hushed tone, punctuating each sentence with a kiss. The words are an unexpected revelation, not even something you've consciously acknowledged to yourself. Yet, in the heat of the moment, they spill effortlessly from your lips.

Jongseong’s gaze softens, and any anger still within him crumbles away. You cared about him and he cared about you.

When you both had sex last night, he was scared when you said ‘I hate that you can’t just admit you like me’. It was as if you could see right through him in that very moment, and no one had ever done that in all his years of living. He did like you, he respected you as a colleague and a person, and he never intended to start this hate war between you both, it just happened. You were two kids eager to be the top detective, it was only natural to find you a threat to his career goals.

You reach up and stroke his face, bringing his attention back to present you, “Jongseong, please,” You reach your hand down to stroke his red-tipped cock, “Fuck me.”

Not having to be told twice, he lines up at your entrance, easing himself into you, no longer finding the need to withhold any pleasure from you. A gasp escapes your throat, mingling with his low groan. The feeling of your walls hugging him again feels incredible, “You feel so right,” The admission could be taken in two ways but he doesn’t care, the sensation of you is making his head fuzzy. He could sing your praises the whole night if you let him.

This is a complete juxtaposition to yesterday, hell, even about 10 minutes ago. The way he starts to fuck into you is so much more delicate but still forceful, it’s the perfect mixture of lust and vulnerability.

As he begins to pound into you with growing intensity, his eyes meet yours and each time he pulls back far enough to graze over your g-spot, he sees a flash of pleasure flicker over your iris’. He’s fucking you so good, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to go back to anyone else.

His arm reaches over, pulling one of the pillows from the top of the bed, he places it under your lower back, tilting your pelvis to help him effortlessly reach a new angle that has you moaning out his name, chanting it like a hymn, begging him not to stop.

Spitting on his hand, he begins to rub your clit in a harsh circle, something he learned you liked last night. He was sending you into overdrive, completely crumbling beneath him as you felt that heat in your belly once again. The difference is, this time when he feels you close to orgasm, he isn’t stopping.

“Jjongie, I’m cumming,” You warn him, spurring him on to get you off as blissfully as possible. It doesn’t take long before you’re body contracts, your walls clamping down on him. The way you’re trapping him into you brings him to the edge of his own release

His head falls back, exposing the long column of his neck, his veins standing out as he thrusts into you with more fervour, hitting you deeper. The force of his movements causes the bed to creak loudly under you. You’re just lucky the headboard was mounted on the wall or else he would have created dents.

You lean up to kiss his neck, licking up his protruding vein causing him to let out a low purr. It all becomes too much for him and he releases inside of you, his hips jutting erratically due to the intensity of his climax. Ropes of his cum shoot inside of you and it seems never-ending, the grip he has on your hips will certainly leave half-moon indentations in your skin.

Panting heavily, he collapses onto you, your breaths and heartbeats the only music dancing around the room. The weight of him feels perfect on you like you can support him easily. You nuzzle your face into his neck as your arms reach to hug him, one hand stroking his back softly to calm him down from his high.

Both of your hearts sync up, the once rapid beating now slowing down as you catch your breaths. The quiet aftermath and weight of unspoken words hang between you, both knowing that the complexities of this relationship just escalated.

He plants scattered kisses along your collarbone before getting up. You still have a little niggle in your brain which tells you this will be a repeat of last night.

But as quickly as Jongseong retreats from the room, he’s back with a face cloth, drenched in warm water. He’s trying to make it up to you, the guilt he felt when he left you to look after yourself when he knew that was his job was unspeakable. The man spent all night cursing himself for treating you that way.

“I’m sorry I was such a prick, especially with all this stuff,” He wipes your pussy gently, collecting the mix of your fluids as he apologises, “It was really shitty. I promise I’m not usually that much of a dick.”

He never meets your gaze as he speaks, yet, you feel the sincerity of his words. Grabbing his working hand you gain his attention and smile softly at him, “You’ll just need to keep making it up to me.” At your words, he gulps and his stomach summersaults, the prospect of more times like this is something he could only dream of.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” Jongseong admits, his voice vulnerable. The truth of his words settles, the experience you just shared unravelled something profound, something you both didn’t know how to navigate.

Nodding slowly to echo his concerns, “I don’t either,” The response is truthful. You had no fucking clue what this meant for both of you, all you know is that your dynamic has shifted, “We can work it out together though, right?” You offer in optimism.

Jongseong shoots his eyes to yours, a mix of uncertainty and yearning sitting in his gaze.

Suddenly, Jongseong’s burner phone dings a few times. You urge him to grab it because if it’s his undercover phone, that means it can only be one person. Reaching over to grab his trousers, he pulls the phone out and reads the messages, eyes widening and his smile follows.

He faces it to you, allowing you to read it.

Kim Kwangmin:

8.12pm:

You can hold your own kid, you’re not as stupid as you look.

I’m impressed.

I’ve got a business proposition for you. Tomorrow. 8am at the lounge.

You look at each other in sear shock, not quite believing after everything that transpired that the Kim Kwangmin was ready to offer Jongseong a way into his drug smuggling, a way to get him put behind bars.

“You fucking did it,” You whisper astounded.

“We did it,” He states, bringing your chin up to look at him, placing a kiss on your lips, sealing your mission case closed.

#enha smut #enhypen smut #enhypen angst #enhypen x reader #park jongseong x smut #park jongseong x reader #jay x reader #jay smut #aj writes #enha x reader

1K notes · View notes

cherriegyuu · 8 months

Text

back room | csc

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader genre: smut word count: 2.3k summary: while seungcheol is on a meeting you decide that it's a great moment to send him nudes. warnings: minors do not interact, kissing, stimulation, swearing, petnames, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this) a/n: this is part of 1k event, it was requested @xcynthiaaa. i hope you like it. prompts: "Feeling a bit possessive, aren't we?" + “Can you stop sending me nudes, I’m at work.” lower case was intentional, not proofread

you anxiously watched the meeting room, you glanced at your phone every now and then to make sure that seungcheol had gotten your text. he was doing a good job of keeping a straight face, his eyes not even once going to his phone or to you, though you were sure that he knew that the new influx of texts was from you.

without meaning to, your eyes went from him to the woman sitting right in front of him. since the beginning of the meeting she never stopped looking at seungcheol and if the nasty gossip that floated to your ears was any true, she had been hitting on him a long time before you showed up.

maybe you were feeling a little insecure about yourself, because the woman was stunning, with the kind of face and body one could easily find in a magazine, or maybe you just hated the fact that there was a woman throwing herself at your boyfriend. to his credit, seungcheol never looked at her, unless she directly called his name, and when she touched his leg with her pointy shoes he scooted his chair back.

you bit your lip, wanting to come up with an excuse to go into the meeting room and maybe end it. but you didn't have a good one and although if you did go in, no one would ever bat an eye, it just wasn't right. and, more than anything else, it could backfire and instead of being amused by your sudden jealousy, seungcheol would get angry because you could have potentially ruined an important moment for him.

so you kept your butt on your chair, doing your very best to keep your focus on the work that needed to be done. it was pointless and you knew that. every couple of seconds your eyes moved to the meeting room.

"who was the idiot that decided that a meeting room should have glass walls?" you asked no one in particular.

"pretty sure it was the ceo" wonwoo said from the desk in front of you.

it was a surprise that he even heard you in the first place. wonwoo was great at ignoring the people around him, you more than anyone else, and he usually had his earbuds in, blasting music loud enough that people near him could hear it too. you liked to pretend that he never answered because his hearing was getting progressively worse because of all the loud music.

"almost certain your boyfriend agreed, saying it was a great idea," he said, not looking at you.

you choked on your own saliva, eyes wide as you reached for the water bottle on your right. no one was supposed to know about your relationship with seungcheol, as it was against company rules. both of you thought that you had done a good job in hiding it, a fantastic one actually.

you never arrived together, never left together, barely talked of things that weren't specific about work, and if there was a company dinner you never sat close to each other, always choosing opposite sides, but careful enough not to be facing each other.

you were always careful, to the point most people thought you didn't like each other.

"he's not..."

"you don't have to lie" he waved a hand in your direction, "i'm the only one who knows. and i only know because i saw you together a couple of weeks ago at a restaurant"

you opened your mouth to say something when your phone suddenly lit up with an incoming text. it was pathetic how quickly you grabbed your phone, to the point wonwoo laughed at you.

cheol feeling a bit possessive, aren't we?

you bit your lip trying to hide your smile but it was almost impossible. when you looked at the meeting room, seungcheol's eyes were focused on you.

to the average person, he looked displeased, angry even. but you knew that the glint in his eyes was for a different reason.

you moved your attention back to your phone.

you just wanted to remind you that you have a girlfriend

you went through your gallery again, clicking on the picture you took a few days before and pressing send. seungcheol had to be away for a few days because of work and because you weren't part of his team, there was no reason for you to tag along. you had been feeling hornier than usual, needy even. so you decided that if you were missing your boyfriend to the point where your fingers could do nothing but make you even needier, he too could miss you a little bit.

so you took pictures of yourself sprawled in his bed, wearing the red lingerie you knew he liked the most, and sent it to him. it took him a couple of hours to see it and it was so long that you started to think that maybe it had been a bad idea and that though he was someone who enjoyed foreplay there were things that he wasn't willing to do.

to your surprise and delight, he was more into it than you expected.

after that, if you were feeling pretty enough, you'd take pictures and randomly send them to him.

cheol you know i love it but, can you stop sending me nudes? i'm at work we're at work

you okay ;)

you send him a different picture, this time one he had taken the night before, of your reflection in the mirror while you rode him.

you smiled at your phone before setting it down, happy with yourself. seungcheol looked almost pained as he turned his attention back to the meeting, nodding his head every now and then, but his eyes continued to move back to his phone.

he couldn't really believe what you had done, though you weren't the shiest woman he had ever met, for you there had always been certain boundaries you refused to cross. he couldn't help but wonder if you had gotten jealous enough to do that, send him pictures while he was in a room filled with people. had the client had gone a little further you would have barged into the room ready for a fight?

his hard on was a little uncomfortable, and yes he crossed his legs in order to hide it, but it was extremely hard to keep the smile away from his face.

"i'm sure we can make the adjustments for next week, can't we seungcheol?" his boss suddenly said.

seungcheol cleared his throat and adjusted himself on the chair.

"yes, i can finish it by friday next week

"great!" the woman said in her high pitched tone.

seungcheol took a discreet deep breath to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

he didn't know how you even thought that he could be interested in her, or if anything at all even went through your brain. the client was objectively pretty but everything else about her didn't do much for him. and she crossed one too many lines during the meeting. seungcheol made it a point to keep quiet for the day but there was no way he would stand another meeting with the woman. he would still work on the project but the ceo could handle her by himself, something told him he would be happy to.

"i was thinking that maybe we could all go for lunch," she started.

seungcheol stood up, shaking his head. he pulled the folder from the desk and held it in front of himself. the sight was ridiculous and he could picture you laughing in his head.

"i have a lot of work to catch up on, i'll have to pass on it"

the polite thing to do would be to shake her hand but seungcheol wanted to get away as fast as possible so once the ceo nodded at him, he turned on his heels and left the meeting room.

he went straight to your desk. you smiled while looking down and at the mere sight of you, his cock twitched like he was a fucking teenager that had never seen a woman before.

"yn, i need you at the archive room. now"

at the sound of his voice, you looked up. your smile melted away and you wore the usual serious face whenever seungcheol was around.

he hated it, the fact that you had to hide your relationship. he wanted everyone to know that you were his, and then maybe all the stupid men in the office would stop trying to ask you out.

"why?" you asked, your tone bored.

"because you were the last one to go through the files and i need help" he matched your bored tone.

wonwoo laughed, making seungcheol turn to him. he raised his eyebrows, a silent question thrown at the man sitting in front of you. wonwwo just shook his head, his smile suddenly gone. he turned to you, eyebrows still raised.

you sighed and followed him. your heels clicking on the floor while you followed him three steps behind.

was the archive room always that far away?

"what do you need?" you asked, tone still bored, when the room came into view.

seungcheol opened the door for you and followed you inside, locking the door behind him.

when you turned to look at him you smiled at him, your arms crossed over your chest. he threw the folder he used to cover himself to the side and put his hands on his waist. you watched in complete amazement and laughed when you noticed the bulge in his pants.

"awn, did you like the pictures that much?" your voice was taunting.

seungcheol took three steps closer to you and pulled your hand, putting it over his cock. just that was almost enough to get a moan out of him.

the second he saw the picture of you over him, his dick deep inside your pussy, it was all he could think about. having you again, as fast as possible was his only concern.

"there are cameras in here," you said, your eyes wide while you looked around, lightly pulling your hand away from his grasp.

"there isn't"

at his words, you opened the zipper of his pants just enough to push your hands into his boxers. you wrapped your hand around his cock and ran your thumbs over his tip, pumping him a couple of times. you smiled when a quick shudder ran over him.

seungcheol grabbed your face and pulled you to him, his lips crashing over yours. he pushed his tongue through your lips, taking control. his hands moved down to your neck, squeezing it softly.

"my little menace," he said "what did you think was going to happen, hm?"

he pulled your skirt up until it was pooled around your waist and pushed you until your back was pressed against the wall.

"you wanted me to walk out of that room and fuck you, over your desk?"

you moaned at the thought, though in your ideal world, none of your coworkers would be around to witness it. seungcheol turned you around and forced your legs apart with his feet while holding one of your arms behind your back. you used your free hand to steady yourself on the wall.

"if you don't ask, i'm not going to fuck you, baby"

it was something seungcheol often relished on, the fact that he could make you beg. you were so quiet, so shy, but he always made you say it, implore for it.

"you're the one with a hard on, sweetheart" you teased. if he thought that you were going to beg this time too, he was wrong "i can go back to work as if nothing happened"

you really couldn't. if you did it was going to be the worst work day for you because the only thing you could possibly think about was the fact that your boyfriend had a hard on because of you and you said no when he wanted to fuck you.

seungcheol shoved your panties aside and pushed himself into you. he groaned as your walls sucked him in. you moaned at the feeling of being full, at being stretched out to fit him. he moved relentlessly, his pace almost cruel as he searched for his release.

"jesus, cheol..." a loud moan left your lips as you were suddenly pressed on the wall.

"you have to be quiet, baby" you could feel his smirk on your neck "everyone will hear you"

seungcheol snaked his arm around your waist, and his fingers worked your clit with the same drive as his hips moved. he was a madman and you loved every single piece of him. you covered your mouth with your hand, your eyes shut close, in a pathetic attempt to be quiet. even if your moans couldn't be heard, there was no way people wouldn't hear the sound of his hips on your yours.

"you’re going to be filled with cum" he whispered, his free hand grabbing your neck, tilting your head back "running down your thighs the entire day"

seungcheol pinched your clit and it was enough to throw you over the edge. this time you were able to swallow your moan. you pressed your hands on the wall, trying to steady yourself, as your legs shook. seungcheol was quick to follow, your walls clenching around him like a vice as he pounded into you again and again.

he used your shoulder to quiet his own moan and heavy breath.

"just so you know, this wasn't my intention," you said once you were able to breathe again.

seungcheol laughed and took a step back as he adjusted his shirt and pants.

"no?"

you rolled your eyes and leaned on the wall.

"maybe later, at your place" you gave in

he laughed and pulled your skirt down while you buttoned his shirt.

"well, it's only noon"

taglist: @wonwooz1, @mirtaspace, @feat-sun, @belladaises, @immabecreepin, @miriamxsworld, @aaniag, @byunparklimchoi, @k-drama-adict, @@maiamorrrrrrrrrrrr, @roguesthetic, @sofix-hc7, @moonlightgrleric, @mixling-blog, @haowonbins, @valgracia, @slut4donghyuck, @manutuankim, @shuabby1994, @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan, @sukiscones

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog or leave a comment, it really does mean the world to me and i would love to know your thoughts. thank you! 💕

if you want to be tagged in my next fics, please fill out this form

1K notes · View notes

saradika · 3 months

Text

— just can’t say goodbye

bodyguard!din djarin x princess!reader

rated e - 4.8k

tags: sorta medieval vibes, references to antiquated societal expectations, mentions and references to virginity, arranged marriage, technically infidelity because of said arrangement, light angst, sneaking around, first time, fingering, PiV, creampie

this is for the 1500 kisses event for @janaispunk! I got din + wedding! Jana, thank you so much for hosting this awesome event & for the gorgeous moodboard! 💖

“Take me,” You beg. It’s pathetic, no more than a whimper, “Take me, and then take me away from here.”

He’s been in your bed since the second your maidens were dismissed. You won’t sleep until dawn, not if tonight is all you have.

“You cannot mean that.” It’s harsh, almost a growl as it buzzes from his helmet.

"I have never meant anything more.”

(or - a final night is spent in the arms of your bodyguard, before your arranged union the next morning.)

You'd always known your duty.

What was expected from you, of you, drilled deep from an early age. Borne with pride - you were the eldest daughter of the king, after all - until you were wise enough to see that perhaps your obligations and loyalty were as much a chain as they were an honor.

Your life followed a well-worn path. Absorbing the lessons. Hours spent in learning about those before. Women like you - the graceful neck beneath the head of another lord, another king.

Support them, love them, bear them children.

It hadn't bothered you. You hadn't known anything else.

Not until him.

The Mandalorian had been assigned to protect you three years ago. A renowned knight, his allegiance first pledged to your father. And then, you.

Your bodyguard is not from your planet. It’s something you clung to - an endless source of information about things you've never seen or known, when his lips finally loosened.

But you had always seen him for more than just your bodyguard. That it was more than duty that bound you to each other.

Over time, during those hours spent with his back facing your door - a steadfast barrier between yourself and the cruel outside world - you had started to see between the cracks.

To read into his minute movements. Catching the tilt of his head and cock of his hip. The dry comments that slip from beneath his helmet.

Pretending he doesn’t care which of your handmaidens were caught in a dark corner with Ser Shand.

But you know better.

You think that perhaps you were doomed from the start. That it was always going to turn out this way between you.

Because when you had finally reached out to touch temptation - to sink your teeth into that sweet, ripe fruit - he had let you.

And at first - with the way he had allowed your hand to flatten against his armor, fitting into her personal space - you had wondered if it's because he wasn't able to.

People do not often tell you no. You've grown up in a carefully-carved mould - your requests are rarely things to be denied.

The thought had you shrinking back, the flat of your palm pulling back to fingertips.

Until his hand had closed around your wrist, tracing up to map the back of your hand. Bringing it back to smooth against his chest, right above his beating heart.

It had you realizing that perhaps he was just allowing you to take the first desire that has truly been yours. That your hopes and wishes had not been alone.

That all this time, he had simply been waiting for you to come to him.

Hours are spent together since, stolen between dusk and dawn. The near-silent wandering of hands and mouths.

That beskar armor nearly always fixed in place. It’s as much a part of him as flesh and bone. The edge of his helmet only lifting when he gets desperate. Sealing his mouth to yours. Deepening the kiss, until he’s all you can taste.

So much of him is still a mystery, but he’s come to know you as well as the back of his hand. Knows just how to make you bend, and then break.

Working his fingers between your thighs, until you’re shattering his arms. It will be enough to hold him over, until next time.

It has to be.

In the months since that first night, you’ve never tried to push. You’ve long known that you don't need to see his face - to strip him bare - to love him.

Determined not to ask him for more than he can give.

That is - not until tonight.

You've tried to hold on as long as you can. Always had been good at pushing things down. Grinning and bearing - with that polite, learned smile.

The dread you’ve been holding back crashes into you now, a charging lance against a shield. Splintering, and you can feel the ache in your ribs as if truly struck.

You cling to him. Stripped bare, his armor a welcome chill as your fingers slip between the fastenings of his armor.

Tonight, he allows you to loosen them. The room pitch-black, as the moon hangs full against a blanket of stars.

His helmet set carefully on your side table. Too dark to see him, a way around his creed. Trust woven in his actions, and you thank him with the soft press of your lips.

Against his throat. Teeth nipping skin as he groans.

He can’t leave a mark on you. Not a single thumb-print bruise - not with the way you’ll be stripped and scrubbed tomorrow.

So you leave ones on him. Reminders he can keep, until you can manage a moment alone again.

Desire swirls hot in your belly. Your own palm slipping down to tuck against his front, cupping him. Another part of him that he’s denied you fully.

“Take me,” You beg. It’s pathetic, no more than a whimper, “Take me, and then take me away from here.”

The potential wrath of your family pales in comparison to the thought of being bound to another. The reality of your situation sets everything in sharp contrast, the pretty veneer you’ve been living in cracking at the seams.

Din’s breath is harsh in your ear - fingers stuttering where they circle against your clit at your plea, coated in your slick.

He’s been in your bed since the second your maidens were dismissed. You won’t sleep until dawn, not if tonight is all you have.

“You cannot mean that.” It’s harsh, almost a growl as it buzzes from his helmet.

You might have thought he was angry, if you did not know him so well. If you couldn’t hear his own desperation, woven into each syllable.

It has your hips canting into his touch. Each word panted out, as your fingers stroke where he strains.

"I have never meant anything more.”

Your fingers pluck at his belt, but he eases them gently away. Catching your wrist with his spare hand, pinning it to the bed. His thumb sweeping against your skin, soothing as you squirm against him.

The fingers at your clit slip down to press just inside you. As if he’s thinking about it for just a moment, giving you what you’ve long desired.

But instead there’s a finality to his words, as his touch slips back up. Increasing the pressure until you’re moaning into your pillow, the tightly-wound stream about to snap.

His words, murmured into your hair, as you come undone.

"I won't let you throw your life away."

But how can you live, knowing that he won't be yours?

Not in the way you want him to be.

The man you’ve chosen to marry - a high-born Mandalorian from another clan - is kindly enough, but he is not your knight.

No one could be.

Your only solace in this union is that Din is going with you, honor-bound by his own sworn duties.

A blessing in spite of everything. You do not think you could do this without him.

But it does not make the lead-weight of your feet any lighter. The room spins in front of you, stretching long and think as your hearing fades out to white noise.

It's only the grip of your fingers into the King's bracers that keeps you upright. Nails digging into steel, as you take one step at a time.

Your wedding is as beautiful as it should be. As you've always dreamed - your dress in pretty layers of white and gold. Up since daybreak, primped and pampered.

It's enough to almost, almost, have you regret meeting Din. If you had not known a love such as him, you might have been content for a marriage like this.

But of course, it's no more than a fleeting thought. Immediately shut down.

Better to know and grieve, than to not know at all.

You're still as stone, at the end of the aisle. All the movements practiced the night before - the events that had sent you rushing into Din’s arms after.

It hadn't seemed real until then.

Your lips feel carved into that smile. Hewn since the day you were born, your true feelings hidden in the dull sheen of your eyes.

Disconnected, as they drift. Annoyance flickering deep in your mind, when they slide over your groom.

His armor is ill-fitting. The leather straps at the shoulder stretched to their limits, hooked on the last notch. Too much space between the plates of his cuisses, and his poleyn.

You've spent weeks preparing for this, and he couldn't even dress in his finest for the ceremony. It feels like an insult, after everything.

Maybe if you blur your eyes, you can pretend it's him. Just until this is over.

The Cleric chants the words you’ve known since childhood. Repeating the phrases as your palm presses against your groom's. Each phrase bringing you closer to the end.

Only propriety and decades of lessons keep the quaver from your voice. They sound just as you practiced as they slide from you, even when repeated through muted lips.

There's a crackle of energy at the joining words. A golden string, glimmering.

Only now does your hand twitch. Resisting the urge to pull away. If you don't right now - right this very moment - then you will not get the chance again.

Your groom feels it. The slight tremble - his grip tightening around yours. The barest sweep of his thumb against your knuckles.

The movement startles you.

Just long enough for the string to loop around your joined hands, and then tighten.

It's too late now. Bound forever, until death do you part.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

Your eyes go to his helmet, as the ceremony winds to an end. His finger and thumb catching on the hinge, as his head tips towards yours.

You can’t bring yourself to meet him. Not until his lips press to yours. Not until there’s an intimate familiarity to them.

The gasp that slips from you is quiet. A hushed thing, breathed into the chaste kiss. There’s scruff on his jaw where his skin should be smooth shaven.

The height is off, too - something you’re only just now noticing.

It’s like your heart remembers how to beat again. Confusion and hope swirling in you in equal measure.

You squeeze the hand in yours, as the kiss breaks. Eyes shining as you both turn towards the crowd, life finally flickering in them agin.

It’s here, that everything begins to fall apart. Almost fool-proof.

With a bang, a man stumbles through the arched door at the end of an aisle. The pale blonde of his hair is mussed - eyes wide and red-rimmed as he shouts, a finger pointing towards the pulpit.

“Stop them!” It’s a high, hoarse thing, “He’s an imposter-!”

There’s a rippling murmur, gasps and cries as the man’s voice carries.

But your husband’s hand is is tightly grasping yours.

“Trust me?” He mumurs, and you’re nodding.

Following behind him as he darts to the side, making for the hallway. Your skirts bundled up in a fist as your heartbeat pounds behind your ribs.

There’s voices behind you. The stomp of feet, though the guests and the hired protection do not know the castle the way the two of you do.

Ducking down one corridor, and then another. News hasn’t spread fast enough - there’s murmurs from guards that you pass, but they’re not quick enough to stop you.

The sky bleeds red when you burst outside. A ship waits, engines roaring - the same one you watched drop out of the sky years ago, with his first arrival.

“Su cuy'gar!” A voice calls from inside - another Mandalorian hailing as he rushes down the ramp, “You’re late. I’ll stall, but you need to go.”

It's one you recognize as a member of your Father's own guard, hand-chosen. Boba Fett's reputation for ferocity and loyalty preceeding him. Only now do you realize just where that loyalty truly lies.

“Vor entye, ner vod.” Din clasps his arm, a farewell woven into his thanks.

“Ret'urcye mhi, princess,” Boba’s head dips in a nod, “We’ll handle things from here.”

You’re whisked inside, and ship takes off just as guests begin to pour from the door. Boba blends into the crowd as you watch the scene from above, becoming no more than another bystander.

They grow smaller. Doll-sized, and then ants, and then the stars are streaking as the ship makes the jump - shooting you out into hyperspace.

It’s here that your legs finally give out. All that tension building up until it snaps, until you’re collapsing into the co-pilots chair.

Din’s hands are on you in a second. Gloves shucked with his teeth, discarded on the floor. Warm and familiar as they cup your face.

“I am sorry,” His voice is rough. Still distorted beneath your betrothed’s helmet, but you know it’s him, “I couldn’t let you marry him.”

“I know,” You head turns, lips pressing into the palm of his hand, “I was so afraid. I wanted to run, I almost did-”

He feels how you tremble. A ragged breath as his touch turns soft - smoothing over your cheeks, knuckles brushing your neck.

Your name is breathed out, as you relax against him. As your hands start to wander, tugging at the edge of his cuirass.

“I don’t like this on you.” Your voice sounds thick, in your own head. Biting through the emotions that threaten to choke you, “It’s not yours.”

“No.” He hums, and it sounds like a laugh, “Though as my wife, you may remove them now. If you wish.”

Din’s words makes you ache with want. His wife.

You wonder if he’s teasing you, or if all that he said is true. He’s never allowed you to remove more than a piece or two before.

“Is your armor here?”

“Mine is in the bunk. Along with your things, I had them packed while you were getting ready today.”

You smile then. Relief in knowing that this was planned. That he had put the ball in motion, in those few hours you shared before dawn.

Maybe he had daydreamed about it for even longer. Knowing he could not, but still unable to help thinking through things. How he would always choose you, if only you were to ask.

And you finally had, at the very last second.

He lets your hands slip across his chest, mirroring that first night. New, in the way you slip the leather straps free, until pieces are left stacked on the floor.

The flightsuit beneath is his own. Your fingers have traced the stitching night after night, patterns you know by heart. And for the first time, he lets you tug at the zipper under his chin. Guiding it down with you, exposing tanned skin beneath.

It leaves you greedy. Fingers mapping every inch that appeared. Tracing over old battle wounds and scars from a lifetime ago. A pounding in your heart as each second stretches to the next.

Expecting him to take this back. To wrap himself away again, hiding from your eyes.

Soon, only his helmet and small clothes remain. Your fingers drifting to where he’s half hard, another part of him you already know well.

But his hands wander as well. Plucking at the ribbons that weave up the back of your dress, encasing you.

“Are you fond of this?” He’s asking, just as a fingers hooks beneath. The sharp tug that follows the shake of your head has the seams splitting. That ribbon starting to fray, and then snap.

Your gasp is almost as loud, as the fabric rips. The straps drooping down your arms as the dress starts to pool around you, dragged down by the layers of tulle.

“I’ll get you another,” Din rasps - watching, as you wriggle free.

Seeing the layers of lace beneath, meant for another man. Deep down, knowing it was always meant for him.

His bare hands catch at your hips. Sliding over skin, then up.

"I'll marry you again, cyar'ika. Properly,” Din’s words make you shiver, as his touch drifts across your arms, “As many times as you want, as long as you're mine."

“Yours.” You echo.

Reminding you about binding rituals of the ceremony - all the excitement of the escape almost making you forget.

But when his fingers catch yours, dragging your hands to the curve of his helmet, it’s impossible to think of anything else.

Intent in his movement. The tip of his head towards you, the muscles in his chest going tight as he holds his breath.

“Are you sure?” The beskar is cool beneath your touch.

You know what he offers you. Something akin to the vows you recited, something spoken in his own language.

“Yes,” He echos, “I’ve never meant anything more.”

There’s a weight, one of which you’ve never known. That this wasn’t just to save you. That he’ll wind up right back here as many times, until you believe him.

The lift of your hands is slow. Revealing the stubble on his neck, then chin. You’ve seen bits with the tip of his head. A knowledge that the hair is dark, but then there’s the soft curve of his lips.

Ones that you know the shape of, tracing yours fingers over them in the darkness. Pressed against every part of you, night after night.

There’s a patch of hair missing against his jaw. His nose, and you resist the urge to press your lips to it. A hint of curls, grey-flecked at his temples.

And then his eyes.

He needs the mask, you realize. You would have fallen immediately, looking into eyes like that. Warm and dark, as brown and pretty as his hair.

Everyone would have known what you meant to him, if that had caught him looking at you like this.

The exhale of your breath is low. Only a heartbeat until your mouth is pressing to his, insistent.

Hungry, unleashed fully for the first time. His hands slide up your hips, as the helmet hangs from your fingertips. Curling around your back, pressing you to him.

He’s dreamed of taking you countless times. Your own desires mirroring his - something flickering in your mind, now. A thought that maybe, you should move.

Down to his bunk, perhaps.

But there’s something about here. The cockpit, the streak of stars behind you. His strong thighs spread and bare in the seat before you, as you stand between them.

It’s easy to crawl into his lap. To straddle him, your clothed core already damp when you fit yourself against him.

You can feel groan in his chest as your palm flattens against him. One of his real ones - not modulated through metal.

“Please,” It’s hushed, whispered against his mouth. A rock of your hips, grinding against him.

He catches your hand, dragging it down again.

“It’s yours,” He husks, “It’s always been yours.”

Pleasure blooms low in your belly. Your fingers cupping against his length, before they slip beneath the fabric to curl around him.

Eagerly easing him out. His hips lift so you can shove his small clothes down. The weight of his cock trapped between your belly and his, as his own fingers trace the damp fabric at your core.

“I need you,” You breathe, arching into his fingertips. How they press and rub at you through the lace. It’s far past want.

Want was those early days, stolen glances from beneath your eyelashes as your solemn guard. Finding excuses to make him laugh, so sure he must be smiling beneath the helmet.

Din wears his expressions so openly without. His own desire shown in the grit of his jaw. Those lips that part on a groan, as your fist gives a slow pump.

The lace at your hips tears as easily as the ribbons that held your dress together. A pivot of his chair until he can lay you back against the metal panels of the dashboard, chilling fevered skin.

You whine at the distance that now stretches between you, but his hands only tighten where they grip at your waist.

“Shh, cyar’ika. I’m not going anywhere.” He soothes you, as the reason he moved you suddenly becomes clear.

It’s easier for his fingers to fit into you this way. The flip of his hand, as it faces palm-up. The tip of one stroking against bare skin. A familiar stretch as he slips to the first knuckle.

And then, as a shallow gasp slides from you, he sinks further than he’s ever been.

Had to hold back, before. Give you just a taste of what you’ve been wanting. This - the feel of him nudged so deep inside you.

“I know,” Your husband soothes, as his thumb nudges at your clit - distracting you.

From the slow plunge of his finger. How that quick twinge of discomfort bleeds into a pulsing throb you know well.

It’s not long before your hips are lifting. Your breath growing shorter, as a second fingers slips in to stretch you out. Getting you ready.

His cock is heavy where it rests on your thigh, the tip sticky against your skin. Flushed and swollen - making you realize that maybe you had been too hasty, thinking you could take him before.

Your own hands drift - and this time, you watch. Catching how dark and blown-wide his eyes get. The peek of his tongue between his lips when your fingers pinch at your nipples.

The way he inhales, when he feels you clench down around him. Back arching off the console, as his fingers curl against a spot that you never knew existed inside you.

“There,” You moan, as nudges against it again, “Din, please-”

His jaw grits, his voice low, “Yeah? Are you close, ner riduur?”

You’re used to the pretty names he calls you - a hidden way to show his affection. But never like this, with the soft purr of his voice. The way the words slide so easily from his tongue.

It must mean something special.

“Yes,” Your fingers pinch harder, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Biting back the panting gasp of your breath, as his thumb presses against your clit.

“Come for me.” It’s a command, but there’s a razor edge of need in his words, “Always sound so fucking pretty. Let me hear you.”

You’ve always had to hold back. Muffled into pillows, his palm of his hand as it clamps over your mouth.

The cry rips from you today, as you reach your peak. Eyes fluttering shut as the star-lines streak across your bare form - still bright, even as your vision darkens.

Your nails scrape against his skin, as he leans into you. Din’s mouth sealing to yours as you’re hauled into his lap, his thick fingers slipping free.

The kiss is messy, your mind still swirling as you reach down. Desperate for more, now that you’ve had a taste.

He pants into your mouth, “Don’t have to, cyare. This is-”

The words breaking off with a groan, as your fingers squeeze around him. His own need evident with how he throbs against your palm.

“‘s not enough,” You’re breathless, the dregs of pleasure settling low in your belly, “I’ve waited, we’ve waited-”

“Long enough.” He rasps, a flash of teeth in the darkness when you lean back.

Your nod is sharp. Determination in the pull of your shoulders as you lift up, angling his cock between your thighs.

A breath, and then you’re lowering yourself. The pressure you felt before is nothing compared to now - a muffled cry, as your nails bite into his shoulders.

As he stretches you open, even with how slick and ready you are. His own hands tug at you, trying to keep you from dropping down too quickly.

But you take him. You were made for him, after all. You decided that long ago. Even if you had joined with another, you’d never be theirs like you are his.

And you always were a quick learner. That competitive streak in you takes over now - figuring out just how to move in the cramped space.

That sting easing into pleasure, with the roll of your hips. The movement is familiar - you’ve sat astride him before, just never like this.

Never feeling this full, when your thighs are finally flush against his. Din’s hands guiding you like they often did - grasping at your waist, keeping your rhythm steady.

Even as it threatens to stutter, with just how good he feels. The angle you ride him sends him across the place his fingers found. Each drop of your hips sending you higher, eager to follow his murmured encouragement.

“You feel so fucking good,” It’s ragged and low - close to the tone he has when he comes, spilling across your belly, “Been waiting so long so have you like this-”

“Yours,” You sigh, again. Finally able to say it aloud, “I’m yours, we can have each other any time we want.”

Din groans at that, his hips bucking into you.

“Mine.”

It’s possessive. The hairs on the back of your neck standing up, as his fingers slip down again. Needing to know just how it feels to make you come around him, after imagining it for so long.

Your rhythm goes sloppy with his touch. Unable to figure out how to keep moving with your mind so clouded with pleasure. Chasing his touch as you bounce, head tilting back as his lips press against your throat.

Up, and then up, until he’s kissing you again. Your arms twine around his shoulders, curls tucked between pinched fingers as he brings you over the edge again.

Sharing a breath, as you moan into his mouth. His cock filling you as you clench down around him, almost as if trying to keep him inside as your orgasm pulses through you.

Din used to worry about monsters and beasts darkening your doorstep, never knowing he’d create one in you. Hungry like you’ve never known, eager for more even as your energy slips from you.

With his own desperation, he’s not far behind. Not with how you tight you are. Ready to give you everything, now that he finally can.

His jaw grits as he buries himself in you. Doing most of the work now, your legs leaden in your afterglow. Rutting his hips against yours, notching himself deep into where you’re wet and warm.

“Princess-,” Din rasps, like he used to. A low huff of a breath as you correct him.

Your lips at his ear, as you croon, “Riduur.”

“Fuck,” He groans at that, his voice dropping low, “Riddur, where do you want me?”

It makes you moan, the rough tone in his voice. How that name in his native tongue affects him just as much as you.

Your hips begin to move in earnest, skin slapping against skin. Those dark eyes on yours as you answer - finally able to express your hearts desire, after all these years.

“I want to feel you.”

His breath grows harsh, as your hips roll.

“Come in me. Please, Din.”

There’s no need for you to beg. He’s already there - a rough grunt as his hips near lift off the seat. Tugging you down and flush against him as he spills inside you.

You can feel him throb, as his warmth floods your walls. Threatening to spill from you, to leak onto thighs that are already sticky with your release. Sweat-dewed with exertion.

That heady ache of need fades, when you both come back down. It’s just bliss now, warm in your limbs. In his embrace. For the first time in weeks, you feel like you’re able to breathe.

The stars streak across his skin, illuminating pieces of his face. So like the stained glass back home, each feature split and soldered with darkness.

“Do you regret it?” His voice is low, barely audible over the hum of the engine, “Leaving with me?”

Your head tilts back, as you look at him again. A sight that you cherish, one you hope you can indulge in, but never take for granted.

And after all the questions that led to today - this one has been the easiest to answer.

“No,” You catch his hand, pressing it to your heart. Mirroring his words earlier.

“It’s always been yours.”

In every world - you would have gone with him.

Sometime amongst the late hours, you wind your way downstairs.

Fitting together in the narrow bunk, not minding the small space. Drifting off with a hand cradled against his neck. Thumb brushing his cheek, loathe to leave the warmth of his skin.

Soft dreams swirl in the moments you do sleep. In between the times when you wake - reaching for each other. Another hour spent twined together, re-learning every inch.

Not fearing the dawn, this time.

Because for once... your life is yours.

thanks for reading! and jana, thank you so much for hosting this event, I was so excited to celebrate with you! 💖

Su cuy'gar! - a friendly greeting (lit: "still live," i.e. "so you're still alive.")

vor entye - thank you (lit: "I accept a debt")

ner vod - my brother

ner riduur - my spouse / wife

ret'urcye mhi - goodbye

#1500 kisses challenge #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #din djarin x f!reader

684 notes · View notes

simmerandwrite · 1 month

Text

electric touch (part 1)

Pairing: Bucky x medical team! reader

Summary: Getting a spot on the field medical team was your dream. And your closest work friend Bucky Barnes finally asking you out? That was the cherry on top of your good news. Now all you had to do was pass your training week. Seems easy enough until you’re faced with someone who doesn’t want to see you win.

Warnings: abuse of power, verbal abuse, physical assault, some PTSD (but none of these are because of Bucky!!!!)

Wordcount: 7k

Part 2

Notes: hello! Are you hungry for a lil slice of ‘who did this to you’ pie with a big dollop of protective Bucky Barnes on top? Dig in!! I aim to be as nondescript as possible for the reader but I will note reader is shorter than Bucky and wears glasses. Thank you for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts! please consider reblogging, it helps my work reach more lovely people here on Tumblr. <3 merci!

---

Your regular lunch dates with Bucky started unintentionally. In fact, your friendship with Bucky had started that way – very unintentionally.

In retrospect, you couldn’t believe you had been late on your first day. You had intentionally set extra alarms to make sure you got to Stark Industries early.But you couldn’t control the inconsistencies of the New York subway system. When you skirted into the training room, only one seat was left – beside Bucky Barnes himself.

It was funny to think that the mandatory onboarding applied to new Avengers, too.

Of course, you knew who he was – the former Winter Soldier – but you didn’t realize he had to sit through the boring health and safety discussions and HR seminars like everyone else. When the first lunch break arrived, you turned to him and asked if he wanted to join you for lunch at the burger place down the street.

Initially, it looked like he was fighting off the urge to decline, but then he said: “Sure.”

Your conversations were very stilted in the beginning, which you didn’t mind. But as the week carried on, you felt the foundations of a friendship.

(He told you, later, that he appreciated your kindness that first day. That he had been really fucking scared to sit in that room with strangers judging him. He liked that you treated him like a normal person.)

It had grown organically since then – but you were simply just work friends. Your roles at Stark Industries slash The Avengers Initiative didn’t always overlap, but you did occasionally see him in the halls or if he happened to be by medical when you were working. Then, one day, you saw him eating alone in the cafeteria and you dropped down across from him to catch up.

Then lunch turned into a routine for you both. Typically on Wednesdays you’d sit together, if Bucky wasn’t on a mission or you weren’t on the night rotation. Sometimes Sam or Steve or some of the other nurses joined you, but secretly, you liked when it was just you and Bucky. Sometimes it felt like he preferred it that way too.

“So, guess what?” You sat down on the chair across from him, your tray knocking against his. He slowly moved his eyes from the pages of his book – he almost always had his nose in a book at lunch, regardless of the company – and matched your smile.

“I take it you got good news?”

You searched his face then frowned. “Wait, do you already know? That’s not fair.”

“Sam showed me the roster.”

A groan rumbled from your chest. “Boo.” You tipped your head to look at him as you paused. “Can you just pretend you’re about to hear this for the first time?”

Bucky smirked, putting down his book and politely stacking his hands to give you his full attention. “Sure. Start again?”

“Guess what?” You repeated, rolling your eyes.

“I’ve got no clue, doll. What?”

“You are looking at the newest member of the field medical team!” The chair legs squeaked as you danced in celebration.

“Congratulations,” Bucky replied, a wide smile crossing his face. He reached out and offered his fist, which you met with your own. You knocked your knuckles into his twice then wiggled your fingers at one another - a silly secret handshake you had invented together over a Taco Tuesday lunch one day, mostly out of annoyance to Sam.

You deflated afterwards, though, as reality set in. “Hopefully I can make it through training next week. It’s going to be hard but.. I can do hard things.”

Bucky reached over and grabbed your hand, holding it for a moment though he quickly pulled back. “You’re going to do great. You wouldn’t have been picked if you weren’t capable. You’re more than ready and, well, uh, I’m proud of you.”

You smiled, glancing down to where his hand had briefly made contact with yours. It felt.. hot, for some reason. You resisted touching the skin there. This had been happening more than you wanted to admit recently – a new spark when you saw him, when you touched. You thought you had easily avoided the possibilities of a developing crush on Bucky but.. something had been brewing for you. And maybe the same was happening with him, too - when you thought about how he looked at you, how considerate he was…

You wouldn’t know with any certainty unless you asked and you were way, way too scared to ask. Ruining your friendship may not be worth it. Especially if you were joining the medical team that would accompany the Avengers on some of their missions. What if you made it weird? What if you went on one date and it was terrible and your friendship never recovered? What if you asked Bucky out and then he laughed in your face and –

“We should go out and celebrate,” he cut you off.

Wait. Was his voice shaking?

You met his eyes. Was he nervous? “I still.. I have to pass the training.”

“I know,” he nodded. “And tomorrow I leave for.. an undisclosed location for the week. So. When I get back and you’ve crushed the training and have the new job title, let’s go out.”

“Just you and me?” You asked, swallowing hard.

Bucky took a deep breath. “Yeah. If you..”

“Like a date?”

He closed his eyes, face scrunched up. It was cute. “Yeah, like a date, sweetheart. Just you and me.”

Okay, well, okay. Yes. Okay, that answered your question. You supposed the risk was being taken either way. There. He did the thing before you could even talk yourself out of it.

You smiled, nervously adjusting your glasses. Oh my god. You hadn’t even answered. With eyes wide, you reached for him. “Yes, that sounds.. that sounds wonderful. I’d love that.”

He grinned, squeezing your hand. “For a second there, I really thought I screwed all this up.”

---

Bucky couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to finally just do it. Asking you out had been at the top of his list for a long time and although it scared the shit out of him, this follow-up feeling of anticipation had been totally worth it. Now he just needed to get through a grueling mission with a sweet reward at the end – a date with you.

You- the first stranger who treated him like a regular person. You - who cared so deeply about your job. You - who seemed to always hear his snarky comments and always laughed, giggled, snorted, at them. With a smile that could make his entire body warm up.

You. He couldn’t wait for that damn date.

A date was the scary next step. But he was tired of waiting and tired of denying his feelings. And thank god you had reacted just as positively. The foundation of your friendship was so important to him but he had a feeling things could be even better. He prayed he wouldn’t fuck it all up.

When he showed up at the compound early in the morning to get on the jet, Bucky was surprised to see Sam prepping in the pilot’s seat.

Sam jumped in with an answer before the question even left Bucky’s lips. “Natasha had to join Clint on the Belize mission, last minute. So it’s you and me, pal.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Though he wasn’t mentally prepared for a week with Sam, he could handle it. Bucky was certain he could handle anything that he faced this week, knowing it was your face on his mind keeping him going.

As you crossed his mind again, another thought surfaced.

“If you’re here, who’s taking over the training for the med field team?” Bucky reached for his phone then cursed. They were going dark for this mission so he’d left his phone in his locker. Although he had sent you a message after he got up that morning, he wanted to reach out one last time and send some extra reassurance your way.

“Don’t worry,” Sam knocked his shoulder, standing up to do a final check of the gear. “Your girl is in good hands.” Sam added in a wiggle of his fingers in Bucky's direction.

You weren’t Bucky’s girl.. yet. He didn’t feel bothered by the term. In fact, he loved it and so badly wanted you to be okay with him saying it some day too. Though it was still worth correcting Sam. It didn’t seem fair to put a label on something without consulting you first. Not to mention Sam’s teasing about you and Bucky had been going on for months and Bucky did not want to indulge him.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky replied, scrubbing a hand down his jaw.

Sam carried on. “Boone is doing the training protocol instead, but I’ll manage the final evaluations next week.”

A quiet groan escaped Bucky’s lips. “Boone is a jackass.”

“I don’t disagree that he can be a bit too self assured - but he has proved himself in the field and will be a great mentor to this cohort.”

“Wasn’t he one of the agents Steve benched a few months ago - after his annual physical? What’s the term they used - he was doping?”

Sam sighed. “He was clean but a couple of his buddies were thrown out. But Boone is good, Buck. She’s gonna be fine.” With a final glance at the screen between them, Sam clapped his hands. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

---

When you applied for the job at Stark Industries for their medical team, you weren’t entirely sure what the role was going to entail. Your years of working as a nurse at the busiest emergency room in Chicago had given you plenty of experience with, well, everything and anything imaginable. You were always prepared for the unexpected.

What you hadn’t expected though was the pace - it was significantly slower than you imagined. Most of your days revolved around small visits from agents for anything from minor injuries and lacerations to annual physicals. On occasion you’d support when the Avengers came in, but usually they worked directly with Dr. Cho or the other on site doctors.

You figured the cure for your unrelenting desire for more was to get on the field medical team - a group of agents and trained nurses who accompanied the Avengers or other strike teams on missions, acting as a resource for any injuries to civilians and team members alike. Not every mission needed a team and sometimes it would involve last minute travel, but you didn’t mind.

When your application for transfer was finally accepted, you couldn’t get over how excited you were. You had been working hard for months getting into better shape, especially your stamina. Sure, maybe you could do a bit more when it came to targeted strength training but you had qualified on the initial testing to even get into the training level, so you’d be fine.

You could do this.

Truthfully, you were really excited about it. And Bucky had sent you the most encouraging message before he left that morning and you just.. You knew you could do this.

Bucky's words echoed: “...you wouldn’t have been picked if you weren’t capable. You’re more than ready and, well, uh, I’m proud of you.”

You were going to do this well and you were going to make yourself proud, too.

Most of your excitement depleted when you walked into the gym though. You joined the rest of the agents in the training group and braced yourself when you saw Agent Nathan Boone standing with his tablet, calling out names for attendance.

“Wilson had to suit up as Falcon and jump on a critical mission this morning so I’ll be running the training program this week,” he explained as he sized up his group, which included you plus another half a dozen training agents.

Without a doubt, Boone was the worst replacement for Sam you could think of. Boone exuded a confidence you couldn’t quite wrap your mind around, given his frat guy personality. Hiding behind his smarmy grin, linebacker build and perfectly coiffed hair - he was a real jackass.

You tried not to let your mind race as Boone walked you all through the upcoming week of training. You’d be going over everything from basic self defense skills to hand to hand combat strategies to overall endurance drills. Then he explained that next week it was Sam Wilson who’d be doing the final evaluations.

“So let’s prove to him you’re all a good batch, okay?” Boone’s demeanor shifted as he got into his coaching mode. “Let’s start with a warm up run. Onto the treadmills.”

This wasn’t your first interaction with Boone, though you weren’t sure he would remember you.

During your first few weeks you’d been responsible for doing the annual physicals for most of the agents. It had been a very repetitive (and boring) assignment, until some anomalies came up in the test results. A few agents, including Boone, had weird things flagged on their blood and urine tests - mostly markers that indicated steroid use. Which was completely against standards for agents and employees at Stark Industries.

One of them, some bulky aggressive asshole, tried to convince you to look the other way but you had ultimately reported it. The fallout caused a huge uproar between the medical team and the agents, with the consequence coming down on a handful of agents who were fired due to drug use. Boone had escaped that fate somehow, passing his re-test with perfect results. And even though HR promised you it was a sealed case, you were always worried it had left a bit of a target on your back.

Nothing had come from it. The next round of physicals you assisted with didn’t involve any of those field agents and no other concerns had been flagged. Everything seemed back to normal.

In fact, you had seen Boone once since that whole controversy. A few months ago you passed him flirting with one of the admins in your department but you kept your head down and ignored him. That was it.

Hopefully the week of training wouldn’t be soured by your history with him but you figured it was safest to go in with an open mind.

Thankfully, by the end of your run, as you were moving onto some basic tactical drills, he continued treating you just like everyone else. Generally firm and distant overall, but nothing strangely out of the ordinary. His barked orders were delivered to everyone evenly. If he had any recollection of your connected history, he didn’t bring it up.

The first day of training had been tough, especially since you still had a few extra hours of work to log afterwards. When you returned to your reporting station in the medical wing, you had to really settle your mind down and talk your way through the unkind thoughts racing around your brain.

You could do this.

The second day focused exclusively on muscular endurance, which wasn’t really your strong suit but you managed to keep up with the group all the same.

Boone had the entire cohort going hard - with a lot of tough but constructive encouragement coming from him along the way. When one of the other trainees dropped their barbells, it seemed to irritate Boone immensely too. He let out a few curses as he helped them pick the weights back up then apologized for his reaction but the flare of anger was evident.

When you were all heading back to the locker rooms, it was one of the other agents muttering about ‘roid rage’ that raised a red flag for you.

It was during the third day of training that you felt the first tug of resistance with Boone. It was small things that you couldn’t help but file away. The way he delivered supportive commentary to everyone else in the group but only gave you critical feedback. During one of the practical scenarios, he undermined all your answers.

“I see why you’d think that way if you’ve never done this before but I can tell you by experience, it wouldn’t work. Bit of an amateur way of looking at things, actually. You need to do better if you’re going to be in the field with experts. Are you sure you passed the interview for this role?”

He said things in a way that didn’t always seem personal to you, but he certainly delivered them in a condescending tone.

But, maybe, well, maybe you were just reading into things. You were feeling tired already and not really sleeping, so your focus was a bit off.

Yeah, you could do better, strategize better, think things through in a better way.

On the fourth day, after a morning of weapons training and spending time at the range, the session moved onto sparring drills. It was quite basic - Boone walked the group through easy to follow hand to hand techniques, spending time here and there with each person to adjust their form.

Everyone who qualified for the med team had to pass certain physical testing standards already. You had been working hard in the gym for months to get your mind ready, though you knew you weren’t very experienced in anything related to defensive techniques.

When he got to you following one of the scenarios, there was a firm frown on his face. “You need to be less in your head.”

You nodded, flexing and stretching your hands out. “Okay. Uhm okay, well, do you have any tips on how to–”

He was quick to cut you off. “Figure it out. I don’t have time to teach you critical thinking skills.” Following a sharp finger snap, he pointed directly at you. “And what’s with the glasses?”

“Ran out of contacts this morning, but I can do without them if I need to. Its–”

“They’re a safety risk.”

He didn’t care for your explanation or offer you any other advice, instead just muttering something as he moved on and tapping something into the tablet. None of his feedback had been helpful. Christ, you figured maybe it was worth starting a list to consult with Sam about following your evaluation instead.

You just had to get through one more day with Boone. You were tired - down to your bones, from the physical and mental work during this week.

But it was nearly the weekend and that meant next week was approaching. Most importantly, the training would be done and you would have a real date with Bucky on the books, too. You couldn’t wait.

---

The last training day was mostly a culmination of everything you had gone over from the week. There was more endurance testing, some strength and performance work and the day ended with more sparring and situationals.

You knew this was the light at the end of the tunnel. And when everything was wrapping up, you were relieved to finally be done with taking instructions from Boone, too.

Until his final speech. “You’ve been a great group and I would say most of you are ready for next week. Wilson will be impressed.” After a few more notes and instructions for the following week, he dismissed everyone. As you headed back towards the locker room, he called your name.

That made your stomach drop. He waved you back over towards the mats.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” Boone started slowly, eyes glancing around the empty room before he looked down at his tablet screen. “Here is the report on your training this week.” He turned the device so you could read over it.

After the first line, you took it from his hands. “Wait - what?”

“I just don’t think you’re ready.” Boone crossed his arms. “You’ve got the medical knowledge, sure. But the rest of it, even if you had another two months to train, I’m doubtful.” He took the tablet back and continued scrolling, as if he hadn’t just delivered such a disappointing blow to you. “It’s up to you whether you still want to do your test with Sam next week, but if I was in your shoes, I’d tap out.”

You swallowed hard, head tipped slightly to the side as you took in what he was saying. “That doesn’t make any sense. I kept up with everyone here this week.”

“This is a controlled environment; I don’t think you can hack it in the field.” Boone shrugged. “Like I said, you’re more than welcome to do your evaluation but I don’t think this will impress The Falcon enough to solidify your spot on the field team.”

“Good thing you’re not in charge of this decision then,” you bit in return, taking a step back. It felt like he was egging you on and you didn’t like it. Even worse that you were alone with him in the gym. “I don’t have to prove shit to you.”

“You don’t have to, or you simply can’t?” He countered, tossing the tablet to the side as he crossed his arms. He sized you up, eyes drawing up the shape of your body. “Let’s try something.” He motioned to the mats. “I’ll give you another chance to change my mind about that report. Maybe I misread your abilities and intentions.”

You knew the right thing to do would be to walk away and ignore how he was antagonizing you. But a tiny voice in the back of your head kept reminding you that you were good, that you had earned your place here. That you needed to show him that.

No, you didn’t.

Yes, you did.

You took a deep breath and stepped forward, placing yourself in the middle of the mat. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Boone laughed, standing in front of you. He scanned you over again. “Scenario. You’re in the field, there’s a civilian who needs medical attention. You’re alone with them as everyone else explores the area for threats. But, it's night time, it was a busy bit of action and –” Boone reached over and pulled your glasses off. “And you lost your glasses in the chaos.”

Before you could protest about the logistics of this stupid scenario, he threw them to the side.

You shook your head and immediately stepped back. “What the fuck?”

“Maybe you should have worn your contacts today.” He replied and this time, there was something more at the edge of his words. Something unsettling.

This was a bad idea. But he was waiting for you to reply, to call his bluff and tap out. You growled to yourself and stayed.

“The civilian has a broken limb so you’re on the ground beside them.” Without even hesitating he placed both his hands on your shoulders and shoved you down to your knees.

None of this made any lick of sense. This wasn’t a scenario you’d end up in. You wouldn’t be alone or you’d call for backup.

He continued without a second thought, moving to stand behind you, placing his hand on the crown of your head. “And someone comes at you from behind – now you’re compromised and so is your civilian.”

You sat there on your knees, chock still. A red flashing light was going off in your mind but for some reason, you stayed.

A low, grumbly laugh escaped him. “See? Not only are you a terrible nurse but you have no fucking instinct—”

You immediately swung your leg up to hook behind him, not sending him down to the ground but gaining enough of your own momentum to plot out your next move. Planting a foot, you lunged forward and grabbed his waist, pulling him towards the mat.

That really set off whatever anger had been simmering in him. The next thing you saw was the training mat as your face and torso were being shoved against it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your shouting felt useless as your body writhed under his weight. Your cheek dragged across the plastic mat as you moved, burning against your skin. “Get off of me, you—”

“Defend. Yourself.” Boone barked back, adjusting to grab your arm. He gripped your elbow, then twisted your wrist behind your back. A jolt of pain rushed down your shoulder. “Took me a few days but then I remembered your face.”

You cried out, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please just stop. What is—why are you—”

“Three of my friends, my brothers – you ruined their lives, you know that? They lost all their job prospects, they have fuck all left because of what you did. You know, we need that stuff - to keep up with supersoldiers. There is nothing fucking wrong with some pharmaceutical help. If I’m backing up Captain America, I deserve the boost.” With his knee pressing against your back, he leveraged himself to sit up a bit straighter. But his grip on your wrist remained, growing tighter and tighter. “If you had just turned the other way and ignored those tests—”

“I was doing my job,” you mumbled back at him. “They were the ones who broke the rules and—”

His voice hadn’t quite grown to shouting but the intensity grew. “And you are the one who suffers now, alright? And you sure as hell aren’t joining the field team. I’m going to make sure of it.”

---

All Bucky wanted to do when they got back to the compound was text you. It was late Sunday night but he didn’t care.

After the grueling week he and Sam had, Bucky took comfort in knowing soon enough he’d get to see you. He wanted to know about everything from last week - from training to everyday life, he just wanted to talk to you. Crossing the threshold from friends to something more was scary but during his long, sleepless nights, you provided a strange sense of comfort to him.

Without doing a dang thing. Just knowing you made him better, inspired him to be better and to be present.

“Hey,” Sam tugged on Bucky’s arm before he headed to the locker room. “Medical check first. Then you’re free to send your little smiley face emojis to her.”

Bucky grumbled but didn’t have the energy to argue with Sam. The mission had gone well but hadn’t been the smoothest for either of them. While they both returned unharmed, Bucky knew coming down from these sorts of weeks properly was important.

Finally, after a clearance from the nurse and a quick shower - Bucky was turning his phone back on.

He dismissed all the messages from Steve and an Avengers group chat he liked to ignore then finally found his way to his conversation with you. Seeing a slew of your thoughts over the course of the week made him smile.

You: good luck this week - come back in one piece, please <3

You: made it through day one and two, turns out my five-story walkup apartment is good for my cardio skills after all lol You: remind me of that next time I complain about the stairs

You: day three has proved that I do need to work on my upper body strength You: wanna be my personal trainer? ;)

You: miss you, hope everything is going safely You: this week has really kicked my ass

Your messages did peter off by Friday and although Bucky longed for more, he assumed you were probably just tired after the long week. Plus, the training wasn’t for the light of heart. Sam had shown him the schedule and although it was standard, its intensity was intentional. Not that Bucky doubted you - he knew you’d been preparing as best as you could since you had shown an interest in joining the field team months ago. But that could really exhaust someone by the end of it.

And tomorrow you had to power through a final evaluation with Sam too, so Bucky hoped you got to spend the rest of the weekend resting.

He dropped down onto one of the benches and planned his response.

Bucky: hey doll, made it back safe and sound Bucky: in one piece, I promise :) Bucky: can’t wait to hear about last week, I’m sure you did great Bucky: good luck tomorrow, I’ll come find you after the eval Bucky: sweet dreams

---

Bucky felt a little bit silly, lingering outside the training gym. At least he wasn’t pacing, that would have been an even worse look. He leaned against the opposite wall to the doors, arms crossed.

Something just felt a bit off for him and, well, finally seeing you would help ease his mind. It was just strange – the lack of communication. Sure, he had sent his message quite late the night before but he assumed he might hear something back from you during the day.

But no, it had been radio silence. He could attribute it to your needing to prepare for your evaluation but that didn’t seem like enough of a justification. In all the times you and he had been friends, you always managed to send a reply.

He would just have to settle for an in person update, following your testing with Sam. Five other agents exited the gym by mid afternoon, but you never showed up at the door.

Sam did eventually emerge, tapping quickly against his tablet. He came to a halt when he spotted Bucky waiting, arms now tightly locked behind his back.

Bucky looked over Sam’s shoulder, trying to glimpse into the gym before he met his eyes. “How’d she do?”

Sam let out an awkward laugh. “Well, she didn’t show. She sent me an email earlier saying that she was sick.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly. “Oh.”

“I know, weird. What’s even more weird though is that when I said we could reschedule her for another date, she tapped out.” Sam raised his shoulder to shrug then showed Bucky the screen.

Bucky scanned over the message and frowned. It was true. Your reply to Sam was short, explaining you didn’t want to reschedule and declined any further interest in the field team. That was it. You were out.

“Given how she sent me a five-paragraph essay explaining how excited she was to join the team, this seems out of character.” Sam tucked the screen under his arm and patted Bucky on the shoulder. “Give me an update after you talk to her.”

“What makes you think—”

“Oh, I already see your wheels turning. You’re doing the math on how quickly you can get to her place.” Sam called after him as Bucky turned to leave. “Let her know I can reschedule her anytime!”

---

You knew you couldn’t ignore Bucky forever. It was just.. it felt like too much, thinking of a way to reply. After what happened with Boone on Friday, every single thing in your life felt like climbing the steepest mountain.

It was absurd how quickly things had escalated. You should have just walked away the instant Boone brought up your evaluation. Getting on that mat with him was really fucking stupid and.. here you were.

You could barely remember how you got home Friday – dazed and confused and numb. After Boone finished screaming and you had stopped trying to fight back, you curled up on yourself. You fought back tears over the humiliation and pain, hands shaking as you grabbed your things from the locker room. One ridiculously overpriced cab ride later and you made it home to your studio in Astoria.

Then you cried in the shower and all the way to your bed - where you stayed as long as you possibly could on Saturday, dousing yourself in painkillers just to try and stay asleep.

You knew you needed to go to urgent care, or even just an emergency room - somewhere you could afford the x-ray. You had never broken a bone before but you had seen plenty of hand fractures during your time working in triage. You couldn’t make a fist, your hand was bruising up towards your wrist and the pain was excruciating. The image of Boone stomping on your hand and wrist as you tried to crawl away was imprinted in your mind…

You were stuck on the climb though. The mental battle of trying to figure out the best lie to tell the admitting nurses anywhere was daunting. Christ, how would you explain this?

You had to - you had to tell someone. The way Boone had flown off the handle, how he attacked you verbally and physically, he couldn’t get away with it. You knew the right thing to do but… fuck if you weren’t scared. He had made it pretty clear he’d be keeping an eye on you. And there was no way you’d be able to do your test with Sam now.

If you reported him, you’d probably have to get HR and the police involved and what if he denied everything and—

You ended up in a helpless loop every single time.

Saturday came and went. You only left your apartment to visit the nearest drugstore for a new compression bandage and more pain medication. Sunday passed by just the same. You skipped your normal spin class and barely spent time outside of your bed.

The pain in your hand was growing worse and worse. You had to use your left hand to send Sam and your manager messages - because even just moving your right hand made your stomach swirl. And the guilt about not responding to Bucky was growing bigger and bigger too.

How could you explain it? Boone had pressed your buttons and you pushed back and look what happened. How could Bucky be proud of you now?

Your phone had buzzed mid afternoon, just after you were supposed to be doing your session with Sam.

It was Bucky - worried and asking if you needed anything for whatever illness was plaguing you.

You ignored it.

When he called, you ignored that too.

You were balled up on the end of your couch, eyes glazed over as another episode of your favourite show loaded up on Netflix. You knew you needed to eat something, that the pain medication on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster. But… you couldn’t get up. Laying perfectly still with a bag of frozen vegetables on your hand was the closest thing to relief you had.

Then, someone was knocking at your door. The noise made you gasp, though you couldn’t move. You could ignore the noise along with everything else. It was probably just your downstairs neighbour back to complain about your TV again and –

Whoever was at the door knocked again, this time calling out your name.

You recognized the voice.

Bucky.

He called your name out again. “Listen, I don’t care if you’re sick. I just want to make sure you’re alright. I grabbed some soup from that place I was telling you about.”

You sucked in a deep breath and pulled yourself up off the couch. You really, really wanted to see him - just the idea of his smile made everything feel a bit better. But then you couldn’t hide anymore and… hiding felt safe.

“I’m okay,” you finally replied as you got approached. “Feeling better but I might be contagious, Buck.”

You sensed some relief from him as his feet shuffled on the other side of the door. “Sweetheart, I.. I can’t even get sick, okay? I just need to see you.”

“My apartment is a mess.”

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bucky, I’m.. I’m not at my best right now.”

“I don’t care.” He said your name once more. “Please.”

You pulled up the hood of your sweatshirt then reluctantly reached for the door knob.

---

When you finally opened the door, Bucky was relieved. But when you immediately turned away to return to your couch without a word, his relief felt misplaced. Something was wrong. Your sudden weekend illness and dropping out of the new job training weren’t adding up to anything that felt good.

He was worried.

Bucky had never been inside your apartment before. There were a handful of occasions after work or some happy hour thing when he dropped you off but this was new. He liked the idea of seeing your home but he wished it had been different circumstances.

Home was a little studio, with a compact kitchen ahead of him across from the door. Beside it was a cozy living room area separated from the bed and windows, divided by a short bookcase. It was so very you and Bucky wanted nothing more than to just be there with you, scan over the books you like and curl up together on the couch.

But it wasn’t the time to daydream. Instead, he stepped into the kitchen to deposit the takeout bag, retrieving the soup before moving to where you were curling back up in your blankets.

“How are you feeling?” He took another step closer but stopped when you leaned away from his approach. He took a seat opposite you and extended the container in your direction.

“Yeah, I’m.. okay,” you replied with a shrug. “Thanks for the soup.” You took it from him, reaching across yourself awkwardly with a shaking hand, and rested it on your lap.

He took the moment of silence to get a better look at you. Behind your glasses, your eyes were swollen, as if you had been crying. Bucky watched you carefully maneuver the spoon and it wasn’t lost on him you were favouring your left hand. In fact, your right arm was barely moving.

“Do you need anything else? I could run to the pharmacy..” He trailed off as his eyes shifted to your coffee table, which was littered with an array of pill bottles. Mostly painkillers and what looked like a melting bag of frozen peas. And tucked under the table was… a half empty bottle of wine. Not exactly the type of self medication for a stomach bug or the common cold.

You closed your eyes, taking another taste of the soup before gently moving it to the table. “I think the worst of it has passed. Just.. tired now, I guess. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.” You smiled, just barely, then it disappeared as your eyes shut.

Bucky considered that the perfect opportunity to change the subject. Your name left his lips. It was quiet. You peaked one eye open to look at him.

“What happened last week?” he asked.

You laughed, though it came out quite empty. “Just five very intense, rigorous training days. I wasn’t great but.. I managed, I guess.”

Bucky cut to the chase, though he couldn’t predict your reaction. “So how come you’re not doing the final evaluation?”

A long sigh escaped you, rolling your eyes before leaning back again. You stared at the ceiling. “Should I just start adding you to all my correspondence with Sam?”

“Don’t be mad at Sam,” Bucky replied. “I asked him and he only told me because he was worried.”

You laughed again, with more of your body. The same emptiness remained and this time it seemed to cause you pain. You winced, swallowing an uncomfortable look on your face as you turned to peer at him. “I’m not mad at Sam. I’m mad at..” You shook your head. “At myself, I guess.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, alright? It’s over and I missed today and–”

“Sam offered to resch–”

“Bucky, it doesn’t matter!” You snapped this time, cutting him off.

Bucky shook his head. Something else was going on. He had never seen you like this before - despondent and… broken. Sure, your friendship had rarely escaped the walls of work but the foundation between you both was solid. He had seen your ups and downs, and you had seen his too - recalling bad dates and ranting about missions and laughing over lunch and all of it.

He knew you. The person sitting across from him, it wasn’t you.

“Sweetheart, please tell me what’s going on.”

Your eyes were closed again, head shaking. “Nothing is..” Your lip trembled. “Maybe you should just go..”

Bucky stood from the couch, but he didn’t move to the door. Instead, he crouched right in front of you. “If that’s what you really want, I’ll go, okay? I’d never stay if you didn’t want me here. But you opened that door for me. You could have already sent me away, soup in hand. I’m here right now because I care about you.” He said your name again, like a plea for you to look at him. “I can help, okay? Whatever is going on, I can help. Let me help, please.”

Your breath picked up, intertwined with winces of pain as you adjusted on the couch. You crossed your legs then moved your arms carefully, using your left hand to tear away your sweatshirt. Finally, you opened your eyes and extended your right arm to Bucky.

Despite being wrapped in a compression bandage, the swelling was evident on your fingers. Bruises littered your hand too and continued upwards to your t-shirt line.

Bucky dropped to his knees, looking from your face down towards your arm. He whispered out your name, desperately trying not to fill in the blanks without getting more information from you. “What happened?”

You simply shook your head, swallowing whatever response was trying to escape.

“Can I–” He motioned to your hand, cautiously reaching for it. You didn’t move, allowing him to unwrap the bandaging. You winced at the touch and change in pressure, eyes clamping shut again as you breathed deeply.

Bucky skated his fingers along the side of your forearm, down towards your wrist and hand. Light shades of purple and blue decorated your skin but the swelling was what concerned Bucky the most.

“I’m worried something is broken.” You finally said quietly, letting out another groan of pain as Bucky flipped your hand over to assess the underside.

He wanted to reply with ‘yeah, no shit’ but figured that wouldn’t be helpful. If you hadn’t sought out medical attention by now, there was probably a good reason. You were smart, a nurse who could easily figure out her own symptoms. But something was stopping you. Embarrassment, guilt.. Maybe fear?

Bucky was gentle as he held your hand. Christ, his mind was racing. “What happened? Did you fall? Did something go wrong last week?”

You shook your head.

Although there was one giant fucking obvious glaring answer to his next question, Bucky wanted to hear your response. Maybe you had fallen or dropped something on it this weekend. Maybe you had crushed it between a door or something, anything else than someone hurting you. Because the thought of anyone doing that, inflicting any intentional harm –

Bucky sucked in a breath and looked back at you. Your lower lip was already trembling again. He had to ask. He didn’t want to, but he fucking had to.

“Sweetheart, who did this to you?”

“I should have walked away, Bucky. I..” You immediately trailed off, head shaking again as you tried to collect yourself.

With you, Bucky would be patient. He would always be patient. A few moments ticked by as he waited, still holding your injured hand in his.

“It was supposed to just be a routine scenario, a test sort of thing I guess. But he was… he was volcanic. The anger erupted and he - he.. Bucky, I was just doing my job, it’s not my fault his friends lost theirs an-and he got so mad. I tried to get away but he just kept going.”

He said your name quietly. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?” You did, breathing in tandem with him a few times as you steadied yourself. “You’ve gotta tell me a name, please.”

After another deep breath, you nodded. “It was Boone.” You closed your eyes. “I think he’s taking drugs, steroids–again and he just.. I shouldn’t have engaged him at all. And I tried to get away once I realized he was freaking out..”

Bucky stilled, lips pulled into a straight line. “Hey, look at me.” He waited for you to meet his gaze. “This isn’t your fault.” God, he wanted to say so much more but the simmering anger below the surface was bubbling up. And that wasn’t important. You needed an x-ray and real medical attention. Then, maybe he could face the rage coursing through his bones. “Sweetheart, we’ve gotta get this looked at, okay?”

Reluctantly, your head shook. “I know. I just.. I don’t want to have to go to urgent care and explain what happened. I should have already gone and I feel so stupid about the whole thing and-and–”

He placed his free hand on your knee to stop you. “Okay. It's okay. I think I know where we can go. Let me make a few phone calls.”

---

PART 2

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #protective bucky barnes #story: electric touch

470 notes · View notes