#if anyone has rebuttal or agrees with me or has any other points to make please let me know

[hell0mega]

the capabilities and powers that angels/demons have really confused me, especially with what we're shown in season 2. i feel like in season one it was always pretty clear what the limitations were for their powers, Crowley can do a bit more than Aziraphale can (and we now know why), but there were plenty of things in season 2 that felt like could've possibly been solved through devine or demonic intervention and it felt contrived that they weren't?

more under the cut cuz i went on a bit

i think a lot of these concerns come from the final fight, which honestly feels way too long. why couldn't Aziraphale miracle away the stairs? why couldn't he teleport away? they can teleport people as we saw with Adam (that was Crowley so maybe it's a stronger power). and with that, why did the angels believe the 25 lazarai miracle was to make the humans fall in love? and not even right away?? why could Crowley not miracle the wine bottles back together? seems like reconstruction is an iffy area but all the glass (and wine) were still there. he could've materialized more bottles as well, even if they'd be "fake." the idea of miracle blocking, let alone demons being able to do it, blocking BOTH kinds of miracles, INCLUDING a high rank like Crowley, seems CRAZY op to me.

why didn't they use miracles against the demons? Crowley can make absolutely giant holes in the ground that suck up grave workers, he can BRING A GUY BACK TO LIFE??, but he has to lie about rules of engagement to buy them time to get the humans away? he can stop time/space/individuals/whatever he's doing, why can't he do that to buy them time? you might think oh they're preventing themselves from drawing attention, but he doesn't work for hell anymore so why would he care, and they already have all the attention on them and are being actively attacked by dozens of demons right in front of a group of humans

aziraphale ended up using his halo which is taboo enough to start a holy war and yet he didn't try to do anything magical before that. they can change paintball guns into real guns AND make sure none of the bullets kill anyone purely by "chance" AND not have anyone involved notice they're no longer shooting paint, they can turn children into lizards and back, but they can't protect a bookshop more than just having vampire rules??

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

-

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it. 

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(All is fair in love and war, is an adage Irene takes to its logical extreme, tangled in your sheets or with a dress puddled at her ankles. A silk stocking rolling down her leg, the crochet thrown into some dark corner.

You never say yes. You never really have to.)

This all before setting her down, off the edge, back onto her feet and taking another half-step forward and having the awareness not to completely flatten her under the full weight of your body, so she can run a hand down between the two of you and her fingertips can start gathering up all the cum you've pumped inside her. Irene tells you in her sweetest lilt to pay attention as she leans back up against the counter and gathers as much into her mouth as it will allow-

The sight alone.

When her head tips back, tongue passing over her knuckles, and she swallows-

"You are so," you sigh into her temple. Her cheek. You've settled the rest to the space in between. “Absolutely unbelievable."

She reaches out and trails the tips of her fingers lightly along the rise of your cock - her softness up against your hard lines. Her eyes flash when you twitch on the fucking spot. It's so tender all coming from her.

And there, a moment or two more. You can see it in the way she has her lips tilting, dreamy. You've always known what you were signing up for - how she's thumbing the nape of your neck - what her ideal outcome was, is. There's nothing and no one in front of either of you to bar the way.

You’ll make your vows like any other.

"Well, hey," she finally says, slow and husky and curling toward you with a smug self-satisfaction.

You push her hair behind her ears, the dark brown locks. Some part of you understands, unequivocally, that she is the absolute limit of how far you would go for any other person on the planet. No questions. In a heartbeat, without hesitation.

The kiss to the corner of your jaw is unironically chaste - before she’s telling you, "shouldn’t we get a move on it, chef? There’s food to eat, recipes to ignore; aren’t you fucking famished?"

-

The bolognese reduces down to a scorch in the cast iron. Too much heat, or too long, you got too preoccupied, who knows - there's a moral lesson to ignore here if you're so inclined. So it ends up being over a tray of sushi delivery that Irene explains to you her working theory like it's high-stakes political intrigue.

"Listen," she's got her chopsticks pointed at you, "for one, Karina, to her core, is a total seductress; and she's told me already, more or less to my face - she gets off on the chase, and hates the other shit. To be involved, or invested."

“Okay then why all the go-around; the wait-and-see; what’s her endgame?”

“What’s anyone’s endgame?” Irene shrugs. “Validation." She slips a tuna roll into her mouth.

"I think you might be projecting."

"Or, I'm simply an extremely empathetic person," her sarcasm hits harder through chewing - she almost gets you, and finishes swallowing to say, "look, she's like us if we were pretending to care, okay? Just more, like - explicit about her lack of intention. So. Doesn’t matter if it's to piss her manager off. Or it's like a revenge-slash-extortion-thing against someone she either had or is having an affair with."

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

"It's not like it’s an unheard-of workplace hazard, come on," and then the final confirmation: "she’s just into it because it sounds dirty and sexy, okay, like everything else-"

"And you figure we should be the ones to dole it out."

"What I figure," Irene says, doing that same mental calculus she did the first time: how, where, why - it's clear. A dozen different kinds of naked are an old, tired song by now. "I want us to fuck her. However she likes, whenever she likes, for however long she likes. Let her think she’s won something, or think she has you totally fucking hooked - I don't really care. Because it would be so much more satisfying to hear you tell me about it - because the idea of you two being like that for me. It's," her words pitch up a touch. 

"That's the fantasy."

And Irene dives into the details. She explains what it could look like, all the more raunchy and ridiculous. This very specific arrangement. It makes no real sense, the conversation alone, and that, you decide - what can't be rationalized - is how she'll take it: by fucking both of you. That's the objective fact. That's the demand.

You listen until it feels less and less like the decisions have already been made.

“Okay, babe,” she’s presenting her case. “Hear me out.”

And she keeps going until you both can see it materialize: "if Karina thinks she can handle both of us, then both of us it'll be." It’s how her fingers end up buried in your boxers and around the throb of your cock. You hear the gentlest laugh Irene has as you start fucking softly into her grip, and she runs her thumb over your weeping slit until she finds you that much more malleable to the suggestion. Effortless almost, she lures the primal part of you from its confines and teases and prods at its wants and desires. Which is also how some charged vocabulary gets thrown in for good measure. Because no, no, no - she's murmuring into your mouth, tipped back, plush lips right above yours - it's not a cuckquean situation, or an open relationship, or anything like freeuse or whatever else might justify the concern. It's not even cheating, Irene’s explaining, strictly speaking, because who said you and I wouldn’t be doing it together?

(Lying by omission is the story you both live - and the difference: she's pathological. You’re just now getting the hang of it.)

"Fuck," is what you exhale out as she opens her fingers, offering. Her thumb glides across the expanse of your head, a trail of pre-cum drawn underneath a nail. And you know all the things her nails can do - can rip your heartstrings. "I mean. God damn. There has to be, like, terms."

There's still sushi sitting on the coffee table, and Irene is placing these kisses into the slope of your shoulder, your sternum, making a show of the movement, how she's traveling down, downward - to her knees. Where she finds the seat between your thighs and tugs your shorts, the fabric gathered down your leg-

"Let me handle it," she tells you, and there goes the cut of your t-shirt, shoved up to your chest. Her grip runs flat, down from the rise of your hip, fingers wrapping around, touching - the flat of her tongue laving across the tip of your cock until she decides to lower her jaw.

"Just think right now. How I want to fuck her and how I'd want you to fuck her, too-" 

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

She has it gliding up, around and against the swell of the underside. Rolling to where you need it, the places she knows you’ve died before. Lapping up the mess she's already gotten out of you-

Like this, Irene's looking at the way that the idea strikes: you and you and you; the only person in the whole goddamn world that can handle her; you fucking know it too - it's the most perfect, hopeless kind of thing. Like the feeling that catches at the apex of your lungs. It burns in your stomach and grips in your gut. She's gone and cut out the nerves - there's the crown of your cock caught in a velvet grip between those pretty pink lips and her fingers twisting at the bottom. 

She breathes deep. Sinks her lips so slowly to the base. Anything, everything you want: to put your hands to the side of her head, to weave your fingers through her hair, and coax her, fuck her mouth like it belongs to you, all slow and hard and measured.

To hear all those wet sounds she makes as she chokes on the end of it. The gags as you force your cock into the back of her throat, holding her head tight, her hair pulled up into a fist, to have that mouth hanging around the length of you, tongue stuck to the bottom of her chin as you move her, your fiancée, your toy. To be looking her in the eye and watching her look the fuck back while she revels in every filthy second of it, not a single damn drop of hesitation or doubt.

"Really think," Irene urges, and she's all innocent when she tips her head to kiss her way up your cock.

She’s trying for some grace or finesse, or both - trying, you think, to make a point; instead, you end up watching her gulp and spit into her palm, just to obscure the sensual curl of her tongue with the sloppy-hard rhythmic stroke of her fist. "How hot it would be if you watched us both choke on your cum. Her face fucked stupid - the perfect little fuckdoll, is that not an image for the ages-"

You get a glimmer of that catlike grin - the one you would kill for a picture of. Something for the wallpaper, or the wallet; you've never met a boundary she hasn't challenged. The most depraved ideas in her head are just, as she is, a masterpiece. And so the answer has never changed - there has never been anything she's not been allowed-

"Trust me baby," she presses her cheek against your shaft. You feel her turn and run that mouth all over. The tip of her nose. Her eyelashes. The wet heat of her breath as she nuzzles the length. "Karina's all ours to share."

Her pout, right there, waiting.

You can't stop yourself from grabbing her face, the crook of her jaw, her neck and the tips of her shoulders. Until it all comes with a good, hard pull. The sound of her mouth on your cock, the blowjob she's been perfecting for years. It's starting to fill up the room, her lips wrapping your shaft - the sound of her being so obedient, the most receptive, sweet, pretty thing: letting you guide her pace until she has a steady motion going. Taking the thick base in her hands and working it over between her fingers. There's only enough room for that before you’re all the way inside her, in and out, again: the tip of your cock brushing over the softest curve of her throat.

When you take her at face value, it's fucking wild: your fiancée kneeling before you. Her chin and neck wet with her effort, lips wrapped so pretty, stuffed, used-

There are no questions. This is simply Irene, doing what she loves.

She pushes a hand between her legs and holds herself together as your hips tilt forward, meeting her halfway-

Just letting you get yourself off in her mouth like it's no big deal. It's her throat - it's her goddamn cunt and ass, and whatever else - because you fucking asked, right? Because you gave her the permission, the choice, the agency.

"Hey, where should I?" you’re muttering as you push the hair out of her face, already half-drunk on her slick lips and realistically only a few seconds away from doing some real damage.

There isn't a need; but you want her to tell you, to use her words. In her mouth, on her face, in her palm, you’ll go without thinking. You’ll cum straight onto your own stomach if it’s what Irene says. Even if she’s acting like you already have.

"Make sure you give her,” is what she garbles out around the hard line of your cock, and it’d be impossible to understand if you didn’t know every nuance to her, if you didn’t - you know - fucking love her. To have and to hold - to hold on tight and for better or worse, and this is pretty much as bad as it gets. 

The syllables come in-between hollow breaths, all wet and sticky. When Irene wrenches the fuck out of it, the base of your cock- “hm, that same sort of courtesy when, agh, I'm not around-"

Because the image alone is what matters. There, getting your cock sucked like you've earned the privilege - it doesn't have to be real, it just has to look like it's a new truth to believe in. The little motions in her wrist are just - hah, fucking unreal - and the way she sinks down lower on her knees for each stroke, from base to tip - lips pressing over the knuckles she has wet, and squelching, and twisting up and down and up-

She places a hand under your balls, the gentlest cradle, and something of your restraint finally breaks - it snaps - her insistence is ruthless.

"Yeah, god, okay- I’m just gonna go ahead-" 

There are these images in your head, of Irene: the upturned brows, the hollowed cheeks, and that slutty-as-shit smirk - and then of Karina: doing the exact same thing. Fuck, your cock is heavy, absolutely leaking cum: you can feel yourself leaking into the press of her mouth. It fills up her cheeks as she blushes into the fuck. Her lips become flush and go soft against the ridge of your shaft - her jaw slack in anticipation. 

"Your fucking mouth, Irene" you breathe out, “I'm going to cum-” 

Just at half the sentence, you're there, sunk into your fiancée's throat. Fingers across her ears and into her hair and watching her own hands pulling you, guiding you-

It’s all flexed in your back. Every muscle. Every fiber.

Irene hums onto a simple, satiated note. She always does, when she tastes it. When you dump a hot load of cum all over her tongue and straight into her throat.

(And yes, some might claim this is the death knell for all kinds of reasoning, but you’ll go ahead and admit it’s so, so worth it.)

"How thoughtful," she says, low and slow, once she's through swallowing the entire fucking thing.

The corner of her mouth tilts up. Because you're finished: two steps left in the brain from falling out of consciousness, a mess on the couch. You get to watch as she pulls you into sorts and slots each piece back to where it's meant to sit. The underwear, your pants. It's with such careful attention. Your soft cock gets cleaned with a tissue and wiped dry. A tiny parting kiss for the tip, her mouth full-on puckered, like she's kissing out anything you have left.

Though it's a pleasant daze. She prefers you soft like this, really.

All you have left to say is: "fuck me, baby." It sounds sloppy and open-ended as hell. "I guess I'll leave everything to you."

If that's a cue or sign for the evening, the only right thing: it isn't exactly misinterpreted.

-

The actual logistics don’t arrive for a handful more weeks. You find it surprising they ever happen at all.

// Karina 10:41 pm > i'm bored.

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

// 10:49 pm > have you tried looking into an incognito tab?

// Karina 10:58 pm > lol, and what is it i'm supposed to be finding?

// Karina 10:58 pm > help a girl out here.

"Send her a picture of your cock," Irene says, like it isn’t a joke. She looks up from the smutty-dash-of-romance-porn novel she's got herself wrapped in, with her best faux-serious expression. The pair of readers that usually are in her top desk drawer have made a new home perched low on her nose. "God knows she hasn't stopped leering since she found out what I'm marrying into."

"Please," you tell her, because she's full of shit. "I'm not sending her a dick pic."

Your laptop is warm on your thighs as you huddle on your side of the bed. That's the point of balance where it feels like Irene isn't trying to look. Though she clearly is. You flick up through a couple tabs just to drive the point home.

// 11:01 pm > sorry. i'm not in the business of just handing out freebies

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

// Karina 11:07 pm > thought we were making progress here

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

"Ask her if anyone's home with her." Irene dogears the page she’s reading and sets her book down. "Or ask if she's, like, tied up or something. Something edgy."

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

"Do you want me to put the readers away," Irene offers. She's wearing the sort-of smirk you always need to be wary of.

"No," you say. “God, no.”

"Ask her where she keeps her lingerie. Tell her she should be thinking about what it'd look like: all naked except a thong. With the straps digging into her. Tied up all nice and pretty-like."

// 11:13 pm > u alone right now?

"What the fuck?" Irene slugs a pillow at you. "That is the creepiest way you could've sent-"

// Karina 11:13 pm > yeah. i am :/

You and Irene are both struck a little dumb by that. 

“Sheesh, she must have had her finger hovering over the reply button.”

"Yeah," you say, eloquent. “Who could blame her, though.”

"Uh-huh." Irene exhales, staring a bit pointedly.

// 11:16 pm > cool if I come over?

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

Irene nudges you with her heel, a questioning glance: the window has just been left there wide open and hanging. She whispers like Karina can somehow hear her through the phone, "you are terrible at sexting."

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

// Karina 11:19 pm > got a couple. i wouldn't be against hearing something that lets my imagination fill in the gaps though

"Text her that you're into her throat and want her to show you her tits," and Irene actually cracks a laugh as she has the audacity to make the request. She's in good form this evening; in nothing but her favorite silk camisole - the navy blue one, which pairs great with all 5’2” of the rest of her. Like the soft curves she wears and everything else isn't bad for your heart. "Seriously, I want you to-"

"How am I supposed to end it?" You ask. The tone is purely sardonic. "Babe. Baby. My future wife. Tell me. You do realize you're basically asking me to bait her, right?"

Someone will eventually put their cards on the table, and Karina, Irene, and ostensibly you will realize you’re all currently having a mental break from reality. Or something along those lines. "I mean. Could that really be a negative," she wonders with an eyebrow quirked and another gesture of her arm like she wants to showcase the night sky beyond the bedroom windows.

"How, what - babe."

"You could promise to let her sit on it."

"Is the cockslut routine an act? Like," you lower your volume, "do you really have a playbook, here?"

"So mean." Irene reaches a hand over. She has her head propped on an elbow, the rest of her sprawled and comfortably positioned on the bed. And you wonder why the fuck you feel compelled to argue a point that so obviously has already been lost. "Just go fuck her already, god damn, I dunno."

Right. So. This was the part that was kind of inevitable - and Irene's impatience aside, you probably were about to win a lottery when you showed up at her door - that golden little interaction: "hey it's me, your rival at work's future ex-husband, I guess - I'm so horny and I think you're so beautiful and wouldn't it be so crazy if we, like, boned, haha, what?"

"Just- have sex. Tell me about it after."

The novel beckons Irene back toward it. She makes herself the picture of someone perfectly comfortable with you walking right into the next most uncomfortable predicament.

The sigh. That long, heavy thing. A leadup you do so often.

The simple idea of sending Karina that sort of message sends heat, low - just under the band of your sweatpants, and right where you've got yourself in the palm of your hand and you're already wondering how this is the result, why your cock is coming to a rise already - god damn - why every thought of Karina's face, and Karina's ass, and Karina's everything, every moment her lip is caught in between those teeth is becoming impossible not to touch. "Okay," you huff, "fine. I'm getting up, I'm going now- I mean it, right now, just give me a minute, I am putting my clothes on."

"Wait," and she's saying, "wait. Wait."

And when you turn around, Irene has this cat-that-ate-the-canary grin all stretched on the canvas of her face. She takes off her readers - her elbows thrown into her lap as she goes to the very edge of the mattress, pulling your shoulders for balance. "Babe-"

"Mm."

Irene likes to get you at a low simmer. The way she runs her thumb pad along your bottom lip. And all those questions - a look into her eyes - it's hard not to fold or break - when she's holding onto that sort of expression, unwavering; no matter how her mouth seems to get soft and curious.

Her lips move onto yours, asking - a push. And your eyes - a brush against a shoulder and you've already gone a whole mile from anywhere decent. There's the touch of her tongue between your parted mouths.

"You'll be good right?"

"I mean, sure," is what you manage, watching her lips close.

"You'll fucking wreck her, and do it exactly how she needs it done." And her brow, knit. She can tell your brain is busy jumping ahead to a hundred different scenarios. "Stop worrying."

There's a brief nod of reassurance. Her fingertips dust down your chest and the rest of the way. You hear Irene tell you to-

"And give her an extra hello from me."

"Okay, I love you, but also you're insane, like certifiable."

"Shush, I know you," and Irene gives your hair a little tousle before pushing you out the door.

-

You're standing there at the front door of Karina's apartment a little after midnight, bathed in dim, orange wicked fluorescence. Like it knows your sins - past, present and future. There's no obvious answer when you go knocking, and for a half-moment, you're thinking, okay, it's alright, this is how I let someone down easy-

Until she answers and leans out, pulling open the door. It takes you by surprise-

"Well, I'd normally let you in," you hear Karina say, and a smug smile starts to cross her face, "but..."

It's about the degree to which she looks hot and a little off kilter in this tight t-shirt - a snug pair of panties around the sway of her hips - that almost sends you spinning. There's not an ounce of self-consciousness; it's like a punch to the gut.

"Aeri's date went south and she's drunk. She's passed out on her bed, like, right now, I don't think-"

There's no bra. It's hard not to get fixated on every detail. Like her nipples, practically standing out. You have an irrational desire for her to take a step back, further into the room, further out of your vision's reach-

"Uhh," you croak. And you do have the mental faculties for, uh. For telling her. "Maybe, you know, later, could be better, yeah, maybe call me."

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

"No, no." Karina has her hands searching up and underneath your sweater. Her fingers dance flat up, right over your stomach - teasing as she hikes you back inside. Right past the threshold. Your mouth is half-caught and stupid under her, the gentle hum and pressure on her lips. "It means we need to be quiet."

She drags you another step forward, with just the hot flash of her gaze. 

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

The laugh she makes into it, this one little scoff - it's an acknowledgment: an agreement. It's one of the worst fucking sounds, and the whole damn thing gets to you. Like her ass wasn't the perfect fit for the palm of your hands- like you don't want to trace your fingers under the elastic of her panties.

As if it wasn't fucking clear enough. It's the tongue in your mouth and the hands in her hair. She's kissing you soft, she's kissing you deep; her weight rests and pulls back with each swell of your ribs, pushing her fingertips down until they're skating, slow, low into the grooves of your spine. Like she's getting familiar with you again.

"Okay," you breathe. She laughs on your lips and presses forward - pulls you back, farther- "uhh. Okay."

She must see the confliction you're in-

"Hey." Karina keeps going until you've got her backed against a wall, until your thigh has pressed into the crux of hers and your hand is in her shirt. You don't miss how she lets her head tilt back when her eyes shut. It's her. There's no disputing the reality. "Whatever you want to do to me. That is all I've been thinking about. Do it."

"I- don't really-"

She makes a decent show of crossing her wrists and tugging her shirt right over her head. Tosses it someplace safe enough. "So are you just gonna leave me in suspense, or do you need my explicit, enthusiastic permission?"

Your lips draw themselves a blank on anything useful, while your heart rate accelerates.

"Here try this: you’re going to fuck me until I beg you to stop. Then you’re going to fuck me some more. Or whatever- then we can go somewhere, I don't care," she offers with a half-whisper. In all her goddamned glory - barefoot, almost bare chested - it's not like it could be any other thing.

-

You’re not exactly supposed to end up on your knees for this.

This isn't quite how you pictured-

Okay, fuck, Karina's making the prettiest noises where her spine is curling up against the wall; those sounds you couldn't even make up. How it feels like the easiest damn thing, because there isn't a question to why. Every inch of you is pressed to every inch of her. You know what you'll taste on your tongue, which of these breasts belongs in your palm and the fingerprints in the dips of her waist - her lips on the curve of your jaw - every mark and bruise on her skin, every hint of it is real; it's fucking you up because you're kissing the woman that Irene picked, the woman you met - it's how you pull yourself away-

Karina, for the longest few seconds, is shocked into stillness.

Because you could, of course, decide to give this one last shot, your head between her thighs and eat her out until she was so fucking wet your cock wouldn’t even enter the equation. This is not actually a new idea; the possibility has run through her mind enough times already.

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

"Do you need instructions? I can get a bit graphic."

"Actually, you know what?" you choke a little, and - "trust me."

You stand straight up for a moment, a second, an extra fraction. You slip your cock inside her hot cunt, and, yeah. She collapses right into you. You’re holding up her just enough to fuck into - she's starting to breathe deeper, harder; you've got her pinned like that - a hand on her neck, fingers sinking into everywhere she's softest: her tits, her ass, her waist, her throat, and there is nothing that isn't some version of fucking glorious about Karina's weight grinding, heavy onto the tip and onto the ridge and down the thickest length of you-

And her face, jesus christ, her fine brows upturned, the tears heavy in her dark lashes, the little gasping-sobbing sounds that spill across her wobbling lips - this is the both the easiest and the hardest part: seeing her get absolutely fucking ruined-

(You know, god help you.)

-

Irene doesn't even have to ask. There are hickies and bruises shadowing in on your neck, your chest - these marks you never remember Karina giving you, and a ton of scratches all up your back.

"You know I was going to offer to make you breakfast," Irene says, smug, "but I'm wondering if Karina got to you first."

"What the hell do you think?" you say, dumb.

There are eggs burning on a skillet that are never going to be salvageable, no matter what Irene says. She has no respect for the process. And her voice is full of that infuriating smile: "was it everything you hoped?"

"God," you mutter, trying to mask the embarrassed laughter in your words. You can hardly move an inch on her behalf.

"At least tell me something fun, you insufferable tease," she presses her nose into your hair and tickles the spot on your side, just to be a pest.

You lay it all out for her. Everything she wants to hear.

-

Surprisingly, there’s still plenty to learn about each other; days to weeks to months. The first real thaw of the year comes, and you’re quick to fall into this odd rhythm.

Karina won't actually join Irene on set or production very often - too much heat. It shouldn’t have taken so long to figure out the two don’t belong in the same room together, and if they’d asked you, they’d know - but no one ever really does ask you. However she does spend more and more time around the apartment. In and out of your personal spaces. And maybe a bit in between, or a little underneath too: how she seems to slot herself right into every possible fold whenever Irene’s away.

Always traveling for this reason or that.

And god, the perfect powder keg Karina is - ticking, short-fused, all ready to explode. It’s ironic, you think, she’s drawn to scandal the way Irene will do anything to avoid it, and here, she's found her ultimate indulgence.

The quick lay, the time and place you know you can be patient in pulling her apart, the everything in between. 

In fact, you’ve taken to calling her "babe" just so she doesn’t think twice when she gets your cum pooling deep in her cunt, all hot and sopping. Looking like the picture-perfect centerfold. The fucked-dumb face - all twisted in your grip, flushed-red; and the musky scent of sex; the noises and her presence alone. You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her, rubbing a thumb across where the mascara runs thick.

To be the gorgeous girl, cock-drunk and fucked-out in your lap - so simple - so natural: Karina finds her way over more often than not.

After your shower, after your nap; your work, the bar - Karina’s never more than a text away. And you'll keep a hand around her waist as she stands around in the kitchen, stealing Irene’s leftovers out of the fridge. Karina ends up straddling your thigh right there at the breakfast table, holding onto the wood for support as she cums all over you.

The long and short of it is: 

She's fucking you. She's fucking your fiancée. She sees no problem in having her cake and eating it too. The only caveat is: Karina thinks neither of you know what's actually going on.

“You gonna say hi to Irene for me?" she's teasing one day, snapping her bra back into place. The t-shirt pulled over all that glossy-dark hair, the shimmy of her hips just to get back into the world's tightest jeans. She presses a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's such a stark, clinical goodbye - ending with a flick of a thumb across a screen. "And oh, let her know if she ever wants me to teach her a trick or two. Anytime."

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

Karina does the most insipid thing. She fucking winks. “I’m sure she would.”

-

"Uh, are you kidding me?" you ask Irene. 

It's late one night, and Irene is standing in the kitchen in her pajamas with a welt the shape of Karina’s lips kissed right into her jaw. A couple drinks in your system have given you both a false sense of clarity, and also an ill-timed desire to solve all your goddamn problems. You lower your voice. "In her ass?"

Irene has that all-triumphant and dopey grin that makes your heart ache for her. There's a soft curl of her hair loose, thrown across a shoulder. "I’m serious, pull her hair right, hold her wrists until her back has to be arched. Pin her to the bed," she continues to illustrate, "it's all in the finer points of how much. Tell her to count, even. I'm not joking-"

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

"-she'll let you do anything, promise."

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.” Irene wags the spoon at you. “It’s great.”

-

It's not only the hypothetical-homewrecking that gets Karina so torridly wet for the whole affair; when she's pinned beneath you with her legs spread and her toes pointed skyward, or perhaps later - the same day even - riding Irene's face in a locked dressing room and crying out - "ah, hah, jesus, please-"

In her head, she has you both at her beck and call. Forget semantics - Karina is a fool to her own illusion. Because in her head, not only has she managed to go toe to toe with the industry's reigning monarch, she’s managed to win.

-

You don’t exactly know how Karina ever intends to keep it casual. Because things are damn near constant:

It’s a weeknight, and the moon is high above the windows, casting a crisp rectangle onto the hardwood; it doesn’t actually matter, as far as Karina is concerned.

Irene’s on television again, the sequin in her dress clinging tight, and she’s found the gaze that never breaks for the cameras. Found the flash of her most practiced smile - that little chime of laughter she has that sounds like striking pure gold.

Then Karina: sitting cross-legged at the very end of the sofa. One leg thrown over your thigh, she’s got these nylons on her feet and she’s poking a toe into your ribs. "Isn't she stunning," you hear her muttering, "honestly. Doesn't it, like, turn you the fuck on?"

Her foot grazes your lap, all casual at first; the impossibly soft-curved heel of her sole. There are so many ways she'd prefer to pass the time and they almost all involve getting under your skin, if not just outright getting into your pants.

“Elaborate.”

"I mean listen, in your case, just knowing your fiancée is up there looking like a total angel and at the same time, thinking about you; how she’s got to be considering every which way she’ll unwind just after the showcase - at least, that’s what I’d be doing." She licks her lips, teeth. "Hell, I’m only imagining how pretty her eyes are when she can barely keep them open, and that’s enough to ruin my panties."

"Are you really."

She shifts her weight. Puts that ankle to good use. Rubbing it into the crease between your legs. "Tell me," her lips curl. She’s looking at you dead-on. "How does she usually prefer it, hm?”

Like a wildcat, you suppose, your Irene - a pretty, little predator. You could tell Karina everything, but you don’t. Instead you let her wander into the lair of her own making. Her eyes: light and curious; it’s written in the lines of her face how she's picturing it all so plainly.

“I’d guess she lets you go slow. Or hard. Or maybe a little rough and then you make her cum, and then maybe, just maybe, after the teasing; after the edging, I guess, that's when she comes in hot. I would hope."

Karina twists her foot around, swings her weight onto your lap, and sucks in a sharp breath when you reach out and grip the lean lines of her hips. It’s as easy to hold her still as it'd be to drag her across the couch and under the rest of your body, fuck the goddamn tension until there was no longer any room left for the pretty smirk in her lips. And her gasp would probably sound a hell of a lot better - than all the needling quips - a much louder and much less-pretend whine when you could throw those thighs open and really pound her wet, aching little cunt-

“Easy,” she chides when you end up taking two handfuls of her chest. "Shouldn’t you be more supportive? For god’s sake, it’s your fiancée’s moment in the spotlight, you know-"

There’s nothing stopping you from popping off the buttons of her dress, one by one by one - and kiss right there, into the swell. Your voice feels all the rougher when you respond, "and what a moment."

Her fingertips skim over the places she's been kissing you, where she's been marking and claiming and trying to, at least, to stamp you like her personal property - when the look is that serious. All cold-burn. Right through to the bone.

“So.”

You can feel her touching into your pants. The heat in her soft, silky thighs; she sits above you, keeping a leg on each side. A part of you feels trapped; another is confused why you aren't turning the tables right now - flip her and ride out her cunt on the couch. Some passing thought, or just a fraction, the only one that matters in that particular instant, wonders what Irene would do, will do - has done - in your situation. How her hips would roll. How Karina’s moan might sound when she dug a nail right into a sweet spot.

You push Karina's skirt a little farther up her body and try to gauge the moment she's finally decided she doesn't mind.

“How about you keep your eyes on her, and I'll suck your cock while you do," ends up being the short and not-so-sweet of it all. “-or maybe you can get off between my tits.”

She wraps those fingers around your base and pulls gently. It's not a decision, but merely a continuation, a culmination: a gesture made entirely to pull the response: the hitch to the throat. Her nails skim that ridgeline as her eyes track across the cut of your features. It makes you groan into her next kiss, to say, "if you wanted it so bad, babe, you could’ve just said. Would save us a lot time-"

"Are you complaining?" she husks, pulling your pants down your thighs. Your cock is in her hands and she smiles like a cat - licks her teeth when it twitches at just the slightest touch. "Yeah, I didn't think so," is how the breathless laugh leaves her lips.

You catch the quirk of her brows, her tone: straight-up, like nothing. You’re almost buying into that until she's got your shirt on the floor, those lips of hers in the divot of your collarbone, and her tits wrapped around the base of your cock, and, well, fuck-

She actually wastes no time - none at all. A couple feet away, Irene covers her laugh with one hand. There's a brass award in her other. And the television casts this soft, pale glow.

Karina tips her head, and a curtain of her dark, silken hair spills across the ridge of her breast. She runs those big eyes over you, all wide and round and vaguely-deviant. There's the perfect amount of motion, of squeeze, just a light-bit of pressure, and she's got a face smug-arrogant in an instant, knowing. Fuck, her hands on either side start pushing into the line of her cleavage as she bounces and rocks and draws every inch of your cock up through her soft tits and back down again.

"Fuck," is the harshest exhale she's ever dragged out from you.

She hums a low sound, all self-satisfied when it's her own namesake: your body wants her, like you know the full weight of her needs, your touch, how badly she's fucking craving to get off and still not admitting to anyone it might be more than sex. Like it's really as easy as her next breath, the flutter of her lashes: Karina wants your eyes, the weight of your attention and she's not going to beg for a fucking thing. The feeling, you think, is mutual.

"Irene," she says, her smile as open as it could ever get. "She's just so gorgeous, right?"

On one hand, she’s speaking between the lines. A perfect tincture of deceit - the bawdiness-by-nature: watch me, look at me - is what she might as well say - look what I can fucking do, the whole lewd display. And, god, how she knows every way to make a guy want it, like she wants you to remember it.

Because on the other, the movement is so, so direct. 

Karina twists herself in an upward tilt, just an easy, practiced thing; she lets her tits spill around your cock and through her fingers, full and soft - and her lips part, mouth slacking alongside yours, matching the sounds out your chest with her own. Like she knows exactly which slide of slippery friction will make you moan, or which pull and drag will send your teeth straight into your lip.

"Isn't it crazy," she lolls her head a little, letting her own saliva drip down the center, onto your weeping slit. "How much I want your cum filling my cunt, even knowing she's the one you'd rather put the ring on," the drag and drag and drag - her tits are fucking incredible, and she knows it. She pushes up with her fingers and gives you a long draw right through the press, right where the nerve endings run electric, right where she keeps moving, up and down, and up and down- 

“-it must be hard, I mean, jesus christ. Here I am, needy and hot. Begging you to wreck me and my only sin, hm - the sin of being second best, right-"

"Holy fuck, you're-"

"Obsessed," she says, and drops her tits against your waist again. "I know, I know. How could I not be?"

You're left muttering into the titfuck alone, watching her rub your precum up between their soft shape, feeling the slight give, how her skin goes warm. The act itself: such a simple-thing-bordering-on-the-absurd that you notice how you coil and flex beneath her curves, how she feels so soft and warm. The slight pucker of her lips every time your cock escapes her cleavage does little to help. It's probably the fault of the brain-fuck but the wet of her mouth is practically everywhere you look. You could eat her alive right here, spread her legs on the coffee table and finish with a bit of screaming, groaning and tearing, and no one would ever stop you.

But instead,

"-it's a good color on her, really; but then every color is a good color on her, isn't it so unfair?" She's taking your cock into her tits, deeper on every rock forward and back, holding them close - a gentle lock of those long manicured fingers keeping it all together. "Even wearing no color at all; you must just love how all the freckles are so easy to see," she murmurs, squeezing tight. The sound is wet, messy. A filthy chorus between her dirty words and the dirtier action, and just that glimpse of friction when she strokes down again is maddening. You're all slippery. So sticky-slick, so tight.

Of course there's not a fucking inch of a reaction out of her; you want to get off so bad-

"You could close your eyes," she tells you. "She would still be there. The sound of her laughter. The image. In that dress or not," and her mouth furls into a half-smile before she pauses. Reaches down, pulls her tits around you impossibly tight. "Just so damn pretty-"

You cum just like that: 

"Babe," is what you let her have. The soft, undercurrent hiss. "Fuck."

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

Well, mostly up - along the expanse of her neck and throat, coating where her breasts sit so pretty against the lines of your thighs. Across her sternum and the hollow of her neck - her body's covered in your shared mess: slick-filthy-hot, all strewn across her perfect tits.

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

"Completely covered in you." She's still smiling. That deep-cut and perfectly symmetrical curl of her lips. The gorgeous fucking shade, and her chin, how her cheeks flush, just a little - they've always turned pink in the most specific places when she gets fucking cum-soaked. “I know, just look.”

And her hands slide across her chest, trailing a path through the thick of your release, spreading the glaze all down her front. Making it messy, making the exact look a guy sees once and is driven to the ends of his sanity - just to spill his load out onto her. To get her all used, and trussed up: just how she likes.

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

You can't do anything other than what's expected: take her up in a kiss, breathe into the mess you've made on her skin. The gasp is full, surprised - just enough, maybe, to count as genuine.

Such a mess - she murmurs - um, come on then, you can do a girl a favor. Bath bomb, bath towel, bath robe - and really it doesn't have to be a suggestion.

You’ll pin her down and fuck her right over the lip of the tub if that’s what she really wants. Just being in her company is indulgent and excessive and begging you to make a terrible habit of it. Have some self–restraint, she has this tone in her voice sounding more and more like a dare. There's just enough there in her hands: one reaching for you and the other reaching into the porcelain, swirling up the lather - and that look on her face, as if to say, can't believe you have me waiting, like some desperate, depraved pervert - only it’s more explicit than that. Only it feels worse - and her mouth is moving again, speaking into the air that already feels stifling hot, words cutting through the steam: you're not very nice, I mean really, it should come as no surprise how she turns out, having this jerk for a fucking boyfriend- 

Nevermind. Not a dare, it's a challenge. She was right the first day you undressed her, the brattiest girls always have the worst kinds of fantasies, the darkest little tendrils of self-destruction. How she's laying there, asking and telling, pushing and pulling; and how she thinks she's so clever too.

Though that is no reason, she laughs, for you to think she won't love having her pretty cunt cockwarmed and spoiled for an evening or more. - And so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes, and so it goes.

-

(Really, to Irene’s credit, she had Karina pegged right from the jump. A character study in, well, herself.

She's seen as an ingénue by the press, and an outright savant to the executives. They know her as the obvious successor. They give her the runway, they watch the leggy-girl-turn, the model-posture, chin held high and aloof, looking down at the gathered throngs of photographers.

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

But her favorite game - that bit of innocence served on a platter, ingenuous when it comes to spinning a flaw to gold, and the deception too - Karina loves and loathes every second she spends upstage from Irene's own, hectic, international production. Because if anyone asks her, that girl would claim it's never been a competition in the first place. 

So you see, if you and yours have both decided to ruin her-

It is a disaster-in-the-making, isn’t it.)

[thenightlymirror]

Friday night. I had pizza and beer with Andrew after work. Andrew asked me what we are supposed to do with the gang bangers under socialism. “You know what I mean?”

I don’t. I don’t know. I guess I’ve been pilled for a long time. I’m not sure I relate to people’s fears about equality anymore. There’s reasonable steps you can make towards a more democratic and participatory world, that’s less cruel. Social democracy. And with a new portion of dignity, you’re capable of more things.

He just doesn’t see how you can make all the different kinds of greedy and self-interested people work together. Period? I think you buy into all this, a little. (He scoffs at this.) That this is peaceful, working, better than the alternatives. That you have any chance of success, and that you’d enjoy it if you had it.

He tried to explain that he wasn’t all for capitalism. No, I understand that. Liberalism is critical of capitalism, thinks there should be some safety net. He mentioned “welfare with a ten year lifetime limit.” Which disgusts me, deeply.

He asked how I could go to a movie, with all that it costs. I said I’m eating at a restaurant too. Will there be restaurants after the revolution? I hope not? I don’t care? I think the point is that less of life should be centered around buying things. Some things will be free, other things just more fair. But, ultimately it’s about imagining a world where everything is free, and meeting it there.

It wasn’t a hopeful conversation. It was sort of dark and lonely, mostly because I never launched into any soaring rhetoric or made it personal, about what he expects out of life, all that. For me, we’re just immersed in this bad thing. It’s defeated us. I’d like to beat it. How are you going to make rich people do what they don’t want to do? By gunpoint. Through political coercion. Whatever people are willing to do. It no longer bothers me. Maybe one day it will. But terror is better than this. Personally, I’m not very useful for that kind of thing, and I understand that’s a bit of a cop-out. But still. I want this system to end. I refuse to pretend I’m saving face and that this is just how things are and it’s okay. I’m participating in a crime, under duress, and I’d like to be delivered.

He sees me as a friend, and wants to see how I tick, is what he says. I feel like it’s the first time anyone has argued with me about ideas in many, many years. So, I wasn’t heroic or anything. Sometimes I wasn’t sure what I thought. I think maybe sometimes an educated liberal wants to hear a smart rebuttal. A good case. That smacks of vanity to me. This world is so thoroughly unjustifiable. It isn’t smart. It won’t last. It isn’t fair. It could be better. It’s actively violent, with evil motives. Any version of socialism is better than this. Maybe socialisms devolve into capitalism when there’s still work credits, industrial production, clocks. You just figure it out. But always toward the communist horizon, and never taking any satisfaction in this morass of bullshit we’re in.

He walked to his bus stop after getting a bit drunk by himself mostly. I just finished my beer. You can tell things make him sad and then he has to temper it with some happy thought, or another drink. I feel like I just can’t relate to this most relatable human reflex. We both agree that we needed a new friend, it’s good we can hang out.

When I got home to Winnetka, the square behind my apartment building was filled with dining tables as usual, with a cabaret duo playing smooth jazz to—and I mean this much more literally than it is usually applied—the bourgeoisie. The actual bourgeoisie. My neighbors. A man playing cello across the street took a break to speak to a waitress, who handed him some kind of invoice.

One of the grounds guys texted me while I was walking through. He was shyly trying to convince me to see a bar he goes to. He must have heard that Andrew, Buck, and I went out on the town. He kept telling me stories about famous people he’s partied with. DB Sweeney. The singer of Disturbed. Keanu Reeves. Dog Star’s tour bus stopped and it was full of women and drugs, and Keanu invited him in. What happened? “Take a guess.”

I tend to let people lie. I mean it’s entirely possible. Some rich guy abducted him into his Sadness Van and they trafficked some girls together. That’s believable. Why not?

It’s such a delicate balance of not being impressed, but not letting anyone know so you don’t break their lonely hearts.

[a-rain-atherapy]

angery

Had an angry verbal spat with my coworker A (for asshole) today and i am very terrible at on the spot talking of any kind, like i am mad trembling, got ice cold stomach, head empty. They walk off and i close my eyes for a few minutes to try to cool off, they come back and *asks nicely* to have a talk, so we talk. I am still not normal enough to have a decent train of thought in response to them asking me whats the problem between us (because there is a problem (the problem being that i was annoyed to hell with their initial inadequacy (new to this location)(very unfair to them on my part) and then more somewhat minor and several major points of anger happened)(bitch))

initial thought was that they dont want to see me on my phone, understandable we at work (but theres no work at the time) so i get sent to 'review procedures with coworker B (currently doing procedure) for future' okay. also some line about going to lunch earlier but okay whatever. i go sit with coworker B and review. machine's somewhat dirty so i spend almost 2 hours cleaning (didnt realize time passed so fast)(lost track of time) i just sit down from finishing and coworker A comes back and sees me not 'reviewing' and not paying attention even though i verbally confirmed w coworker B and was following the steps on my notebook, gets angry with me. "that (not paying attention apparently) wasnt in the agreement (never fucking agreed to shit in the first place asshole)" and "you were supposed to go to 11.30 lunch now coworker C doesnt have anyone to replace them" ignoring the fact he asked me to go review at 11.00 and this is a multi hour procedure.

so i get mad. maybe alittle petty. i blow up at them that im only doing what they told me to do (review) and what am i supposed to do when the bulk of the procedure is repetitive motion between changing steps. whatever. im mad, theyre mad. 5-10 mins later we talk.

apparently i was talking mean to them when they first joined and didnt actively go out of my way to make them feel like they belonged. 1st off i use neutral tone for 90% of my conversations 2nd i aint using casual talk with a stranger, new coworker or not, 3rd im not a social talker esp not in work situation i have no reason to actively interact in a neutral/positive way besides for work matters. my bad apparently.

anyways i cant think properly so my rebuttal comes off weak (because i cant think of my 4 other reasons that i dislike them [1-fucked up results of what i did and didnt fix it so made more work for me (had to redo my work). 2-fucking nags/preaches relentlessly when given opportunity (multiple occassions) about their work philosophy (take it easy (almost too easy personally)) when IDGAF and continuously talks and disturbs when im trying to do work. 3-gave me shit for being bad at what was supposed to be their job initially (multiple times(didnt offer to take over but continued to nag)) has the fucking balls to get mad at me when i ask them to back off since they werent actually actively training the person. 4- i asked for help with work bc i dont want to take super late lunch, they go off and preach at me (reason #3) and is almost nauseatingly goody-two-shoes and holy mother theresa that they were 'worried about my health and really want me to take lunch properly' and continue to go off on this for the week (super annoying and preachy).) in the heat of the moment (still fucking angry)) that i disliked how they werent doing their job (true(unfair to them again they were new(but still))) and that they talk down to me sometimes and make me feel like they think im dumb (see reason 4).

still mad. we shook hands after getting to a somewhat neutral grounds(is it really though?) and expressed our intents to get better and have more communication to avoid this (anger blow up(/miscommunication???) from happening again. and im still mad.

[evidence-based-activism]

@the-fault-in-our-blogs

So, this individual (forivall) has already proven himself to be disingenuous. Even if I somehow magically produced the perfect study I described that also supported my viewpoint, he would simply call the source biased and dismiss the evidence.

To a certain extent, I understand why he's failing to consider scientific evidence: it's because this is purely an ideological debate for him. In his perspective, transwomen are literally women/female, making any performance advantages they have over actual female people part of the normative range. I simply recognize that this is a false premise and respond accordingly. Also, I primarily made this post to discuss a case of academic dishonesty (the IOC study's misrepresentation of their data), because such behavior by academics irritates me.

However, since you appear to want a response to his rebuttal, I'll respond below.

---

"This is a reminder for anyone who wants to cite Hilton and Lundberg's work on trans women in sport: they're garbage."

First, Hilton was only an author on study 5 and Lundberg on 5 and 6. In the video, they note that Lundberg "has a background in exercise science" and "seems far more removed from anti-trans political groups." So, their claim of author bias (which, to be clear, I don't agree with*) really only applies to study 5. That leaves four other studies supporting my view and a grand total of zero supporting his.

*The video is also claims that one of the "hate organizations" Hilton is aligned with is the LGB Alliance. This is an ideological difference, but I honestly still find it absolutely bewildering that anyone can claim that an organization made up of (and for) same-sex attracted people is a hate organization. The closest official response on this topic has been the Charity Commission's rejection of Mermaids' attempt to strip the LGB Alliance of charity status [1].

Just to cover all bases however, academically honest people on his side of the debate also acknowledge the advantages transwomen have in sport-related physical tasks [2]. This study "propose[s] that the gender binary in elite sport should be replaced with a nuanced algorithm that accounts for both physiological and social parameters. As the algorithm would be applied to all athletes, it would be both inclusive and fair."

I strongly disagree with this conclusion as it ignores the long, sordid history of discrimination against female people in sport. That being said, its stance is made very clear ("gender identity should be sufficient for determining inclusion in the category of male or female"), yet they also acknowledge that "transwomen have an advantage over their cisgendered counterparts ... from relatively high testosterone levels and prior male physiology of transwomen ...  transwomen and cismen are not only advantaged, but unfairly advantaged." Notably, this is how you have an academically honest discussion; they've acknowledged the biological differences and then transition to an ideological argument. I disagree with that ideological argument, but I appreciate their transparency in debate.

So, this really isn't a case of authorship bias. Even if Hilton is biased, there are other authors (on both sides of the debate!) saying the same thing.

[The video]

I generated a transcript of the video to scan instead of watching (because it is very long). One of the main points (about Hilton) I addressed above.

The arguments presented in the video fall into the exact same trap as the IOC paper. Specifically their reliance on ratios and relative measurements. The relevant point from above:

The researchers decided to examine power in the lower extremities relative to lean/fat-free mass, which yielded a lower result for transwomen compared to ciswomen. However, this methodology makes absolutely no sense. We have already established that transwomen have significantly greater lean/fat-free mass, and this paper is interested in determining equitably in sport performance. In general, sports aren't divided out by mass (and certainly not by lean mass), therefore we are interested in absolute differences, not in differences adjusted by some other factor. (Particularly not when that factor is established to be significantly different between transwomen and ciswomen!)

For example, of course strength is correlated to lean muscle mass. But the amount of lean muscle mass is sexually dimorphic. This is (part of) why we have sex-segregated sports. It doesn't make sense to normalize these measurements based on a factor that varies by sex, because this intentionally removes the relevant sex difference.

Also, notably (hilariously), the characteristic the video notes as being the "most important" factor is lean/fat-free mass. The IOC paper found the following significant relationship for fat-free mass: cismen = transwomen > transmen = ciswomen (so male > female). So, the video claims that lean mass is the important factor, and the study he referenced shows this is determined by natal sex (even after hormonal treatment). The other factor the video suggests is relevant is height which the IOC study also confirms has the cismen = transwomen > transmen = ciswomen (so male > female) relationship.

"A quick reminder that trans people, actually, are marginalized by cís people, so forcible exclusion of trans women from women's sports is indeed segregation."

This is an ideological assertion that is not true. (At the very least in this context, but also – in my opinion – in general.) Support for women's sports has two bases: (1) A biological difference in the factors relevant to traditional sport performance, justifying the creation of a second category to allow exceptional women who would otherwise have been outperformed by men to compete and receive recognition. (2) An ideological justification predicated on the the historical discrimination against/exclusion of women and women's sports [3].

I have already provided evidence that transwomen maintain their biological differences that underlie the first basis. The second basis also does not apply to them; any historical transwomen would have been observed to be male, and would therefore have been included in men's sports.

Further, female people (women, transmen, etc.) are oppressed on the basis of sex. (Here is an excellent post by another user explaining this.) Accordingly, male people (men, transwomen, etc.) are the oppressor class on the basis of sex.

Of course, men can be oppressed for another reason, and these reasons can be related to sex discrimination. For example, same-sex attracted men are oppressed on the basis of their sexuality. Some argue that misogyny is the root of homophobia (e.g., association with female gender roles), so this type of discrimination is related to sex discrimination. But even same-sex attracted men are still male, meaning they have privilege over female people due to their sex. (A similar argument can be made for gender non-conforming men, some of whom identify as transgender.)

Forcible inclusion of male (oppressor class) people in female (oppressed class) spaces is discrimination. Comparable examples would be forcing a homosexual interest group to allow heterosexual people or a disability-support group to allow able-bodied individuals into their discussions and events.

"Requiring the marginalized group to be scientifically proven to be lesser in every conceivable metric, rather than roughly equal with some advantages and some disadvantages, that's distinction without a difference."

In addition to the above section (re: the "marginalized group" bit), the IOC paper does not show that transwomen and ciswomen are "roughly equal with some advantages and some disadvantages."

The point of my original post is that for each measurement the IOC:

Found transwomen and cismen roughly equal and greater than ciswomen OR found transwomen had reduced performance from cismen but higher than ciswomen (height, lean mass, lung function, peak power, etc.)

Did not collect data in a way that allowed meaningful analysis (bone mineral density, VO2_max, etc.)

Made nonsensical comparisons (relative power, FEV1:FVC ratio)

Misrepresented data that you don't expect to see a sex difference on. That is, indicating there is no difference between transwomen and ciswomen, while failing to acknowledge that is also no difference between ciswomen and cismen. This is disingenuous because it falsely implies increased similarity between transwomen and ciswomen; in reality it is simply the maintenance of a lack of sex difference (relative grip strength)

There were some other disingenuous presentations/issues as well, but the above were the most common ones

Now, in reality male and female people do have some advantages and some disadvantages. For example, male people tend to be physically stronger and faster, while female people tend to be more flexible and have greater endurance [see original post sources]. The issue is that traditional sports are built around men's advantages (i.e., showcasing greater strength, etc.), which is essentially what justifies sex-segregated sports in the first place (i.e., the biological difference as a result of historical discrimination).

In other words, the IOC study is not finding transwomen and ciswomen to be "roughly equal" on the factors that matter for traditional sports.

"Anonymous social media users who use sophistry to make it sound like they're using science to justify their prejudices are not to be trusted."

This is just more projection.

I hope this helps you!

References under the cut:

Moss, L., & Parry, Josh. (2023, July 6). Trans charity Mermaids loses challenge against LGB Alliance. https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-65340857

Anderson, L., Knox, T., & Heather, A. (2019). Trans-athletes in elite sport: inclusion and fairness. Emerging Topics in Life Sciences, ETLS20180071. doi:10.1042/etls20180071 

Bell, R. C. (2007). A history of women in sport prior to Title IX. The Sport Journal, 10(2).

IOC Study on Transgender Athletes Severely Flawed

So, to a certain extent, the question of "should transwomen be able to compete female sports?" is an ideological question (i.e., "should identity supersede reality?").

That being said, there's a recent report [1], funded by the IOC, that is being used to "prove" that transwomen do not have a biological advantage over non-trans women. This report is severely flawed and does not actually lend support to the idea that transwomen have no biological advantage in sports over female people.

(I will mimic the language used in the report (e.g., using "ciswomen").)

Significant differences noted by the report that do NOT support transwomen's inclusion in women's sports:

Transwomen were substantially taller than ciswomen

Transwomen had more lean/fat-free mass than ciswomen

Transwomen had better lung function than ciswomen, as measured by forced vital capacity, forced expiratory volume in one second, and peak expiratory flow. (See the next section for a discussion on the ratio.)

Transwomen had greater hand grip strength (a proxy for overall strength measurement)

Transwomen had higher absolute peak power (lower extremity) compared to ciswomen. (See next section for a discussion on the relative measure.)

Transwomen had the same "absolute strength" as cismen

The data showing no significant difference between transwomen and ciswomen has substantial flaws:

The sample size was too small to reliably determine differences in bone mineral density

For lung function only the FEV1:FVC ratio was lower for transwomen, but the values are generally within the normal range for both groups. The impact of this difference is therefore questionable, as the transwomen have greater absolute values on each measurement and the ratio is not showing any abnormalities. In addition, the effect size (size of the difference) is much smaller than the effect size of the absolute differences described above. The conclusion here is simply that the participants do not have any obstructive respiratory diseases, and the transwomen have greater absolute lung function. (Although there are better tests for this.) There is also one outlier in the transwomen group that is likely driving this relationship in the ratio; unfortunately they do not perform the expected control analyses to demonstrate the retention of results without the outlier. [2]

The researchers decided to examine power in the lower extremities relative to lean/fat-free mass, which yielded a lower result for transwomen compared to ciswomen. However, this methodology make absolutely no sense. We have already established that transwomen have significantly greater lean/fat-free mass, and this paper is interested in determining equitably in sport performance. In general, sports aren't divided out by mass (and certainly not by lean mass), therefore we are interested in absolute differences, not in differences adjusted by some other factor. (Particularly not when that factor is established to be significantly different between transwomen and ciswomen!)

The same criticism applies to their analysis of cardiac function. But even more importantly, "the most crucial variable influencing VO2_max was not assessed in the present study" which is a significant oversight given the stated goals of this paper.

There are numerous other limitation and issues with this report:

This study is of "cross-sectional design, making it challenging to establish causation or examine if the performance of athletes changes as a result of undergoing GAHT"

"The athlete training intensity was self-reported. Therefore, the results may suffer from selection and recall bias." [emphasis mine] -> In other words, these results may be "comparing apples and oranges" with varying rates of fitness impacting the results.

"The athletes participating in the present study represented a variety of different sports, and this would have undoubtedly impacted the results of the study as different sports stress different training and sports modalities." [emphasis mine] -> This is a significant limitation, as comparing the strength of a ciswoman weight lifter to a transwomen distance runner (or vice versa) is meaningless. It's true that measures of fitness tend to correlate, but comparing across sport disciplines for highly competitive sports (where they are focusing on improving specific characteristics) distorts the results. (They explicitly note this: "Exercise type, intensity and duration all have an impact on physiological responses and overall laboratory performance metrics.")

"Social media recruitment leaves this study open to sample bias"

"The gender-affirming treatment of the transgender athletes was not controlled"

"The participants were not screened by a clinician before participation, and any medical conditions were self-reported"

The transwomen in this study all suppressed testosterone to ciswomen's levels and increased oestradiol above ciswomen's levels. This is a limitation because this degree of success in hormone suppression is uncommon, meaning that even these these poorly-supportive results are likely inapplicable to the majority of transwomen. [3]

There is a significant conflict of interest: this study was funded by the IOC after they had already changed the rules to remove the "hormone suppression" requirement [4]

All in all, this study is a classic case of researchers misrepresenting their data in the study's abstract. The data they actually collected shows that transwomen on hormone suppression maintain significant advantages over ciswomen. Further, the flaws in the study limit the applicability of their results.

---

In addition, there are other studies that contradict this result:

This review [3] discusses numerous sources describing "the inherent male physiological advantages that lead to superior athletic performance and then addresses how estrogen therapy fails to create a female-like physiology in the male"

This review [5] found "the performance gap between males and females becomes significant at puberty and often amounts to 10–50% depending on sport" and that "longitudinal studies examining the effects of testosterone suppression on muscle mass and strength in transgender women consistently show very modest changes, where the loss of lean body mass, muscle area and strength typically amounts to approximately 5% after 12 months of treatment. Thus, the muscular advantage enjoyed by transgender women is only minimally reduced when testosterone is suppressed."

This study [6] found that transwomen "generally maintained their strength level" during "gender-affirming therapy".

This study [7] found that all physical advantages were present after one year and that some are retained even after years on hormone suppression. They also specifically hypothesized that "gender dysphoria could stimulate the opposite behaviour [differences in exercise habits] in transwomen, decreasing push-up performance and explaining why transwomen performed fewer push-ups than [cismen] prior to starting oestrogen." This motivation difference likely won't apply to elite athletes, which further supports the idea that transwomen athletes should not be competing with female athletes.

As this position statement [8] indicates we know that there are substantial differences in athletic performance for male and female people.* However, there is little high-quality, definitive evidence concerning the effects of hormone suppression/replacement on people's athletic performance. The current state of evidence suggests that hormone suppression/replacement fails to bridge the physiological gap between male and female people, but we need further higher-quality evidence to definitively prove this.

(That being said, the burden of proof here is on the people attempting to initiate a change; that is equitably between transwomen and female people should be (have been) established prior to eliminating biological sex-separation.)

*Before anyone jumps on this: this is not a moral difference. There is absolutely no reason why running faster or lifting heavier things would make someone "better". The biological difference in performance exists, but it does not in anyway suggest superiority of men over women. Beyond that, it is unsurprising that men outperform women on traditional sports given that sports were designed by and for men. In sports that cater to women's physiological advantages (e.g., endurance, flexibility), women outperform men. [9]

---

So, given all this, what would we actually need to make determine transwomen's relative advantage over female people?

The "perfect" study would involve (at least) these elements:

Random selection from the desired population(s) of transwomen (e.g., top-ranked athletes in a specific sport, non-athletic, etc.) with matched (for population) non-trans female and non-trans male controls

Observation (not self-report) of activity level prior to, during, and following a standardized treatment (hormone suppression/replacement) initiation

Continual measurement of various physical and athletic performance, preferably with a range of laboratory (e.g., spirometry, body measurements) and naturalistic (e.g., actual sports competitions) tasks along with monitoring the treatment and clinical/health issues in all participants (again, not via self-report)

Large enough sample sizes to allow for sufficiently powered tests of all groups/differences of interest

A double-blinded assessment approach (or "placebo" controlled) such that both the researcher assessing the participants and the participants do not know what is being evaluated until the study is complete. For example, you may tell one half the transwomen participants that you are tracking the long term health effects of the intervention (hormone therapy), while you tell the other half that you are assessing differences in athletic performance as a result of the intervention. This will allow for the evaluation of demand characteristics like the ones impacting [7].

There are likely even more factors I have not currently thought of. Of course, completing the "perfect" study would likely be almost impossible. It would certainly be impossible to do for every population of interest (e.g., Olympic weight-lifters, adolescent track and field athletes, sedentary office workers) at the same time.

That being said, a study that fails to include all of these factors (particularly the blinded approach, matching of control participants, and sample size) is not going to meet the standard of evidence needed to make decisions of this magnitude (i.e., choosing to change the priority from biological categorization to ideological categorization). In reality, we would likely need many studies that individually evaluate each group of interest (e.g., transwomen olympic-level weight-lifters vs female olympic-level weight-lifters), each applying as many of the ideal study characteristics as possible.

In conclusion, the IOC has failed to perform their stated duty to regulate and ensure fair competition in sports. There is no current evidence suggesting that transwomen have lost their male-advantage in sports, much less any evidence suggesting they are at a disadvantage.

References below the cut:

Hamilton, B., Brown, A., Montagner-Moraes, S., Comeras-Chueca, C., Bush, P. G., Guppy, F. M., & Pitsiladis, Y. P. (2024). Strength, power and aerobic capacity of transgender athletes: a cross-sectional study. British Journal of Sports Medicine, 58(11), 586-597.

Al-Ashkar, F., Mehra, R., & Mazzone, P. J. (2003). Interpreting pulmonary function tests: recognize the pattern, and the diagnosis will follow. Cleveland Clinic journal of medicine, 70(10), 866-881.

Heather, A. K. (2022). Transwoman elite athletes: their extra percentage relative to female physiology. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 19(15), 9103.

“International Olympic Committee Issues New Guidelines on Transgender Athletes.” NBC News, 3 Jan. 2024, https://www.nbcnews.com/nbc-out/out-news/international-olympic-committee-issues-new-guidelines-transgender-athl-rcna5775.

Hilton, E. N., & Lundberg, T. R. (2021). Transgender women in the female category of sport: perspectives on testosterone suppression and performance advantage. Sports Medicine, 51, 199-214.

Wiik, A., Lundberg, T. R., Rullman, E., Andersson, D. P., Holmberg, M., Mandić, M., ... & Gustafsson, T. (2020). Muscle strength, size, and composition following 12 months of gender-affirming treatment in transgender individuals. The Journal of Clinical Endocrinology & Metabolism, 105(3), e805-e813.

Roberts, T. A., Smalley, J., & Ahrendt, D. (2021). Effect of gender affirming hormones on athletic performance in transwomen and transmen: implications for sporting organisations and legislators. British journal of sports medicine, 55(11), 577-583.

Pitsiladis, Yannis MMedSci, PhD, FACSM; Harper, Joanna MS; Betancurt, Jonathan Ospina; Martinez-Patino, Maria-Jose; Parisi, Attilio MD; Wang, Guan; Pigozzi, Fabio MD, PhD. Beyond Fairness: The Biology of Inclusion for Transgender and Intersex Athletes. Current Sports Medicine Reports 15(6):p 386-388, 11/12 2016. | DOI: 10.1249/JSR.0000000000000314

Ro, Christine. The sports where women outperform men. (2024). From https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20240731-the-sports-where-women-outperform-men

[alltooreid]

I Think He Knows

Y/N has a huge crush on Spencer Reid, so huge she embarrasses herself every time she tries to talk to him. She is convinced he is aware to all her pathetic attempts at flirting and just chooses to ignore it, but turns out Spencer may be a little more clueless than she thought.

A/N: Hope yall enjoy this cute fluffy fic! I’ve been having a rough couple of days so writing a fun fluff like this was really comforting :) yes it is inspired by the t swift song, but you don’t need to know the song to read and enjoy! also my requests are open so let me know what you want to see! (also sorry if this is kind of short, but i’ve been super busy and wanted to put something out :)))

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Type: a cute pining fluff fic

Word Count: 2.3K

Content Warnings: mentions of alcohol, otherwise none.

“He got that boyish look that I like in a man I am an architect, I'm drawing up the plans It's like I'm seventeen, nobody understands No one understands”

“He has to know Penelope, I’m not exactly subtle.”

You and Penelope spent the majority of your lunch breaks in her office, discussing anything and everything. Recently however, the point of contention had been a certain young genius. One who you had a huge crush on.

“Spencer Reid may be a genius, and one of the best profilers I have ever seen but he most certainly does not know,” she said, as she drizzled more dressing on her salad.

“He has to, it feels like everyone knows. . . Do you think everyone knows?”

She shrugged, “They might, I know my Chocolate Thunder hasn’t picked up on it yet.”

“You haven’t told him? It’s already been a week since I’ve told you! How did you keep it a secret for so long?”

“You asked me very nicely not to tell anyone! Plus this one seems really important to you. I don’t want to go around telling people and for Reid to hear it in office gossip.”

You smiled, “Well you Penelope Garcia are the best, best friend ever.”

“You know it, now I know you desperately want to repay me for my services, and you can by giving me those exact ranch packets you have in your bag,” she said.

“They’re all yours, now let’s discuss something other than my pathetic schoolgirl crush. Like how stupid Kevin’s sweater was today.”

“Kevin? The other internal affairs technical analyst? Yeah what the heck was he wearing?”

“You know, I’m tired of having to carry the weight of the brains, looks and fashion sense out of the two of us,” you said. “Though, that is a good way to gather attention . . . I wonder if Spencer would actually hold a conversation with me if I wore something as ugly as that.”

She laughed, “You know I think that might send you backwards.”

You stabbed your lettuce, “At this point I’ll try anything.”

Before Penelope could respond, someone interrupted your lunch, your only other friend on the BAU team, Emily Prentiss.

“Oh hi Y/N! How are you!”

“I’m good Emily, what kind of gross things are you here to deliver today?” you and Emily joined the FBI at around the same time, and found comfort in the fact that you were both total try-hards. Emily was going to eat lunch with you and your fast friend Penelope, at least on days when she was in the office for lunch, but you and her both agreed that she should eat lunch with the team so that they can get used to having her around.

“Just some paperwork, no cases yet, knock on wood. Also I just wanted to say hello! What are you guys eating?” she asked, pulling up a chair.

“Some salads from that takeout veggie place PG is always talking about. I told you I was going vegetarian right?” “You did not! That’s great Y/N! We need to talk more, like we used to when we first started here,” she sighed, then perked up, “We should have girls night! Remember how fun it was that night at the bar? With Brad the real FBI agent?”

“Yes! We should! You know, Gideon’s replacement comes tomorrow, we should celebrate!” Garcia said.

“You know, I don’t know if the best way to celebrate a new agent is by drinking without them, but I’m down. We’ll toast our girls night to agent Rossi. Someone ask JJ if she’s busy.”

JJ was not busy, but when you and Emily asked, Morgan overheard.

“So am I not invited to the party?”

“Well it was supposed to be girls night . . . but I think PG would throw a fit if I turned down her 2nd favorite person in this building, so I guess you can come,” you teased. “You should come too Spencer!”

“I don’t know, that’s not really my thing . . “

“Oh come on! I know I would love to see you there,” you then realized that you were embarrassing yourself being so forward. “And I’m sure everyone else would too!”

“Alright, I’ll come, but I’m not drinking.” he said firmly. 

Before you could respond, Penelope magically appeared. “Good, you can be completely sober when Y/N gets wasted and embarrasses herself,” she said.

“PENELOPE! I’m not the light weight here! you’ll see Spencer, she’s actually awful. Two shots in and she’ll be on the floor,” this was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Spencer grimaced. “But it’ll be so much fun! You have to be there! You already said yes!”

“I just don’t know if seeing all of my coworkers get drunk while I watch is my idea of a fun evening. . .”

“Trust me! I’ll even stay sober with you, so we can judge them together. It’ll be a blast.”

“Ok, I’ll be there . . . but for now I need more coffee,” he pulled his chair out and walked towards the office kitchen. You silently cheered, forgetting how people were still standing around you.

“Well,” you awkwardly laughed, “um, I guess I better be getting back to my neck of the woods. I’m not a hot shot profiler like the rest of you guys . . . so see you all later!” You tried to escape before anyone interrogated you about your conversation with Spencer. However, a certain profiler followed quickly behind you. 

“So. . . you and pretty boy huh?”

“Shut it Morgan.”

{⋅. ♪ .⋅}

You stayed true to your word that night, Spencer stuck to water and you enjoyed a diet soda. The bartender, who you had grown fairly used to seeing on your many nights out, was shocked to hear you didn’t want any alcohol in it. 

It’s probably a good thing that you didn’t drink, you already embarrassed yourself enough in front of Spencer fully sober.

“So Spencer, you know that new bookstore you said you were going to go to after work a couple weeks ago?”

“New bookstore . . .? Oh yeah! What about it?”

“Well after I heard you talking about it I decided to check it out . . . It’s really nice there! I go like every other night now! We should totally go together sometime.” Luckily, you were sober enough to keep a secret: the fact you were only going so much in the hopes of running into him.

“Oh really? If I’m being honest I wasn’t super impressed with their selection, it was mostly contemporary fiction. And all in English . . . Not really my thing,” when he saw the way your face dropped he quickly changed his tone, “but it’s great if that’s your thing!”

This. Is. Humiliating. The amount of times you had gone and bought books from the bookstore, you were there almost every night hoping to run into him after work and start a conversation. You felt stupid, of course he wouldn’t want to go on a book store date with you. If Spencer Reid didn’t like you so much that he wouldn’t even go to a bookstore with you, there’s no chance at a relationship.

“Oh haha, yeah you’re right it’s totally lame. . .”

“Didn’t you just say you went there all the time?”

“No! When did I say that? You must be drinking Dr. Reid,” you said, quickly hopping off your bar stool, and running towards Morgan and Garcia, not turning around to see how confused Spencer was, but only being able to imagine him as relieved. Relieved he didn’t have to make conversation with you anymore.

“I’m blowing this PG, he totally hates me.”

Morgan laughed, “Y/N, you’re acting silly, this isn’t high school, we aren’t seventeen, stop dancing around it and just go ask him out.”

“Morgan, he doesn’t want to go to a bookstore with me, no way he’s agreeing to a date.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, maybe he’s just not in the mood to go?”

“You go ask him then, 20 bucks he says yes.”

“You’re on Y/N/N.”

7 minutes later Morgan returned and without a word pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and deposited it into your hand. “Sorry, Y/N.”

Penelope then piped up, “I’m telling you Y/N, he just doesn’t know. That boy is clueless.”

You scoffed, “I think he knows Penelope. I’ve made it pretty clear.”

“Have you told him?”

You were thrown off, “Um, no but-”

“Well then you haven’t made it clear enough, have you sugar?”

You almost said something, but you couldn’t really think of a good rebuttal for the argument. So instead, you downed Penelope’s half dranken frozen margarita, and headed back over to Spencer.

“Hey!” he said as you made your way back over, “I was wondering where you went, after you left Derek came over and asked to go to that bookstore with me, isn’t that extraordinary. . .”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you blurted out.

“What?”

You sighed, “I’ve had a crush on you since like, forever, and I keep planning all these ways to ask you subtly but it’s just not working so I’m asking now. Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“You like me? I didn’t know that . . .”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not, I thought you were just being nice. You’re nice to everyone and I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You smirked, “Get your hopes up? Does that mean you’re obsessed with me too Dr. Reid?”

He laughed in response, “Yeah, you could definitely say that.”

You dug through your purse and pulled out your keys, “Ok, then let’s get out of here.”

He paled, “And do what?”

“We’re going on our first date.”

He smiled, and you both got up off your bar stools and headed out the door, ignoring Morgan’s snide remarks as you passed. 

{⋅. ♪ .⋅}

You couldn’t help but smile as you drove. Every couple of seconds you couldn’t help but look over at Spencer, getting lost in his brownish hazel eyes, which looked indigo in the night. He would smile, the kind of smile people write silly little romance songs about and spend verses to describe, and tell you to pay attention to the road before you run off of it. You would laugh, tell him to calm down. Although originally you had an idea of where you were going, now you just wanted to drive in circles, to bask in this memory. 

“So where are we going?” he asked.

“Think about it Doctor Reid . . .” you replied, teasing him in the way you’ve imagined since you met him. 

You pulled up to that little bookstore on 16th avenue, the one you couldn’t stop going to out of the sheer chance Spencer might be there, the one that was obviously closed this late at night, but was too perfect not to spend your first date at. 

“Although this is beautifully symbolic, it’s almost 2 in the morning, this place closes at 8. We’re 5 hours, 49 minutes and 17 seconds late.”

You smiled and pulled out your ring of keys, “You know, when I spent hours a night hanging around here after work, hoping that you would happen to come shop for books and see me here too, the woman who owns this store got pretty curious. So I told her why I was here, and after she got done laughing at me she offered me a key, so that if I ever had the guts to ask you out, I could take you here no matter what.” You turned the key and swung the door open, gesturing him inside and locking the door behind you, “but we have to keep the lights off, so no one comes by and tries to get in.”

You and Spencer sit in the non-fiction section, and enjoy the silence for a few seconds before you have an idea, “Read me something Reid.”

He reached up, pulling a book off of the shelf without looking, “Are you sure, A Brief History of 1491: Life in America Before Columbus, is first date material?”

“Although that book is anything but brief, anything you read to me will sound stunning coming from your pretty mouth.”

So he begins to read, attempting to slow down to a reasonable pace but still going abnormally fast. You didn’t care though, more than you listened to the history of the late fifteenth century you watched Spencer’s hands. They’re really nice hands.

His right followed the words as he read aloud and his left helped hold the book. He wiggled the fingers on his left hand unconsciously as he spoke, getting into the words of the book. 

After about 25 pages he glanced over at you, and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head. After a second he went back to the page, and continued reading. You didn’t think anything of it until a couple minutes later, when his hand made its way to your left thigh.

He held it and you leaned into him, and you both stayed like that until you fell asleep hours later, with his head resting on top of yours. 

At 8:30 Mrs. Betts, the owner of the bookstore, found you and Spencer, arms around each other, the book thrown aside. She smiled, glad to know you had taken her up on her offer. She went to go wake you up but glanced at her watch. She didn’t have to officially open until 10. 

She could definitely spare a couple of minutes. 

“I want you, bless my soul I ain't gotta tell him I think he knows”

- Thank you for reading! Please reblog and let me know what you think :))

ATR’s tiny taglist: @reidingmelodies​

[simplepotatofarmer]

'technoblade has never questioned himself': a redirect rebuttal

normally i would never make a post like this but three people messaged me about it and since i just recently covered this, i thought i would come back but with actual sources and lay it all out. i'm also taking off my anarchist hat for most of the post and coming at this from a character standpoint only.

first and foremost, i want to point out that c!techno is not someone to talk about his feelings or even things he's done or things that have happened that are stressful/could bring conflict. we see this a lot (i was actually in the middle of writing a post about it as i think it's one of techno's main flaws). i'm not going pull up sources on this because i think if you've watched one techno lore stream, you'll know. so we kind of need to set expectations here.

if the expectation is c!techno just talking about it, then he has. he's mentioned it quite a few times. this clip here, he talks about how people think anarchism is violent because he's committed 'mass terrorism'. is it super thoughtful or in-depth? no. is it very much inline with how we know techno handles things? yes. now, if the issue is that techno responds in that sort of manner about, well, everything then that's a completely different conversation. and one i think is worth having! but again, to the direct issue of 'techno has never talked about it', he has, multiple times, particularly in the two syndicate streams (forming a secret organization and developing the syndicate) and in the 'first meeting' stream.

and in all of those examples, he displays a very techno-like admittance to the fact his tactics didn't work and aren't a good example. in this clip, he says that he's trying to be a better example in a conversation with c!niki about doomsday and anarchism. it's very clear that he knows it wasn't the best way to go about it and continues on to say that doomsday was only partially about anarchism and that his other motivation was revenge for what was done to him and phil.

he makes similar comments about his 'brand' during the first meeting stream while they're recruiting c!ranboo. once again, he says that the violence was him, not what anarchism is. (clip found here) when ranboo says that he would be good at helping rebrand since he's good at being nonviolent, techno agrees.

now, throughout that whole conversation, techno does push back on c!phil's statements about him becoming reformed, saying he wouldn't go that far. so, he has considered that violence isn't the best tactic and while he is trying to change it and put forth a better 'brand', he doesn't necessarily think he was wrong. which falls under the 'think about it even if he decides he was right' category.

and taking a step back from the roleplay angle, we know cc!techno isn't comfortable doing heavy lore or angst and so what we have here is his way of addressing those things. i can understand if people don't like that style or find it off-putting and i think that's valid but his reactions are consistent and everything he's said and done about doomsday falls under how we know he reacts to those things. again, this is a flaw of c!techno's, one i'm excited to address in the next post, but it doesn't mean that the topic hasn't been broached by c!techno because it has.

i resisted including any of the post red festival conversations though i think they're relevant as it's techno very clearly stating that violence didn't convince anyone that governments were wrong but in closing i do want to point out that techno is fully aware he's not a good person and, pre-doomsday, is attempting to be a good person in this clip.

in closing, i fundamentally disagree with the idea that he's never questioned himself/reflected on what he's done let alone that he's never even spoken about it because we see him do just that. it may not be a perfect example and that's completely fair, but he has done it. i genuinely feel badly about this post and it's so far out of the realm of what i normally do but i think it's important. i think people need to know what techno has said.

the links separately are under the cut, just to make it a bit easier.

https://youtube.com/clip/UgzDGkXDwJDpA3aG8sx4AaABCQ

clip about how he committed terrorism

https://youtube.com/clip/Ugzge1MM6rE3MxCL9vR4AaABCQ

clip about being a better example

https://youtube.com/clip/UgyUrmtlckXHa0AXrVd4AaABCQ

clip about being a good person

https://youtube.com/clip/UgySxsulQbJcWfOn3eZ4AaABCQ

talking about changing his brand and destroying l'manberg

[theoddest1]

1. Idk what the age rating has ANYTHING to do with this. Certain topics and subjects can lead to panic attacks and even lead to people having to relive through the horrendous moment because a topic like SA is a serious one. One people have to live with their entire lives. A warning would have been pretty great, and a heads up from Viv if not included after MANY HAVE ASKED if it does would have been very much appreciated. It's why I had that first point added because that shit is serious. Whether you agree or not doesn't somehow negate that.

2. Cool, it still doesn't add much. If you were to cut it out of the episode, it would do NOTHING storywise. It does not add further context or place further thought to the topic, if anything, it's more for shock value since the porno would then CONTINUE to be framed as a joke like when Angel would say it's a work of art then it proceeds to show him getting his assslapped and bitten off. How the fuck does this make anyone look back at it as anything more than a gag, ESPECIALLY considering the fact that's MOST of his damn humor. Go back to ANY other episodes and the pilot and tell me how this sex joke is different from the others. This is Angel's GO TO joke. What DID add to the topic and something YOU CAN look back on to add further context to it all, is Angel calling himself an actor after Husk calls him fake near the beginning of the episode which which would later get more significance when Husk confronts him for going further with the Playboy/Sex symbol persona and was then built upon later after he opened up to Husk, ADMITTING to playing into it all, the drugs, sex symbol act, and alcohol as a coping mechanism. Not the fucking clear as hell porno joke.

3. Won't lie, awful rebuttal. Sure, most people do it. Does this change that she did, in fact, make things worse? No....so why was this a rebuttal? You're ADMITTING that she made things worse. I suppose you're saying this cause, "Oh well, she didn't mean to! Her heart was in the right place." She SAW Angel getting thrown about and clearly distressed and did NOTHING to actually mend the issue she unknowingly caused. Bursting into flames for a moment then dropping the act completely only to bitch and moan after is ridiculous and ANNOYING AF. All she did was cry and feel bad for herself which for a main character is so JARRING like you're THE MAIN CHARACTER if this is how you are to someone you view as a friend where you have someone else fix the mistake you made, then why should I like you? You got the guts to fight on live TV and continue your project despite continuous mocking and bullying, but not to at least slueth and properly apologize to Angel? Is she not the main fucking character and supoosed to BUILD bonds with those in the hotel? Why would Husk take that spot over her who was THERE when Val was controlling Angel? The one who has been said to be the kindest, most determined person in hell who tends to be pushy with her beliefs, didn't at all try to check up on Angel despite having more context than anyone else. This makes the MC look like an idiot, a child, and NOT dependable which isn't good considering what her fucking goal is. They also refuse to actually let her ACT in most of these situations, like the Vaggie sitch or have her angrily respond to Adam's lack of sympathy. It makes her look like a wet noodle with no backbone, leading to LITTLE TO NO development with the cast so far, even with her own girlfriend. This is basic af character structure. And even if her disregard of her friends request is a gateway to the main obstacle, SHE DOES N O T H I N G TO MEND THE ISSUE, which is terrible. Oh, speaking of Husk, him caring enough to even discuss Angel's issues when they have little to no growth from the start to now, and we're on episode 4??? Not only is this rushed and comes before proper attempts to build up the hotel, you know, PART OF THE MAIN PREMISE, it comes out of nowhere. Why does Husk gaf about anyone? He literally states he doesn't care about all the hotel residents. Any and all development between the cast has either been off-screen or rushed. Them fighting alongside each other in a turf war in episode 3? Off screen. Them bonding in the Hotel when they're just chilling, off screen or just never happened, the week prior to meeting Adam, who tf knows what happened then. So when they DO ACT, it comes off rushed, artificial, and nonsensical. And yes... she DID make things worse. Val being a monster doesn't change how she made everything all the more AWFUL for Angel. Her heart may have been in the right place, but she placed Angel in rougher waters like an idiot and WILLFULLY ignored Angel's pleas to leave. She ignores that but doesn't think to even check with Husk at the very least. Charlie, so far, is presented as a damn idiot.

4. I don't know how you completely missed me saying the fast pace of it all was fine... do not know how you ignored me saying that. I said ALONG, meaning WITH the context and the imagery, the MESSAGE behind it is lost to me. Some of the imagery that presents him enjoying it is also going by fast along with the imagery of him getting sexually abused. The OVERALL pace is fine, but THAT was odd to me because it felt like it was more emulating pop music videos rather than evoke an emotion or feel of it all. My MAIN GRIPE is the imagery and lyrics as I have made that clear later in that point. Also, if you have to GUESS in a scene like that, where Angel is seemingly enjoying the supposed SA whuch was never established ti be that sort of relationship, that means the message is not properly conveyed. In fact, it's AMBIGUOUS. it does not FIT with what we are seeing and makes it alarming even. Why would you put a scene like that, in a music segment about how he is being forced into it all? That's... that's not good. In fact, this is concerning. Why would you have scenes where he looks to enjoy it than flip-flop to liking it if it's not codependency esque relationship?? That's weird af. This, coupled with the lyrics, doesn't look good. And no, not with this song, from what we are presented within the show, OUTSIDE of the song, it's shown as plain abusive and nothing nothing like a dependant toxic relationship let alone something to root for cayse um...no. But in the song, it makes it out to be codependent. WHICH IS IT? You can't have lyrics like this, imagery like this, then make it out as it is straight up one-sided or just forceful period. It's giving mixed messages.

5. Yeah, no. Calling someone a loser followed by calling them a whiney bitch, followed by saying you're just like me (comparing their not equivalent issues) followed by saying they're not unique, followed by an only one star reviewer, like...if he had just called him a LOSER, which could AT FIRST seem insensitive and uncaring, play on words that mean loss leaning into "Hey you lost a lot of shit, and that's okay, I'm sure you lost a lot of things even I can't fathom, but to accept that and grow from that, fuck maybe that's all that's left to do and the best thing to do" is a fine message. The EXECUTION RUINS THAT. He continually mocks and degrades Angel's experiences at the beginning of the song. I dare you to do this to someone who JUST got through a traumatic experience and tell me how that goes. None of those extra insults add to the main point. The only one that has merit is "Loser," which, if played on properly, would have been clever af, but no, from the looks of it, it's an insult FIRST. Hell, Angel throwing insults back at Husk and Husk allowing him to vent through that, countering it all with his nonchalant and accepting gestures would help balance it all out cause tbh bruh, Husk was straight roasting homie at first like DAMN dude he JUST came from some shitty ass environment you don't even fully grasp. SA survivor, meet guy who gambled their life away. Yeah NOT comparable in the slightest, and while both did sell their souls, both are not getting the same amount of garbage. One is getting repeatedly tortured and passed around (and for some reason enjoys some of it what????) The other is forced to work at a hotel and is made fun of, which he doesn't even mind most of the time so??? Yeah, message of the song, along with a good portion of this episode, is horribly handled. To say I am illiterate regarding this piece of media that uses these same topics as jokes in the same breath is W I L D.

Bonus: Also yeah Ion trust Viv she thought the rape animatic was good despite the abusers being not only shown in a positive romamtic light but also having the victim be....jealous and even forced to act for the abuser. Not saying every SA story is bound to have a happy ending...just VERY disgusting that they're placed in a positive light while some of the artist's fetish comic was refrenced in the the VERY SA EP THEY WORKED ON wow...

WARNING- ABUSE/SA mention below

Okay so this new episode that came out (Episode 4) was poorly handled.

TW /// SA

- No warning before the show starts...why? And even if there is no way for Viv to add one, for some stupid ass reason, why didn't she announce to the fandom properly "Hey, this will have very deep topics and imagery that may not be suitable for all audiences."? Why have arguments on threads and fail to do this very easy thing. At least if the episode came out, people would get a heads up, and the word would spread faster PLUS people would see that you at least TRIED

- The episode opens up with a scene of CNC porno played for laughs in an episode that tackles SA. Complete tonal whiplash. Why did it have to open up with Angel showing everyone a porno? It serves no purpose other than to get a cheap laugh (that never came) out of me or anyone else who watches and because of the topic of the episode revolved around it. I'msure that if the episode WASN'T ABOUT SA, that joke would not have been there....but it is. There was legit no good reason to start this fiasco off with such a tone deaf opening.

- Charlie is actually fucking useless and a burden in this episode, serving no other purpose other than being the gateway to further the issues that befall Angel when "trying" to help. This all screams forced. Worse of all, Charlie does nothing to actually HELP Angel out of this, even though he has a clear black eye thanks to it all and literal mirrors breaking as a result of the abuse. We never see an actual development between the two thanks to her foolishness and garbage writing, and it's resolved easily as if this is some early Disney cartoon season that's on a strict deadline. Regardless of whether she apologized or not, she essentially caused the issue and did NOTHING to actually clean her mess. The goddamn B A R T E N D E R had to be used to salvage the pieces. So far, Charlie, as a character, is utterly pathetic and has been a burden to the cast twice so far. Vaggie, who tried to prove herself (moreso Vaggie's fault for going the extra mile for no reason but an obstacle nonetheless), also had an issue that involved Charlie's utter lack of a backbone. Hey, what was it that Charlie said in the pilot that her dad taught her and one of the only thingsshe learned from him? "You don't take shit from other demons"

- Only one scene from the abuse shown was handled well, and it was when Charlie visited, screwed everything up, and Val asked Angel to come to his dressing room. Aside from that, the whole SA imagery is jarring. While this time, the fast pace of it all is not bad, the quick shift into it all with Angel switching from enjoying to hating, to smiling, to frowning, ALONG with the quick pace of it all with the PRIOR KNOWLEDGE SHOWN and the SONG PLAYING, I am getting mixed messages here. Imagery? Shows Angel getting assaulted multiple times with either a forced smile or for some reason ENJOYING sex with Val and the role play situations showcased, is he INTO his abuse? Lyrics? He seems to find arousal in Val controlling him. The song legit reads as follows

"Addicted to this feeling, I can't help but swallow"

This doesn't read like he is "forced" it reads like he is yearning the toxic relationship. Now if this was one of the main issues with the abusive relationship, where it was a codependency built on romanticising the abuser and Angel learning to break free from that horrible view of someone who never loved him and actively harms him, this lyric would make a lot of sense....but that's not what we are shown at all. From the jump, we are shown that Angel HATES being with Val, to the point of him straight up avoiding his texts and voice messages, they actually do an okay job (despite the shoddy voice work) on showcasing how manipulative Val is and his outright explosive temper through this scene in episode 2. We see that Angel does NOT wanna have association with Val, is tired of it all, and even got drunk to down his sorrows. Yet these lyrics present it all as though it's just a very rocky love life like those songs you hear on the radio with the singer lamenting about how awful their relationship was but still miss their toxic boo-boo. It just...doesn't read like an SA song and could mean anything regarding the type of abuse he is facing. It's kinda vague in hindsight. That's MY take on the lyrics, though.

- Husk's song is a trash fire. He sees Angel is down in the dumps and proceeds to talk shit about him pretty much relaying his sorrows, saying it's okay to feed into your vices, and downplaying the actual situation at hand. So let's get this straight.

Angel- A sexual abuse victim forced into sex slavery to appease all sorts of people's sexual desires whether he likes it or not, including pleasuring his pimp who physically abuses him often all cause he sold his soul

Husk- Gambled his life away and lost his title as overlord, serves under Alastor all cause he sold his soul.

How is this even...the same at all? Even if Husk is lacking some context, he SEES that Angel normalized drinking roofied drinks and works for Val SOMEONE HUSK SHOULD KNOW ABOUT AND WHAT HE DOES but nah, screw Angel. Even if he honest to God (irony) wanted to actually help, why tf would Husk think this was sound advice? Why does Husk just SUDDENLY care? No build up, no memorable dynamic, no nothing. Realistically, CHARLIE should be the one singing with Angel or maybe Vaggie because she heard the story from Charlie. Not Husk. He is self aware enough where he knows this "advice" wouldn't work but nah. Nothing about the song makes sense. Telling someone going through it that "you're a loser" pretty much a no one, an insignificant individual, when VAL has made it clear that Angel would be nothing without him...yeah no the only reason why this whole song "worked" was cause the writers wanted it to, so Angel is happy with being a loser for being a victim of SA and selling his soul to someone who abuses him in various ways consistently.

This episode is terrible

Jarring for any newcomers

Who have no idea who these characters are

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Hello!

There have been a few versions of fics where a happily married Ethan/MC learn that Ethan has a long-lost child that he was unaware of. To make matters worse, before they were wed, he told MC he didn't want children, so she agreed to this (begrudgingly).

Let's flip...

What would happen if your Ethan learned that your MC had a child which was put up for adoption before they met, and she never told him? Given his own abandonment issues, how would this impact his feelings toward MC and their relationship going forward?

(Don't blame me; someone hoisted this on me last night, and now I need to know other writers' answers! lol Oh, and if I sent this twice, forgive me, it's 2:28 AM and my dumb ass should be in bed.) :)

Oh my god, how could you dump something so angsty on me. I literally just woke up, bestie 😩

Okayyyyyy let’s go. I might turn this into a fic, with better grammar later on.

Naomi gets pregnant at 17. Despite always using protection, she and her boyfriend, Steven are still that 1% of people who get pregnant while taking all precautions.

Financially, Naomi knows she’d be fine. But emotionally/mentally/physically? She knows without a doubt that she would be a horrible mother at 17 years old. She doesn’t want to subject a kid to her selfishness and unwillingness to sacrifice her goals.

Naomi’s already committed to Johns Hopkins, and her boyfriend is leaving the east coast and going to California for college. Neither one of them wants to put any of their plans on hold, so they know early on that Naomi isn’t keeping the baby. Thankfully their parents support the decision 1000000% and do not try to talk them out of it.

They’re quickly connected to a couple, Sheila and Franklin Foster. They live in Arlington, Sheila is a 5th teacher, Franklin works for The Pentagon. They’ve been trying to conceive a baby for 6 years with no luck, and instantly, Naomi knows she’s meant to help them.

After she gives birth to a healthy baby boy, Naomi insists that he’s immediately handed to Sheila so she can experience mommy and son bonding. For a split second, the urge to hold him and never let him go crossed her mind, but she knew that wouldn’t work for anyone.

After two days in the hospital, Naomi is discharged.

She cries. She cries a lot. She takes 3 weeks off from school. Her mom finds a support group for her to join, and that’s that. She graduated high school at the top of her class and went on to college, and the rest is history.

Ethan finds out when they get engaged and on a fluke. One night, he stumbles across a box of momentos in Naomi’s closet, tipped over, the contents spilled out. Out comes an ultrasound and the first thing he notices is the date. It’s dated for 12 years ago. When confronted, Naomi confesses that she was pregnant as a teen and gave the baby up.

Ethan is shocked to hear this, but he listens to her nonetheless. How could she keep something like this from him? Something so huge.

“It’s not like I have a kid out there that I’m not raising or abandoned at my parents house,” Naomi says, and it kills whatever rebuttal Ethan was going to throw at her regarding his own parentage. “I didn’t let them grow attached to me and then leave them. I was a kid myself, I knew I wasn’t in the right space to bring a baby into this world and properly care for them. I’m not a mom. Sheila is his mom. I’m just someone who had the opportunity to help a very deserving couple.”

“I get a picture and a birthday card every year from his parents,” Naomi says, absentmindedly pointing to their bedroom closet. Ethan surmises that’s where she keeps them. “His name is Isaac, he’s 11 years old. The family live in Virginia, and Isaac is great at science and loves football. He wants to be an astronaut football player, and he has a 5 year old sister named Maya who wants to be a princess.” She laughs. “And knowing that, knowing that he’s loved and cared for, and his hobbies and interests are being nurtured, and he’s surrounded by such a great family is more than enough for me. I know Steven and I made the right choice, and I don’t have a single regret.”

“Does he know he’s adopted?”

“Yes. He’s sent me a few pictures before. He said I’m a cool lady who helped him find his mommy and daddy.”

“Would you ever want to meet him?” Ethan asks gently. “If he reached out, what would you say?”

“I would love meet him,” Naomi replies. “After he’s 18 and an adult, of course, I don’t want to overstep.”

“I’m sorry I never told you,” Naomi continues, sniffling. She doesn’t know why she’s crying right now. She’s not even sad. “It’s not something I’m ashamed of at all, so I shouldn’t have kept it a secret.”

“I’m sorry for jumping down your throat,” Ethan tells her, all of his righteous indignation completely gone from his body. “That wasn’t fair, especially since I didn’t have all the facts.”

“I know you said you wanted to be selfish and continue living your life, but I think you are one of the strongest and most selfless people I know. Selfish would’ve been keeping him despite knowing you weren’t in any position to do so. You decided to give Isaac a life that he deserved and putting someone else’s life and well-being above your own is the the most loving thing you could do.” Ethan sighs and wipes away one of Naomi’s tears. He hates seeing her cry. “I got caught up in my head and wanted to compare you to my mother, and I know you’re nothing like her, not at all. I’m sorry for even attempting the comparison.

“Apology accepted.”

The two of them settle onto Naomi’s bed, neither of them wanting to pack anymore, exhausted by the turn of events.

“Hey, Naomi?”

“Yes.”

“For what it’s worth, I know for a fact you’ll make an excellent mom one day.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Lunch Discussions. Team Bucciarati x F Reader🎀

[Scarlet Ribbons description]

Word count: 1.3k, somehow ?? Notes: this is probably the most lighthearted thing i’ve ever created. idk what’s happening here. it started as a silly idea in my head but I Could Not Stop. so here it is

“If you were stranded on a deserted island, who from this table would you want to be stuck with?” 

Mista’s question goes largely unnoticed. Fugo and Narancia are in a heated discussion on if classical or hip hop is better, Bucciarati and Giorno are speaking about business, and Abbacchio is trying to zone the chatter out. That leaves you to save Mista from the throes of embarrassment. Truth be told, this innocent question is an improvement from Mista’s usual discourse.

The gunslinger’s face lights up when you hum, considering the question. 

“So it’d just be the two of us? I can’t say I’d bring a radio or something?” You ask to clarify further. 

Mista shakes his head. “Nope, no bringing anything.” 

That means practicality is most vital here. You mull over what each of your teammates (and bosses), could bring to the table. It didn’t take too long to reach a definitive answer.

“For survival’s sake, I’d pick Giorno,” you decide, the aforementioned man’s attention going to you upon hearing his name. “Well, I guess it depends on whether or not the food Gold Experience makes is edible. If it is, we’d be able to survive a long time off of it. Say, Giorno, can you eat the stuff you make?” 

“I’ve… never tried, so I’m not sure. In theory, any life created by Gold Experience is the same down to the genetics of what it’s based on.” 

Narancia snorts and takes a bite of his salad. “It’s all fun and games until a coconut falls on Giorno’s head and he’s knocked out cold. Then all the sticks and sand he used to make the food would turn back in your stomach.” 

Huh. That makes for a grotesque mental image. 

Giorno tries to defend himself but Narancia is too busy readying his argument. “A coconut…?” 

“Clearly, I’m the best choice here,” Narancia decides, pointing his fork at you. Should that be considered a threat? “Aerosmith could get the attention of a nearby plane.” 

“Non-Stand users wouldn’t be able to see it, you dumbass. What are you going to do? Wait for a Stand user pilot to roll on by?” Fugo asks with a sigh, Narancia shooting him a nasty look. 

“You never know! I’m sure there’s one or two. Besides, why would anyone want to bring you along? Your Stand couldn’t even hunt for food, it’d turn everything into a big ol’ pile of mush.” 

Fugo clicks his tongue. “There’s more to survival than that. Food is a valuable resource, yes, but do you know how to purify water?” 

Narancia furrows his eyebrows together, considering the proposition. “You have to… purify water?” 

Now it’s Fugo’s turn to look at you.

“This idiot would give you dysentery on day one,” he states dryly. You hold back a laugh at the indignation on Narancia’s face. “I think my chances would be pretty good. At least I know what poisonous plants look like.” 

Mista’s simple question is turning into a complex cobweb of possibilities. He can’t help but notice the others seemed more willing to chime in the moment you entered the conversation. Silently, he tells himself not to take it personally. 

“Well, whatever. I’d pick [First]. She could make us a shelter and bridges to different areas. The rest of you guys can be boring and pick Giorno.” Narancia decides. You can’t help but feel a little honored that he’d pick you, a content smile on your face. His last comment makes you wonder if picking Giorno is the easy answer, due to the nature of his Stand’s abilities. Abbacchio, who none of you thought was paying attention, speaks up. 

“I wouldn’t pick Giorno,” Abbacchio places his headphones around his neck. “I wouldn’t pick any of you guys, actually. Aside from Bucciarati, you’d all be dead in a week, easily.”

Bucciarati clears his throat, realizing he’s now been roped into the conversation. “I’m glad you guys are having fun, but--” 

Mista is quick to rebuke Abbacchio’s claims. “I would not die in a week! I’d at the very least make it to two weeks.” 

“Like hell you would. Pistols would destroy your food supply on the first day.” Abbacchio counters. Hm, he’s got a point, you think. Pistols do have a notoriously ravenous appetite. Note to self, do not get stuck on an island with Mista. 

Mista puts a hand to his chin, contemplating. “Hm… actually, yeah, you’re right. Nevermind.” 

You blink, incredulous at Mista’s agreeable response. He gave up that fast?! 

“What if we kept it out of Pistol’s reach?” You tentatively speak up, trying to save Mista’s honor once more. He shudders at the thought.

“There is no such thing as food out of Pistols reach,” Mista sighs, to which his Stand cheers. “They will always find it.” 

An idea comes to mind. Clasping your hands together, you look at Narancia with a smile, who immediately returns it in full. “Oh, I know! What if we got on Aerosmith, and it flew us to safety?” 

Narancia likes the idea and nods his head vigorously. “That’s genius!” 

Fugo snorts, preparing a rebuttal in record time. “Yeah, it’d be genius until you both drop into the ocean.” 

“[First], did you forget what happened the last time you were on a plane with Narancia?” Abbacchio raises an eyebrow. Your blood runs cold as memories of Notorious B.I.G come flooding back. Actually, being on any form of transportation with these people seems to end poorly. Cars, boats, airplanes… 

“Come to think of it, you’re right about that,” you agree with a shiver. “Being stuck with Abbacchio might be interesting. Moody Blues could replay scenes from a movie to pass the time.” 

“It’d be a one-man show, but I guess it’s not impossible,” Abbacchio replies. Giorno, who had been silently watching the banter, decides to speak his piece.

“I agree with Narancia,” Giorno nods at you. “[First] would be able to treat my wounds, and I hers. We’d survive the longest.” 

“Oh, please. You guys just want to be stuck on an island with [First] because she’s c-” 

Abbacchio kicks Mista under the table, effectively silencing him. Beats getting stabbed with a fork, you muse. Bucciarati, who is doing his best to moderate the discussion, has remained noticeably absent. Not wanting to miss out on his input, you direct the question to him.

“What about you, Bucciarati? Who would you pick?” 

Your Capo thinks about it longer than the others. “Fugo’s plentiful knowledge of biodiversity would be useful. Though, if we’re taking Stands into account, [First]’s Scarlet Ribbons could make a net for fishing.” 

“Finally, a sensible answer.” Fugo sighs. 

“The real question is,” Mista takes a deep breath, placing his hands on the table. “Why is no one picking me? 

“I thought we already went over that,” Narancia replies.

“Aside from the little caveat Pistols presents, I’d still be a valuable asset. Did you guys forget that I survived prison?”

“Two weeks of prison, might I add,” Fugo corrects, to Mista’s dismay. “By that logic, Narancia would be the best choice.”

“Which I am--”

“You don’t even know how to make a fire, much less survive in the wild.” 

“If I shoot something long enough it’ll catch on fire.” Narancia shrugs. Fugo rubs his temple, fending off a headache that looms on the horizon. It looks like none of you are going to be reaching a conclusion anytime soon, talking circles around one another. Still, you feel as if this is the appeal of talking to them. You can expect it to be a thrilling adventure from start to finish. 

Everyone had been too drawn into the conversation to realize the waiter, who finally works up the courage to clear his throat, catching your attention. 

“The bill for today,” is all he has the courage to say. 

Mista, Narancia, and Abbacchio both motion to Giorno at the same time, who sighs and reaches for his wallet.

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

The aftermath of Merlin snapping, and yelling at Arthur in the middle of the forest;

Arthur pushes for change, the gang takes bets on when Merthur will happen, and someone, somewhere, is grumpy.

Part 2 of Merlin’s Angry Outburst. 

Part 1   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

Once Arthur has a first draft of the repeal, the first people he brings in on it (with Merlin’s approval, of course) are the 5 knights, Gwen, Gaius, and Morgana.

(Morgana, who later that evening comes back to Arthur's chamber in tears (Merlin is also there) to reveal her magic, and thank him for not being Uther.) 

All of them enthusiastically agree, after only a little conversation.

Elyan and Leon are the most... dubious, but only because of the practical factor, they don't disagree with the actual repeal.

After months of the gang working in secret, they reveal their best draft to the council. At least half the council are new members that Arthur appointed, the rest are left over from Uther’s time.

They argue back and forth for a while, half vs half. A few of the older members, who were around before the purge, slowly start changing their minds.

In the end, it takes them maybe a month to get a majority, and Arthur overrules the remaining opposition. He is King after all, technically, he doesn’t even have to have a council.

Days after the agreement is reached, Arthur goes out personally to collect a few specific Druids, who had been waiting just outside the border for the go ahead.

It takes maybe another month to go through all the laws thoroughly, changing and editing and altering what needs to be altered. With the help of Arthur's close advisors on the political aspects, and the help of the Druids, Merlin, and Gaius, on the magical aspects (what should be allowed freely, what should be monitored, and what should remain fully banned).

The city celebrates when the announcement is made, they all loved the new King anyway, and had been overjoyed with the drop in executions, and deliberate ignoring of small instances of magic.

After a feast to celebrate the new found freedom among the people, the gang gathers once more, in private, and Merlin tells a shortened version of the story he'd told Arthur all those months ago.

None of them are that surprised (Gaius, Morgana, and Lancelot already knew, of course).

If they hadn't suspected Merlin of being a sorcerer before this whole thing started (Leon, Gwaine, and Gwen definitely suspected) , then they had certainly begun to in the last few months. They cheer when Merlin finishes telling them "just how often I've saved your oblivious arses" .

They cheer even louder when Arthur announces that he would be made court sorcerer, and it would be made official in a ceremony before the week ended.

There are no cheers when Morgana stands.

Curious eyes land on her, probably due to how terrified she looks, but the small encouraging nods and little smiles she gets from her brother (her Brother), Merlin, and Gwen, give her the strength she needs to tell everyone of her magic as well.

They see she is frightened, they imagine how difficult it must have been, being at first Uther’s ward, and then his daughter. They smile gently, and she receives hugs a plenty. Once all the congratulations are out of the way, she sits back down next to Gwen, still shaky and full of adrenaline, but happy.

She spends the remainder of the group’s quiet celebrations with her hand gripped in Gwen's under the table.

(Read this how you want, I personally envision it as the start of something)

So the days draw on, Merlin is announced Court Sorcerer, Arthur hires another manservant and gives Merlin a large set of chambers in the same hallways as Arthur's, complete with all the books on magic Arthur can find, and several of the magical artefacts that had previously been kept locked away (Merlin and Arthur are the only ones who are able to gain access to the room, something magicky I guess).

(No one mentions that that corridor is supposed to be for royalty only. Leon figures they're bound to realise that they're in love with each other any day now, and then Merlin will practically be royalty anyway so... might as well cut out the middle bit of having to shuffle chambers again later on).

The kingdom is prospering, and for months after the initial announcement, and implementations of the new laws, sorcerers and nobles from all over Albion, visit Camelot, to give congratulations to the King.

They give gifts and provide knowledge.

The Druids, however, are a slightly different story.

The ones who had been helping with the paperwork, had been... odd(?) around Merlin. But they respected his wish to keep all of that under wraps, or at least until it was announced publicly.

Arthur and Gaius know the whole Emrys story. Lancelot and Morgana know bits of it... but other than that... as far as anyone is concerned, the newly promoted Court Sorcerer is just another wizard.

The new Druids entering the kingdom are paying brief respects to the Forever King (I mean... at this point, he's still only King of Camelot... which is what he was before the magic ban repeal), before staring in reverence at the Court Sorcerer stood by his side.

They respect his wishes to keep the worshipping and gift giving to a minimum, though they still come to him for requests of miracles and ask him to perform druid ceremonies (blessings and name-givings and weddings and funerals (though they prefer to call them celebrations of life, rather than commiserations of death) and such).

Merlin can only brush off so many displays of such awe before the rest of The Gang demands to know what’s up, at which point he has to come clean about the whole... “Most Powerful Warlock To Ever Walk The Earth” thing.

Much to Merlin’s chagrin (and everyone else's amusement) the Druids still insist on calling him Emrys. The stubborn ones sometimes even go for "My Lord Emrys", which gets them a scowl from Merlin (and barely concealed laughter from everyone else).

Maybe... later on... when Morgana is more comfortable with her magic, after a few months practicing with Merlin (with a supportive Gwen Always at her side) , she is announced as the Court Seer.

Merlin had never had much luck with prophetic visions, but once Morgana’s fear died down, once she learned to let it flow, and breathe through it, the visions come easier, and kinder.

She stops seeing only visions of doom, and worst case scenarios, instead she has dreams of the many paths the future may take.

She does not panic when a path seems grim and dark, for she has a King and a Warlock and Gwen, by her side. Always. And they work through the future together.

So the ban has been repealed officially for around 6 months.

Arthur is a couple months away from completing his second year as King. And he and Merlin are still beating around the bush.

The betting pool for when they’ll finally get together has been growing bigger and bigger. Practically the whole castle is in on it now, with Gwen and Morgana as the ring leaders. Whoever wins... will be very lucky.

(It's Leon in the end, he pays attention, and he know what his boys are like. But he's a noble and has no need for the money, he pays for a few rounds of drinks and donates the rest to one of children's homes in the lower town).

But the war comes first.

~

Camelot has been prospering, and has many supporters throughout Albion, but one of the kingdoms, it doesn't matter which, you decide, does NOT like this.

Scouts and small patrols have been needling Camelot’s borders for months now, and Arthur and his Council (and Inner Council) have been making quiet preparations. They know that some sort of... something, is coming soon.

Especially when Morgana begins to dream of battles and blood and lightening.

They prepare for, and expect, a full scale war, but they hope for some negotiations and a peace treaty with the opposition.

Their hopes are dashed, when a messenger is escorted into the throne room, wearing The Opposition’s colours, with a letter.

Said letter is an angry rebuttal of everything Camelot stands for, full of accusations of abandoning tradition, and spitting in the face of great leaders, of which this soft boy-king should NOT be counted as. 

At the end, there was an official declaration of war.

The messenger boy was obviously scared to death, and once Arthur read the P.S, which invited Arthur to torture and/or execute him to the whatever extent he wants, he understood why. Without any hesitation, he offers the boy a job in the stables, a new wardrobe of clothes, and a servant’s bed in the castle.

After the official council meeting on the matter, setting up war committees, laying out contingency plans, organising the distribution of emergency evacuation plans, and discussing potential aid that could be requested from allies, Arthur pulls the gang together, for their own meeting.

“We knew this was coming, and there is no need to panic yet. Our outer borders are well patrolled, and we’re still getting up to date reports. The city walls hold strong, but I want to send out patrols to warn the villages of what’s coming. Start closer to the border, and work our way in. Leon?”

“My Lord, I have teams prepared for exactly that already, I just need to give the word and they’ll go.”

“Good. Morgana, I need you to try and keep focusing your visions, if we have even a small idea of how they might try to initiate the first battle, it’ll be a huge advantage.”

“Me and Merlin have been practising some new techniques to control where and when I can see, we’ll write everything down, and ask the Druids if they’ve seen anything as well.”

Arthur holds in a smile at the confidence in her voice. He is unendingly proud of how far his sister had come, and made a mental note to tell her that when all this was over.

“Brilliant, keep me in the loop. Gwen, when we’re done here, go and let the forgery know, the Royal Household will pay them extra to push out as much long range ammunition as they can. Arrows and crossbow bolts, we need as many as they can produce.” Gwen nods, and Arthur finally looks towards Merlin:

“And Merlin, I need you to be ready. Don’t wear yourself out too much in the next few weeks, I need you in good condition, if we’re to win this with minimal casualties-”

He glances over at Morgana before he continues:

“If the two of you could also ask the Druids if they have any volunteer healers. Make sure they know they aren’t obligated to come, but any help in the infirmaries would be greatly appreciated.” Morgana nods once more, as does Merlin, before he speaks:

“There’s a camp a couple hours ride outside the city at the moment, we’ll head out at first light-” He pauses and closes his eyes for a second, tilting his head, before looking to Morgana:

“They’re expecting us.”

Arthur addresses the room again:

“Right. I think that’s all for now, anyone have anything to add?”

Gaius responds after a moment:

“My Lord, if I could make a request for a few servants to help me set up supplies for the infirmary? Extensive preparations will need to be made to ensure that I have all I’ll need. Preferably people with rough herbal knowledge, if at all possible.”

Arthur nods straight away, responding:

“Yes, of course, I’ll ask the Housekeeper and the Steward who they can spare this evening, and they’ll be ready for you in the morning. Anything else?” At the silence in the room, Arthur tells everyone to get to work.

Leon marches straight down to the training grounds (Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan following him) to ring the summoning bell and inform the knights of the developments, and their tasks.

Gwen heads straight to the forgery (her and Elyan still oversee work there, but they have employees (and a few trainees) to run it) to give the Kings order.

Gaius shuffles out, and makes his way back to his quarters, already making mental lists of ingredients needed, and work to be done.

Arthur, Morgana, and Merlin are left, the royal siblings thinking to themselves, and Merlin thinking to someone else. Arthur contemplates that the whole mental link thing he had going on with the Druids was extremely useful.

Both his and Morgana’s thoughts were interrupted by Merlin huffing, and clenching his fists as he opens his eyes, obviously unhappy with whatever was said:

“Merlin?” From Morgana has the Court Sorcerer looking up from scowling at the table. He replies after wiping the frown off his face:

“Oh, it’s fine. They just made a... stupid suggestion is all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Stupid? Doesn’t sound like the Druids. What was it?”

Merlin looks mildly uncomfortable at that, and replies slowly:

“It... doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you another time. It’s late, you should practice some meditation and head to sleep, no potions tonight. And remember to keep some parchment and a quill by your bed, so you can scribble down anything you see-”

Merlin stands abruptly and heads towards the door:

“-I’m going to check the wards on the outer wall, and push a little more energy into the wells. I’ll see you both bright an early.” With that, Merlin heads out the room swiftly.

Arthur looks to his sister questioningly, but she shrugs as she responds:

“Who knows. “I’ll tell you later” means he doesn’t want you to know, OR he’s hoping I’ll forget because he doesn’t want either of us to know. He’s right though, I should meditate for a while-”

Morgana stands at this:

“- hopefully I’ll see you before we head off, if not, I suppose it’ll be dinner in the evening. Good night, brother.” Morgana leaves the room gracefully, heading in the direction of her chambers.

Arthur thinks for only a moment, before rushing off, catching up with Merlin as he readied his horse, preparing for the journey to the outer walls:

“I’ll come with you. I find I quite enjoy watching you do magic, and to be perfectly honest, I could do with some fresh air to help me think.”

Arthur pretends to ignore the slight blush that dusts Merlin’s cheeks, and readies his own horse. The two of them ride out of the stables and make the journey down the cobbled roads in comfortable silence, side by side.

They take their time on the journey, and the 15 minutes of companionable silence is finally broken by Arthur, who looks at Merlin curiously, as he says:

“So what did they suggest?”

Merlin looks up sharply at that, broken from his deep train of thought as he dumbly replies “What?”

“The Druids. What was the stupid suggestion?” Merlin’s eyes widen at that, and he blushes once more as he looks determinedly forward:

“Oh. That. I told you, it doesn’t-”

“Merlin...”

“Oh fine! They suggested that I... that I forge a mental link with you. Like the one I have with them.” The sorcerer purses his lips at that, and continues to avoid Arthur’s gaze:

“You can do that? Well... would it be such a bad idea? I mean we aren’t going to be able to meet and discuss things as often as I’d like through this whole ordeal. AND you’re basically the Kingdom’s powerhouse, I’m sort of relying on your magical know-how here. Surely it wouldn’t be a bad thing? For us to be able to converse across the battle fields?” 

Arthur, in an effort to not be hurt, reminds himself that he doesn’t know all that much about magic, and it very well could be a stupid suggestion, instead of one that Merlin is just personally opposed to.

Merlin, in response, looks to Arthur in great shock, before sighing and looking down to his horses mane:

“It.... is possible. And fairly easy, technically. But it would be painful, AND permanent. I wouldn’t be able to undo it after we won. And a temporary connection takes far too much energy to maintain, even for a short time. I just figured you wouldn’t want me in your head for the rest of our lives.” He tries to inject a little humour into his words, but it falls flat, and he just seems sad.

Arthur pretends he doesn’t notice however, and responds quickly:

“How painful are we talking? I mean I’ve been hurt pretty badly before. And... how exactly does it work? Would we be able to read each other’s mind constantly, without the other knowing? Or what?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows in shock at that, and his answer comes out slowly as he looks at Arthur:

“Like... a really bad headache? Imagine the hardest you’ve ever been hit, without passing out. It would last for a few minutes after the connection is initially forged, but would fade slowly over the next day or so. And no. Once the connection is established we wouldn’t be in each other’s head all the time, we would just be able to sort of... project our voices to one another. Other thoughts would be safe, even if you were thinking about me, I wouldn’t hear it unless you were thinking to me... if that makes sense.” 

By the end of his explanation, he’s looking nervously at the King, who is deep in thought:

“Hmm. Ok. I... only if you agree but... it might not be a bad idea. Even after the war is over. There have definitely been times where I’ve needed your opinion on something but you’ve been elsewhere, or we’ve been in the presence of someone else. Of course we’ve been fine so far, if you don’t want to, but-”

Merlin interrupts him, speaking quickly:

“I’m fine with it. I agree, it would be useful. So... I can bring what we need back from the camp tomorrow?”

Arthur nods firmly:

“Yes. The sooner the better, we can do it tomorrow evening, if that’s enough time for you?” Merlin once again looks shocked at this, as Arthur stares at him:

“Oh! Yeah, Yes. That’s fine. Like I said, it’s not particularly difficult, and I can ask Gaius to prepare us something for the pain during the day. Are you... are you sure? It is Permanent.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs:

“Yes, you said that already Merlin. Are you sure?”

Merlin nodded his head decidedly, and spoke confidently:

“Yes. You’re right, it’s not a bad idea. Come on, if we hurry, we’ll make it to the walls, and then to the main well, and then back to the castle, before dark.”

The pair of them hurry their horses, and after another 10 minutes of comfortable silence, they finally reach the City Gates.

The guards give a quick bow, and The King and The Court Sorcerer jump off their horses before handing the reigns to one of the Gate stablehands.

Arthur (and the guards) watch in barely concealed wonder as Merlin presses his hands against the rock of the wall, and closes his eyes.

The golden glow can still be seen from below his eyelids, and he hums slightly as he frowns in concentration, seeming to push into the wall.

Arthur sees a short of... sheen, ripple across the rock, and extend into the sky. Merlin steps back and nods, admiring his handy work:

“They’re holding strong, I’ve extended the height as well. Kilgharrah and Aithusa should be the only ones able to get over it without alerting me now, from the air at least-”

Merlin heads to retake his horse, Arthur following him, before he continues:

“Though I still want to check the tunnels again at some point in the next few days.”

“Of course. Relax Merlin, it’s barely begun, and the borders still hold strong. We’ve plenty of time before things kick off in any way.” He makes sure to speak quietly. A public announcement hasn’t been made yet, and it would be bad if rumours started spreading before The King had time to put together a proper disclosure.

Merlin nods distractedly, and urges his horse to go faster as he heads towards the main well, in the town square. It’s late, not long until sunset, so there shouldn’t be many, if any, people there. Arthur speaks again:

“Why are we visiting the well? I wasn’t aware of any problems?”

“There aren’t any, but once the announcement is made, and once the outer villages are told what’s happening, we’ll have hundreds, probably thousands, of people flock to the city for safety. I just want to make sure we’re prepared for such an influx, and boost our water levels a little.”

Arthur nods at his response, but doesn’t say anything. He chooses instead to admire the man Merlin had become. He held himself differently, more strong, confident in who he was. Just like he had back when he was still a manservant, he served Arthur, and his people, above and beyond his job description. Merlin took upon himself, not only the politics he was supposed to oversee, but the personal safety of both the King, and every Camelot citizen, and he did it all with an alarming amount of grace.

Arthur sometimes catches himself thinking that it was almost as if Merlin was built to be a king. He may not like the spotlight, but he was a protector, and leader, unlike anything Arthur had ever seen before.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you, Merlin. It feels like years ago now, that you yelled at me in a forest.” He says it with a grin, but Merlin flinches. He continues before The Sorcerer interrupts him though:

“Really Merlin. Thank you. You were right, I would’ve got there in the end, but it wasn’t fair for people to suffer in the mean time, and you took the fall in their place. You’re a hero to your people... and to me. You should be proud of your accomplishments, I know I am.” 

Arthur resists the urge to duck his head as Merlin looks at him in bewilderment, a definite flush on his cheeks as he replies:

“I... thank you, Arthur. I always had faith in you-” Merlin begins to grin before he continues:

“-and besides, someone had to knock you down a peg. Perhaps you should hire someone to take you into the forest and yell at you every once in a while.”

Arthur laughs at that, and Merlin tries to push down the blush as Arthur responds:

“Now Merlin, why on earth would I hire someone for such a job, when I already have you?”

Merlin chuckles as he answers:

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, My Lord. Hold the horses, I’ll just be a minute.” With that, Arthur realises they’ve made it to the well, and dismounts as Merlin has, holding both of the horses reigns as he watches Merlin approach the well.

The Sorcerer crouches down, and once again closes his eyes in concentration as he presses his hands into the stone of the well. The glow is a little less bright this time, but Arthur admires it nonetheless.

Merlin finishes quickly, and gathers his horse from Arthur once more, nodding towards the castle.

Arthur follows as Merlin hurries towards the looming building. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a rush, but he only begins questions it when Merlin hurriedly hands the horses of to a stablehand, and continues to run up the castle steps.

Arthur can only just keep up with Merlin, not having the breath to ask him what’s wrong, before Merlin suddenly comes to a stop, catching his breath for a moment to go through a door leading to the highest balcony on the West of the castle:

“Merlin... what.... what are you-”

Merlin wordlessly interrupts The King as he points to the skyline, the sun only a few minutes away from touching the horizon.

There’s not a cloud in sight, and the sky is painted in oranges and pinks in front of them, bleeding into deep purples and blues behind the castle.

Merlin finally mutters, not looking away from the sunset:

“Call me a girl all you want Arthur, but nothing compares to this. It’s beautiful, I come to watch it whenever I’ve got the time.”

Arthur had only glanced briefly at the sunset before looking back at Merlin in wonder, a fond smile on his face (not that Merlin would notice).

He stares at the side of Merlin’s face, the orange sky making the gold in his eyes look even brighter, and the glare of the fading sun making his hair shine. A gentle breeze has Merlin shiver slightly, and Arthur’s smile widens as he responds, so quietly he’s not even sure if Merlin hears him:

“Hmm. Beautiful.” He doesn’t look away.

~

THIS IS COMPLETED! All 5 parts have been posted:)

If y’all want my thoughts on anything specific let me know✌️

[neonacity]

Black Daisies Chapter 5| Canzona

Preview:

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

An NCT mafia AU with OT23. 

Summary: Working for the mafia comes with many layers. There’s excitement, violence, loss, and betrayals. Yet there’s also friendship, family, loyalty, and code. The last thing it needs? Love and all the complexities it brings.

TW: violence, death, mentions of drugs and other illegal activities. If you’re uncomfortable with any of these, feel free to skip. Author’s note: This is purely a work of fiction. In no way am I supporting all the illegal activities and behaviors that might be mentioned in the story nor am I implying that any member of NCT acts whichever way I may write them here--they’re all sweetiepies that need to be protected.

Chapter: 1/ First Stage

Chapter: 2/Overture

Chapter: 3/The Conductor

Chapter: 4/Crescendo

The fog of smoke from the lighted cigarette mixed with the cold breath coming from blood red lips. A woman stood in a small overhead overlooking the city, watching the shadows move across Seoul like a dark cloud bidding disaster. 

The sound of gravel crunching under boots sounded from behind her. She didn’t acknowledge it at first, however, instead dropping the nearly finished stick of nicotine between her fingers to the ground. A gust of air blew the stray stub away, its embers flaring up slightly before dying out. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

For a moment, it was only silence that answered her. Her dress danced in the wind, its red color looking like dried blood in the darkness. 

“You were waiting...for me.”

She finally turned around to look at the guest. Her eyes, though naturally sharp, flickered with familiarity as she took in the form of the boy in front of her. 

“I know you’re about to do something silly. I’m only here to tell you to stop whatever idea you’re having right now.”

The figure didn’t move in front of her, but the way he stared at her made the distance between them almost crackle with electricity. The man’s jaw tightened, before it finally relaxed just a little bit. 

“None of NCT is planning to participate in his game.”

The woman merely raised a perfectly shaped brow, knowing that there’s more to what he is saying.

“But I—”

“Jaehyun. Don’t be stupid.” 

“Being the Don means I can do anything I want, right? So you and I can—”

“There is no you and I,” her voice, though it sounded clipped and cold in the meeting hall earlier, had a tinge of emotion this time. Is it desperation? Frustration? Helplessness?

Jaehyun took a few steps towards the smaller figure in front of him, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep him from reaching out to her. 

“You will be free. From him. From all of this.” 

“If you win.” 

“And I will.”

“Not after you’ve betrayed your brothers. You know what things this kind of game brings. Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”

He locked his jaw again, his expression intense even under the shadows that wrapped the two of them. Jaehyun finally pulled one hand from his pocket and moved it to touch her arm. The woman took a step back, evading his touch carefully.

“I don’t need to betray anyone. We all agreed on it. Everything will carry out as usual,” he said in a tone that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. As she looked up at him, she saw the same desperation in his eyes—the same eyes that used to be so innocent before they were hardened by his life in the mafia. 

“And you believe them? Look at where you are now, in front of me, telling me you’ll be doing this. You think you are the only one who has a reason to go after the position among all of you?”

“I…” he trailed off, a frown settling on his forehead. “I trust them.”

“With the way you are acting, I don’t think you are worthy of their trust at all.”

Something finally snapped inside of him and he finally closed the distance between them in quick strides. He didn’t touch her, but they were close enough to each other that the cold fogs of their breath mingled in the darkness.

“This is the only chance I have—you have—to finally leave.” 

For a moment she simply looked at him, gaze unfaltering. She wanted nothing more than to reach out to his face and cradle it, tell him everything is going to be fine, but even as a flicker of emotion slipped on her gaze, she quickly let her cold mask replace it as fast as it came. 

“I don’t need you to save me. Don’t do this.” 

Before he could say, or do anything else, she finally took a step back again before turning on her heels to walk away. Jaehyun followed her with his gaze until the darkness swallowed her retreating form. 

“Yo, you okay?”

I looked up from squinting at my computer and turned towards the boy grinning in front of me. I probably looked funny, my face all scrunched up from staring at my screen, because he broke into a laugh before dropping himself into the seat next to me.

“Ya… I know Taeyong said you’ll be our first line of defense, but you haven’t peeled your butt from your seat since last night. Relax. I don’t think Cypher is going to do anything—at least not for now.”

My squint turned into a frown and I opened my mouth to shoot back a reply. Before I could say anything though, a painful throb on my left temple made me stop. I barely slept a wink last night. I leaned back on my chair with a defeated sigh. 

“You don’t know that, Yuta. Those guys… they’re nasty. If they got the same message that we all got last night, I’m 99 percent sure they’re thinking of something to sabotage us now.” 

“Mm… were you able to hack into their system though?”

“Yeah. Their firewall sucks as usual. Nothing seems out of place for now…” I trailed off as my gaze moved across the room. From upstairs, I saw Taeyong slip out of his room in his sweats, hair messy from sleep. He ducked into the fridge on the second floor, rummaging for something there. 

After the announcement from the Don, all the members decided to stay in the headquarters temporarily instead of going to their separate dorms to ‘watch each other’s backs.’ It was a good move in my opinion, but another side of me is also a little bit nervous of having everyone around all the time. Not that I don’t like having the guys as company… but I have my personal reasons to be anxious about the recent change in living arrangements. 

From upstairs, Taeyong finally managed to fish out one of the tetra boxes of banana milk from the back of the fridge. I didn’t realize I was still staring at him until his eyes finally met mine and he gave me a sleepy smile. 

I quickly turned my eyes back to Yuta only to find him giving me a Cheshire grin. 

“What?”

“I asked you if you also tried checking temporary databases Cypher might be using but you were too busy eating up breakfast with your eyes,” he snickered before throwing up his hands as if in surrender. “I get it, I get it. All of us are handsome but you only have eyes for—” 

I quickly gave him a punch on his left shoulder as I felt blood rush to my cheeks. “I—wasn’t staring!”

“Sure, you were just drooling—”

“Hey, anyone up for some drinks tonight?” 

Our childish banter temporarily stopped as Yuta and I looked up to see a very sweaty Johnny stride through the door. He was slightly panting as he approached us, the slight flush of his cheeks a sign that he just finished his morning run. 

“Why? You going to Anarchy?” Yuta asked in curiosity as he dug his hands in the front pocket of his sweater. 

“Yeah, I have to make sure the dealers are selling the new goods well. I could go alone as usual but our Mom there,” he moved his lips to point towards a still sleepy-looking Taeyong upstairs, “said it is best to go in groups for now. You know, just to be sure.” 

Yuta shrugged. “I can go with you. I’ll also ask the other guys too. I sure need a bottle or two.” 

Johnny turned to look at me. For the first time since last evening, I felt extremely conscious of how I look. I was wearing an oversized hoodie, my hair up in a sorry excuse of a bun. My glasses didn’t do me any favors, barely concealing the dark circles under my eyes.

“You want to come with us?” he asked, smiling at me. 

“Uh… I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have to—”

“She has to watch over the rats, is what she’ll say,” Yuta interjected from his seat. He turned to look at me then with a frown. “Seriously, if you’re going to act like this, you’ll never see sunlight in the next two months.”

I opened my mouth to speak but Johnny was too quick to answer for me. 

“Great. You’ll come with us then.”

“But—”

“You can work in the club. I’ll have Jungwoo bring those mini computers you both love tinkering with. You can use them to do your magic codes and spying voodoo, right?” 

I stared at him, at a loss for words. 

“Good talk. We leave at 9PM,” he flashed me another grin and turned to walk away. I was about to give another rebuttal when my eyes landed on the way his shirt stuck to the muscles of his back. I closed my mouth and sank back to my seat. 

Beside me, Yuta was grinning from ear to ear again. 

“Don’t you just love it that we’re all staying here now?”

I turned and gave him another punch on the shoulder. 

Two hundred miles away from Seoul, a man sat back on his seat as the screen in front of him turned black. The lone light of the overhead lamp in the room made eerie shadows dance across his face as he mulled over the closing words of the Don.

“You are free to do anything you like.”

His impassive face slowly broke into a smile so sinister it almost made his angelic features unrecognizable. He has no fucking idea why the idiotic man decided to start this little game of his, but he likes it nonetheless. A chance to take over the whole mafia sounded so enticing to him that it almost made him laugh, but there’s another reason that ultimately made his blood boil in excitement.

NCT. 

“Jihoon.” 

He only slightly moved his head to look at the female who cracked the door open to his room. She had the same eyes as him, though hers didn’t look tainted with madness. In fact, it look slightly worried right now as they took in his expression. 

“You called for me?” 

“Ah, yes,” he finally turned his swivel chair towards her so he could give her his full attention. He intertwined his long slender fingers on his lap and gave her a sweet smile. 

“I need you to make preparations. We’ll be going on a little field trip.”

Her questioning gaze almost made him snicker.

“Where are we going? We have a deal to close tomorrow and we can’t—”

“Oh dear, I can’t care less about that now. It can wait.” 

The girl pursed her lips. “Fine. Where are we headed to so I can make arrangements?”

The boy leaned back on his seat, head pressed against the headrest. He grinned at her, the emotion playing in his eyes making her blood run cold. 

“Seoul. We’re going to visit some friends.” 

---

A/N: Hi everyone! Decided to post this today even though it is super short. So I’ve decided to introduce Jihoon... and I would love it if I can have a face claim that I can use for him as a reference. To those who have been following the story, I’d love to know your suggestions! This will make it easier for me to develop him because then I’ll have an idea of how he looks like. <3

Chapter 6: Rapture

[flautistsandpeonies]

Prominence Part 2

Read the Previous Chapter [Here]

Word Length: 3,502

Summary: The aftermath of a ruined banquet.

The floor was covered with blood.

“Wei-Xiong!”

“Young Master Wei!”

“Wei Ying!”

Rushing to his side, the three fluttered about the young man as blood soaked through his clothing.

Yu ZiYuan’s breath came out in rapid huffs as she continued to glare at the men below her. Zidan retracted into its ring form, and the matriarch clenched her fists in anger.

“Does...does it hurt- oh of course it hurts what am I saying!,”Nie Huaisang was pale as he fussed

Kneeling down beside his nephews, Lan Qiren said nothing as he placed a hand on Wei WuXian’s shoulder and started to offer him his spiritual energy. Seeing their uncle’s example, the Twin Jades followed suit.

“Where are your medics, “Nie Mingjue turned to a servant carrying a tray of drinks

“Ah, they’re at the healing pavilion, “the servant stated with an ashen face

“Then go get them!, “Nie Huaisang nearly screamed while fanning his friend

“Ah-ah, right away, ‘the servant jumped

“Wait,”Wei WuXian said with a wet cough

All eyes were on him.

Wei WuXian lifted his other palm, “It’s not that serious; I can go there myself.”

“You will do no such thing, “Lan Qiren grunted

“What, Wei-Xiong,  “Nie Huaisang said in disbelief

“Wei Ying, No.,Lan WangJi gripped his arm

“Sit there and ,wait for a medic; don’t aggravate your wounds!, “Nie Mingjue glared

“Young Master Wei, it might be worse than it looks, please just sit still, “Lan XiChen held him fast like his brother

Wei WuXian blinked at all of them. They all stared at him like they would pin him to the ground if he dared moved from his spot.

He tried another approach, “It’ll be easier for me to go to the pavilion so they don’t have to lug their tools here.”

“Wei-Xiong, “Nie Huaisang stopped fanning him, “This isn’t fair”

“I know this isn’t fair, Nie-Xiong, “Wei WuXian grunted at his friend

Nie Huaisaing seemed to frown even more, “Wei-Xiong.”

“I can see to him.”

Eyes turned to a woman in blazing sun robes as she strode through the circling crowd of guests and up to the group on the floor. A pursed look was upon her face, her hands clasped in front of her as she observed the situation in front of her.

“Wen Qing, “Wei WuXian recognized while wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve

“Why offer help to another sect’s disciple, “Nie Mingjue gave her a suspicious glance

“I am a doctor. My purpose is to help the sick and injured, and there is a bleeding man in front of me, “Wen Qing’s reply gave no chance of rebuttal

“Wen-guniang, “Wei WuXian’s voice was a bit garbled, “I appreciate the offer, however, our YunmengJiang’s medics will be good enough.”

“Whether you walk out of here Wei WuXian or they take on a stretcher, your whip wounds will reopen, “Wen Qing watched as he used his spiritual powers to slowly stitch the lashes, “You will need better than “good enough.”

Rather reluctant, Wei WuXian seemed ready to protest again.

“Is the healing pavilion close, “Wen Qing questioned

“Ah, no, it is a little ways away, “Wei WuXian answered

“Is their anywhere closer that I can examine you, “Wen Qing seemed to have decided that YunmengJiang’s medics were out of option

“My...rooms are closer, “Wei WuXian shook blood from his hand, “That is...if Wen-guniang is inclined to enter an unmarried man’s room?”

Undeterred, Wen Qing replied, “Then, when the medics arrive, notify them to send supplies to Wei WuXian’s room.”

“Wait!, “a light voice interrupted the surprising calmness of the scene on the floor

Guests made way for the Jiang Sect Leader and his daughter. Jiang Fengmian’s face was set in a hard frown while Jiang Yanli looked like a nervous rabbit. Whispers started up in the farthest corners of the room as Jiang Fengmian tried to pull his wife towards the outer halls.

Jiang Yanli timidly stepped past her fuming mother, “A-Xian, “she started but paused and gave an apprehensive glance at the people around them

“Shijie, “Wei WuXian gave her a bright smile, “Don’t look so wary, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Don’t pretend like it’s not serious, “Lan Qiren reprimanded him immediately, “Zidian is no laughing matter.”

Flinching at his tone, Wei WuXian replied, “Lan-Laoshi, Yu-Furen-”

“Has grievously injured you, “Nie MingJue interrupted him while crossing his arms and side-eyeing the Jiang parents as an argument between the two ensued

“Even now, you deny it, Fengmian!, “Yu ZiYuan snatched her arm out of her husband’s grasp

The Jiang matriarch looked ready to attack even her own husband. Manicured nails transformed into beast claws in the guests eyes and sneered lips into venomous snake talons.

“Sanniang, calm down, “Jiang Fengmian’s voice was far too calm in everyone’s opinion, “Don’t make even more of a scene than you already have.”

“Why don’t you just say it right here and now, Fengmian? Say it! Wei WuXian is my bastard, “Yu ZiYuan’s voice grew with each word, “Isn’t that what you want?! For him to be heir and have him replace A-Cheng!”

“Sanniang, that’s enough, why don’t you go rest? You’re obviously stressed and-”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

Whispers from before became a torrent of gossip in seconds. Fingers pointed at the perturbed madam, questions and laughter about her sanity cropping up in the furthest corners of the banquet.

Wen Qing bent on a knee in front of Wei WuXian, spiritual power at her finger tips. With delicate hands, she used her energy to pinpoint the amount of damage to his face. Wei WuXian hissed in slight pain as she prodded his still bleeding nose.

Jiang Yanli tried to step forward once more; however, Lan WangJi shuffled to the side, blocking Wei WuXian and Wen Qing from her view.

Nie Huaisang stood up, “Jiang-guniang, you don’t look all that surprised.”

It was true, while everyone else in the room was still wide-eyed and gaping mouths, members of the Jiang Sect -servants, disciples, and clan- looked at the scene with a solemn familiarity.

Yanli didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, “Mother...mother has been rather upset lately with recent events and a-Cheng’s injury. And a-Xian....a-Xian, you know how she is...and-”

“Are...are blaming him for her assaulting him, “Nie MingJue turned a surprised glance at the Jiang heiress

Yanli shuffled at his tone, “It’s not that..it not. It’s just that a-Xian, you know how mother is.”

Jiang Yanli didn’t seem to be able to say much more, especially under the critical gazes of the guests.

“Young Master Wei, “A quiet looking young man stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Wei WuXian’s other shoulder

“You...you are?, “Wei WuXian seemed to squint

“It’s me, Wen Ning, Wen Qionglin. We met at the archery competition years back, “the young man answered

“Wen Ning? Ah, I...I don’t remember, sorry.”

Wen Qionglin shook his head, “Please, let my a-jie see to you, Young Master Wei”

“He doesn’t have a choice, a-Ning. Either he let’s me see him in his room, or I’ll paralyze him here and work from there, “Wen Qing’s tone was serious and none doubted her words as well

“Ah, well then, I suppose I really don’t have a choice, “Wei WuXian smiled wanly before addressing the whole room, “This one apologizes, but I’ll have to leave for a while”

With Wen Qionglin still holding him by the shoulders, Wei WuXian was slowly helped to stand by him and the Lan brothers. Like Wen Qing said, the whip wounds opened and a fresh bout of blood started dripping to the floor.

“Wei-Xiong!”

“Hurry, a-Ning.”

Quickly, the two Wen siblings ushered Wei WuXian from the room and from everyone’s line of sight as he gave directions to his rooms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the departure of Wei WuXian, the air grew even tenser than when the guests first arrived in Lotus Pier.

“Violet Spider, do you normally whip your disciples or was this something specific to Wei WuXian, “Sect Leader Nie stood straight and gave the purple clad woman a pointed look

Growling, Yu ZiYuan pushed her husband’s arm away once more and turned her fury towards the tall man

“How does Nie Zongzhu have anything to say about how I punish my disciples, “Yu ZiYuan sneered, “Is it not my right to hand down punishments?”

Nie MingJue raised an eyebrow, “Punishment for what? Talking with Lan XiChen?”

The banquet hall was still a sea of whispers. Quips about the Jiang Sect as a whole started up in some small circles. Disciples of the sect started to separate themselves from the crowd, some pressing themselves against the walls of the banquet hall, while others shambled from the room entirely.

“Punishment for his actions against my son, “Yu ZiYuan gritted her teeth, “Surely you see how he’s been trying to depose my a-Cheng. Is it not my right as a mother to protect his rightful place as heir?”

“Depose Jiang WanYin, “Lan XiChen interjected, “he’s the only viable heir to YunmengJiang; it’s impossible to depose him.”

“Not if Jiang Fengmian makes him his heir, “the Violet Spider was close to raging again

“That doesn’t make any sense!, “Nie Huaisang, in a rare show of fearlessness, nearly shouted back in reply

The heir in question was no where to be seen in the hall. Jiang WanYin hadn’t attended the lectures, nor had he made an appearance at the banquet. Some had questioned where he might be, but most concluded that the man must still be too agitated at his da-shixiong’s success to attend.

“If Jiang Zongzhu wanted to depose his own son, he would’ve given Wei WuXian the Jiang name before he published his works, “an amused voice broke through the noise

Wen Ruohan strode up the the group with a haughty look upon his face. Each of his strides were well calculated, eyes sharp as he assessed the people before him.

Many found themselves agreeing with his words. Why let Wei WuXian publish his works in his birth name when your clan could’ve gained recognition instead?

”Madam Jiang, “many guests gasped at his address of her, “Surely you don’t truly believe that Wei WuXian is Jiang Zongzhu’s bastard?”

Seeing his wife about to lash out again, Jiang Fengmian intervened, “Sanniang, I’ve told you countless times that a-Xian isn’t mine.”

“And yet you publish his works, and don’t pay attention to your own heir, “A new voice, Madam Jin stalked to stand beside her best friend, seeing that no one else was siding with her

“You’re mistaken, “the Jiang Sect Leader replied, “Had a-Cheng come to me with anything like a-Xian did, I would have publish it just the same.”

“And where is your son now, “Madam Jin inquired, “I haven’t seen him the entire time I’ve been in Lotus Peir.”

“I asked a-Cheng to come to both the lectures and the banquet multiple times. He declined, “Fengmian revealed, “I even tried to get his sister to convince him. It was his own decision not to come.”

“Madam Jin, a-Cheng is just upset for the moment, “Yanli smiled at her, “Father hasn’t punished him; he just needs time to cool down.”

“Did he at least punish him for attacking his head disciple unprovoked?, “Wen Ruohan questioned, “It seems attacking Wei WuXian with Zidian seems commonplace.”

While most sects didn’t have a spiritual weapon like Zidian, they did have discipline whips. The thought of whipping their disciples for minor infractions - and obviously made up ones - made stones forms in the pit of their stomachs.

Yanli shook her head, “There was nothing to punish. a-Xian and a-Cheng will make up eventually; they always do. A-Xian will apologize for breaking a-Cheng’s arm and the rest will follow.”

“Why does Young Master Wei have to apologize for defending himself, “Lan Xichen joined the conversation, “If they were to truly make up it should be Jiang WanYin asking for forgiveness.”

The three Lans had formed a front with the Nie brothers, staring down the Jiang family. Their disapproval radiated throughout the room.

“If I may interject”

Silence ensued and eyes turned to the doorway; Wen Qing had returned.

Wen Ruohan nodded, “Speak, a-Qing”

Wen Qing bowed at her uncle, “I have thoroughly examined Wei WuXian, and I have come to speak with Jiang Zongzhu”

“How is he, “Jiang FengMian asked

“Other than the whip scars, he is actually mostly healed. By the time we got to his rooms, his core had already healed his broken nose and bruises, “Wen Qing answered

“And the....Zidian lashes, “Lan XiChen frowned as he spoke

“That is what I’ve come to talk about, “she sighed, “Jiang Zongzhu....

Had Wen Qing been a disciple or servant of the YunmengJiang Sect, she would’ve thought twice about speaking about this, especially now when it would reflect badly on the Sect Leader and his wife.

Wen Qing was not a disciple of the YunmengJiang Sect.

“Wei WuXian’s back is covered in whip scars, some years old and some as much as a few weeks old. It is my greatest advice that he be excused from leading next week’s competition and be left to rest, “Wing Qing voice was terse

“Covered, “Lan XiChen voiced everyone’s horror

“How can he be covered in scars? She only lashed him a few times, “a voice, people turned to see Jin ZiXun standing from his table

That wasn’t really a questioned that had to be answered. Everyone’s eyes shifted to the Violet Spider once more.

“And I suppose that his old scars were all punishments from you as well, Violet Spider, “Wen Ruohan sounded amused, “I’m decidedly curious, if your Head Disciple is so unruly and so undisciplined that he needs to be whipped with Zidian multiple times, why have him as your Head Disciple? Why keep him at all?”

“Don’t patronize me, “Yu ZiYuan glared, “How arrogant of Wen Zongzhu to come into my home and decide that I’m being to harsh on my servant after only listening to his rubbish for a week.”

“You consider his work trash, ,”Wen Ruohan was amused, “I see”

“You permit this, Jiang Zongzhu?, “Lan Qiren turned his ire to the sect’s leader, “How long has this been going on? Was Wei WuXian even being whipped during his days at the Cloud Recesses?”

“Lan-Xiansheng, “Jiang Fengmian looked surprised

“Well?, “Lan Qiren nearly glared at the man

Jiang Fengmian replied, “It...wasn’t always this bad. Sanniang usually only hit him two or three times or made him kneel in the ancestral hall. This is an outlier event. She isn’t normally like this.”

“That doesn’t make it better, “Lan XiChen stood with his uncle, “There’s a reason we only use the discipline whip for extreme infractions and treason.”

“And what would you have me do?, “Jiang Fengmian sighed

“Release Wei WuXian from his duties, “Lan Qiren demanded gruffly, “Let him come to the Cloud Recesses to heal physically...and mentally. These events no doubt have disturbed his mind.”

“Lan-Xiansheng, that is truly unnecessary, “Jiang Fengmian tried to placate him

“What is necessary is making sure you haven’t let a disciple be wounded beyond measure, “Lan Qiren countered

“The Unclean Realm opens their doors to Wei WuXian as well, “Nie MingJue stated, “Some time away from this sect will do him good.”

“Yeah,” Nie Huaisang added, “Wei-Xiong has been to the Unclean Realm before and liked it; he should come with us.”

“My niece has already started treating him, “Wen Ruohan replied, “it would be best for her to continue treating him in Nightless City.”

Madam Jin quickly glared back at her husband, as if sensing him about to open his mouth. Jin GuangShan, who had hung back the entire time, said nothing but tipped his head in their direction.

“The Yao will open their sect as well, Jiang Zongzhu.”

“Young Master Wei may be a bit more comfortable in Ouyang, Jiang Zongzhu”

“Lotus Pier is not safe for your head disciple, why risk his health making him stay here?”

“Jiang Zongzhu?”

“Jiang Zongzhu!”

Countless people started hammering Jiang Fengmian at once. Some demanded answers for his inaction, and other were trying to make gains from him. The man couldn’t please them all, nor could he come up with an answer.

Lan, Nie, and Wen watched as both Jiang Sect Leader and Madam were surrounded by troubled and disquieted guests.

“Out of my way, “yu ZiYuan shouted, making many jump away from her in fright

The woman snarled at them and then jerked her head at her best friend. With a nod, both women strode from the room, obviously displeased with how the circumstances turned out.

“Jiang Zongzhu, there is still the matter of restitution for Wei WuXian, “Lan XiChen addressed the man once more, “Either let Wei WuXian come with us to the Cloud Recesses or punish your wife, that’s all we ask. Letting a matter such as this stand is unrighteous.”

“Zewu-jun, “the Jiang Sect Leader sounded defeated, “Very well.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leaving the banquet hall as quickly as possible, Lan WangJi and Wen Qing stalked down the halls toward Wei WuXian rooms. Passing by servants, the two were stone faced and harshly avoided by the staff.

Coming up to a door, Wen Qing knocked and feet shuffled inside. A minute later, Wen Qionglin opened the door and gave his sister a nervous smile.

“a-Jie, I tried to make him rest but..., “he paused as his sister pursed her lips and moved to let her inside

Walking into the room, Wei WuXian was sitting up in bed.

“I told you to lay down and rest, “Wen Qing glared and started toward him

“I need to go back to the banquet hall, “Wei WuXian stated

“You need to rest, “spiritual energy arose once again to assess the damage to his body

Stepping into the room, Lan Wangji gave a courteous nod to Wen Qionglin, who smiled and nodded back.

Looking around the room, he noticed a destroyed desk that hadn’t yet been removed. Scorch marks resembling lightning lined a couple of the walls. Slash marks from sword glares looked down at him from the ceiling.

The only thing that was relatively untouched was the bed that Wei WuXian was using, but Lan Wangji wondered if it was new.

“Lan Zhan, “Wei WuXian called as soon as he noticed the man

Turning from the room to assess Wei WuXian, Lan WangJi’s blood turned to ice as he gazed at his back.

His entire torso was wrapped with bandages, some having been soaked through with blood from his recent movement. his shoulder were bright red in pain, and sweat was running along his neck.

Seeing where his eyes were drawn, Wei WuXian couldn’t come up with anything to say.

“How long have you borne this?, “Lan WangJi demanded

“Lan Zhan, “Wei WuXIan frowned and tried to stand

“Sit still, “Wen Qing quickly pulled a needle out of her sleeve, a silent threat

“How long, “the second heir glared, eyes bright and furious

Wei WuXian sighed, “Lan Zhan....Lan Zhan, it’s unfair I know but-”

“Don’t try and excuse it, “Lan WangJi was furious, “She had no reason to attack you.”

Pursing his lips, Wei WuXian tried to change the topic, “Never the less, I have to return to the banquet hall.”

“No, you don’t, the Lans and Nie are handling the situation, “Wen Qing said while changing a soiled bandage

“And why should the Lan and Nie handle Jiang matters, “Wei WuXian stood despite the protests, “I have to return; I can’t imagine everyone was happy with what happened.”

“Yes, and hopefully Yu-Furen will be punished for what she did, “Wen Qing huffed

Turning away from the men, Wen Qing started to work on a salve for Wei WuXian injury. The smell of alcohol soon filled the room as she mixed medicines.

Frowning at the bitter taste entering his mouth, Wei WuXian said to Lan WangJi, “Look, Lan Zhan, I have to handle this.”

A spark of displeasure lit in Lan Wangji’s eyes, “Wei Ying, “he started

“Shijie and Uncle Jiang need my help putting out the fires, “Wei WuXian shook his head once more

“Jiang Zongzhu can handle this mess himself. You are a patient, the only thing you should be worried about right now is yourself, “Wen Qing said without turning around

“I also have duties to attend to, “Wei WuXian denied, “I can’t just sit around waiting for myself to heal”

Lan WangJi sighed, disgruntled.

“You’re being released from your duties, “he finally revealed

“What, “Wei WuXian ground out through gritted teeth, “Why?!”

“Your wounds needed to be tended to, “Wen Qing stated while griding herbs in a mortal and pestle, “the Lans have opened their doors to you, among other things.”

“I can tend to them just fine here in Lotus Pier, I don’t need to go to Gusu, “Wei WuXian shook his head is disapproval

Grasping Wei WuXIan’s hand, Lan WangJi held it tight and looked into the other man’s eyes.

“Wei Ying, “he started squeezing his hand tight

“Lan Zhan, “Wei WuXian frowned and looked away, “I can’t go.”

Squeezing his hand harder, Lan WangJi brought the man’s hand to his chest. The rapid beating of his heart thumped against Wei WuXian’s hand.

“Please,” Lan WangJi nearly begged

Startled at the action, Wei WuXian stared into the Lan’s eyes, but took his hand away from his chest. The golden orbs held anger in them, blazing like a fire that wanted to consume everything and everyone around it, but they also held something else; and it was directed at him alone. Worry.

Eyes widening, Wei WuXian gaped at the normally inexpressive man, “Lan Zhan....”

“Wei Ying, “Lan WangJi took both of the mans arms in his hand, “Please. Come back to Gusu with me.”

Having only truly known Lan WangJi for a couple of months, Wei WuXian was surprised at the dedication and worry directed at him. His heart thumped as the man focused solely on him, truly worried about his condition.

Giving a small smile, Wei WuXian could only reply in earnest, “Okay....Okay Lan Zhan. I’ll come to Gusu with you.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author’s Notes:

-In the original draft of this, JC was gonna be at the banquet but then I had a better idea. Till then

Read my Prompts and WIPs [Here]

[ntlazer]

A human is selected for intergalactic jury duty.

We had been in the jury room deliberating for hours now. Syphr vs. Planet Omichas.

Right now Hynekin, some dog-looking man with really long ears was speaking. The silence spheres were over the rest of us, making it impossible for any of us to cut him off by yelling. My translation device was set to a male British accent whenever he spoke:

"I just think that he does have grounds for self defense when Commander Yin distinctly told him that he would -- and I quote -- 'murder you and all of you sorry Revinchers if you don't comply, Syphr.'"

His ears shrugged and he sat down. The silence spheres dissipated as the rest of us took a moment to digest what he had just said.

For the record, the fact was the Siphr -- or whatever his name was -- had annihilated the planet of Omichron because he was afraid that Commander Yen would kill his entire species if he didn't join the war to fight against the Qubers. I, myself, had just gotten out of a panic attack when I realized that this wasn't a prank show and I was really in the middle of the "Neutral Jabroas Solar System" for this trial. Worst part was that our decision was to determine whether Siphr was right in destroying that planet, or if his entire species should be destroyed for noncompliance of the... the something treaty. I'm sure it's clear I had no idea what's going on, but they had given me a profound amount of respect because the last time a human was called they spoke only in guttural sounds.

An ape-thing, I think his name was Ush, smashed his fist on the table (which apparently was a sign of deliberation on his home planet) and pointed at me with a meaty finger. Without activating the silence spheres he spoke in a strangely French female accent supplied by the translator,

"I think we should have the human speak, he has yet to release his mind."

I probably would have laughed at his voice again had I not just been called out to speak. He gestured to my activation device and I turned the silence spheres on to have everyone's undivided attention. I stood up, feeling the sweat slide down my spine and took in a breath, looking over the heads of most of the creatures in front of me.

"What we have is a deliberate breach of intergalactic treaty." Boy did I sound confident, Hynekin's immense ears raised in anticipation of a rebuttal to what he said. "Syphr has no insanity plea, and as a result acted on his own accord. What he heard from Commander..." I waited for someone to remind me, then realized that the spheres were active and I was on my own, "Yon may have been true, but did not allow for an unprecedented use of the Blaff Cannon." A few heads skewed towards their translators, probably blaming the device for my mispronunciations.

"He was acting out of personal ill will towards the Omchian race if he decided to go into the arsenal without confiding in anyone other than his mother on the planned assault. It's clear that he holds some sort of grudge against the species as a whole, but without the backing of the military, he should have had no right to act as judge, jury, and executioner for Yin's threat."

These Earth clichés seemed to please the aliens a lot, and a few were nodding in agreement now. I was on a roll!

"While Syphr acted for the greater good of the race, he refused to acknowledge the impact that he would inevitably cause on the intergalactic ecosystem as seen by the loss of Imperio trade in the entire galaxy. He has singlehandedly destroyed a necessary commodity for..." I didn't know the name of his species so I just pointed at the floating ball thing, "his entire species!!" I think the ball rolled in a passionate agreement.

"While I agree that all of this is still up to debate, I still stand by the argument that Syphr was feigning ignorance of the ramifications of his actions and destroyed a planet out of pure spite." I sat down in my chair and deactivated the silence sphere.

The Medusa-looking lady stood up and said in a translated voice identical to my own:

"I think we have heard enough to vote again. Please think of your votes now."

I closed my eyes and imagined the word: guilty.

I opened my eyes to see the score floating in the center of the table. A unanimous agreement that he was guilty. But below that it said something else. I squinted and it said Human in fine print. I started shaking and sweating again as the ball creature floated over to me.

"Congratulations, Human," it whispered in a sensual teenage girl's voice, "you get to deliver the verdict."

I relaxed a little and got up to the exit chamber. In there were two buttons, a guilty and not guilty one floating above the floor. I looked back, and my fellow jurors nodded at me with encouragement. I slammed the guilty button.

Suddenly, a window opened and I was looking out to a planet. A green glow was captured around it. The other jurors gathered around me in awe.

"What planet's that?" I asked.

"Syphr's," someone replied, "You just fired the Bleff Cannon at it. As per the terms of him losing the case."

I watched, horrified, as the planet began disintegrating.

[hurricanery]

If the Sun Comes Up - pt. 4

A/N: Hi, it’s been a while, but here’s part 4 of If the Sun Comes Up! (AU - interns fic). This is me ignoring s17!!! Sorry for the delay, this has been repeatedly deleted from my drafts for the last week & then i didn’t even edit or make changes SO idk what all that was for. anyway thank you for sticking with this story! Previous parts here: part 1 // part 2 // part 3

Or, you can read on ao3.

_______

And so it starts, you switch the engine on

We set controls for the heart of the sun

One of the ways we show our age

_______

She has no idea how she got here. Or more specifically, how she could be pressured into something like this. Maggie typically prided herself on standing firm; standing her own ground and refusing to be swayed by others. But none of that self-proclamation holds true right now.

Because she’s here. Driving Winston’s car. Trunk filled to capacity and two of her roommates squeezed into the backseat.

The hypocrisy of it all is almost infuriating. Because Maggie hates camping.

“I hate camping,” she voices her detest out loud.

An apologetic sigh can be heard from Winston next to her, where he sits passenger side. But ultimately, it’s Amelia’s voice that grabs her attention, the bewilderment making itself known from the backseat.

“Oh, come on,” there’s an element of disbelief to her tone, and Maggie locks eyes with her through the rear-view mirror.

“Step out of your comfort zone a little, Maggie!” She raises her eyebrows, beginning to gesture with her hands. Link shuffles in his seat, where he’s squeezed in tightly beside Amelia, in an attempt to free up a little space for her body language. Some of the camping supplies had ended up packed over half of the backseat, and Maggie can’t help but chuckle at the proximity of Amelia’s hand to Link’s face as she gestures absentmindedly. “It’s camping. It’s adventurous, it’s-”

Maggie has since focused back on the road, but the sudden pause in speech makes her feel uneasy. Amelia’s focus shifts from the packaged tent next to her, to the back of Winston’s head, and then back to Maggie.

“It’s sleeping in a tent,” she continues, a spark of gleam in her eyes as she scans the couple in the front seat. “Or, maybe it’s not sleeping. Hey, I mean, whatever the two of you-”

“Amelia,” Maggie cuts in, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as Winston’s hand comes to rest on her knee, giving it a soothing squeeze.

“Come on, babe,” Winston murmurs. “It’ll be fun. And plus, Karev would definitely be proud of us.”

Maggie grins a little, despite herself.

They’d been a bit all over the place, as a group of interns. A little bit too chaotic and never fully on the same page. As their resident, Karev was constantly voicing his impatience about the dynamics of the group. She partly thinks that yes, Alex would be proud of the bonding journey that they’d chosen to embark on, but the more realist part of her brain can’t ignore the obviousness that being roommates was probably bonding enough.

Maggie peeks in the rear-view once more, this time checking to make sure that Lexie and Jo are still following in the car behind them. She catches Amelia’s stare again and consequently feels the need to brace herself.

“Babe?” Amelia bites her lip, repeating the pet name Winston had just used. “What happened to ‘we’re just friends?’”

“We are friends.” Maggie sighs, trying her best to ignore the amusement that radiates from Winston at this specific call-out.

“And Link and I are friends,” Amelia’s quick with her rebuttal, tilting her head towards Link. “I don’t go around calling him babe.”

Link sucks in a breath, and then another one, with the addition of Amelia’s afterthought. “But maybe I’ll start.”

It’s subtle. The way Link’s face changes. He hides it just as quickly as it surfaces. But it’s there, she hasn’t imagined it, and it’s the first thing to make Maggie genuinely smile for the length of the trip so far.

“I’m kidding,” Amelia nudges Link with her shoulder. “I can come up with a better nickname than that.”

“Okay enough,” Maggie suppresses the grin she feels spreading across her cheeks. She reaches forward for the knob on the dashboard, turning the music up.

Link’s relief at the diversion tactic is almost palpable. Maggie can practically feel it from the backseat. She thinks maybe the feeling rising in her chest equates to sympathy.

She loves Amelia. She really does. Which is saying a lot, especially for her. It takes effort for her to grow comfortable with people, or to even relate on any level. She’s always felt a step ahead of most people in life. But Amelia really challenges her. It’s only been a couple of months since they’d met, and somewhere along the way, things changed. Amelia’s unpredictable nature had shifted from something Maggie initially feared, to something she appreciates. Like the human embodiment of the push she needs. The push she needs to take things less seriously, or the push she needs to open up and be spontaneous. Whatever the case, it’s never felt more necessary. Like she’s been missing out on it for too long. So, she tries to embrace it at every turn.

“Are we almost there?” Amelia pipes up again from the backseat. “I have to pee, and believe me, I’m down for a little side-of-the-road action if that’s what it comes down to-”

Maggie groans impatiently. But then she remembers about embracing it. So decidedly, her next words sound gentle. “We’re almost there, hold it together.”

_______

It ends up taking two full hours for six surgical interns to figure out how to set up a campsite. And even though the task is grueling, the level of teamwork somehow exceeds what they normally display during a typical hospital shift.

The sun starts to set as the second of the two tents finally stands on it’s own and everyone takes a moment to finally relax.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Link sits back against the tree on the outskirts of their surrounding area.

Jo huffs out a breath as she joins him, rolling her eyes. “That was two hours of my life that I’ll never get back.”

“What’s next?” Amelia steps out of the larger tent, pulling a sweatshirt over her head. “Does anyone know how to build a bonfire?”

_______

She has no idea how it got to this. How six grown adults could resort to immature party games around a campfire and feel so content about it. Maggie had been relieved when the game of ‘truth or dare’ ended as quickly as it started. She’d been hoping for something a bit more intellectual. A little less high school.

Unfortunately her hopes were never granted.

“Wait, I feel like the stakes aren’t high enough.” Amelia had tossed the observation out flimsily.

But the observation had its impact.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

And then the ideas had piled on.

“Loser has to cover my scut work in the ER all week.”

“No way.”

“Loser has to make us each a s'more.”

“Nah. Stakes not high enough.”

“Loser has to jump in the lake.”

Amelia had voiced the last one, resulting in a surprised type of silence. The type of silence that could raise stakes.

It was the ultimatum they were looking for, apparently. And to much of Maggie’s dismay, they hadn’t moved on to an intellectual game. Nothing worth raising the stakes over, at least.

Because they’d settled on a game of ‘never have I ever.’

“Okay, okay. My turn. What have I not done…?” Amelia trails off, deep in thought, and it earns some chuckles from the group. “Oh! Never have I ever had a threesome.”

Suspectful eyes dart around the bonfire, and Link’s attempt to conspicuously fold down a finger fails.

“Link!”

Jo giggles hysterically.

“You have?” There’s surprise in Amelia’s voice, and it corresponds with the way her face lights up.

“You haven’t?” Link bites back.

“Well, almost, I guess. But-”

“Okay!” Jo interjects. “No need for context! That’ll just slow us down. Link, your turn.”

“Okay,” Link grins determinedly across the bonfire, eyes landing on Amelia. “Never have I ever almost had a threesome.”

Amelia scoffs, dropping a finger.

“Wait!” Maggie fast-tracks her disapproval. “Are we singling people out now? The game will end too quickly if we-”

“Never have I ever been named after an iconic literary figure.” Amelia jumps in again, completely ignoring Maggie’s objection.

Link drops a finger, rolling his eyes. Too easy.

“Never have I ever slept with Mark Sloan.”

He sounds proud of this one. And all focus drifts to Amelia, whose eyes narrow only slightly as she drops another finger.

“You did what?” Maggie seems skeptical.

“You did what? When?” And Lexie’s voice sounds strained.

“Shit, sorry. Too far?” Link’s pride genuinely replaces itself with worry.

“I never meant for it to be a secret.” There’s something distinct about Amelia’s tone as she jumps back into the game, clearly with the intention of going after Link again. “Never have I ever-”

“No!” Maggie seems to be the only one intervening at this point. “No, stop. My turn. If we play it your way, this game will be over in two seconds.”

Amelia and Link shrug dismissively amidst the general hums of agreement.

“Never have I ever…” Maggie pauses, taking a moment to truly think on it. She racks her brain for ways to prolong the game. “Never have I ever been arrested!”

Amelia slowly drops her last finger, a grimace consuming her face, and Maggie’s mouth opens wide in shock.

“Amelia, what,” she breathes. “I was trying to keep people in the game. What-”

“We agreed on no context!” Amelia is quick to refute, forcing a grin as she repeats the request spoken earlier.

“Okay….” She draws out her response, and the next part of her sentence sounds quiet, or laced with secondhand defeat. “But you lost the game already.”

“That’s fine,” Amelia is just as quick to stand from her chair, shrugging casually at what that entails.

“Amelia-”

“To the lake? Or am I doing this without witnesses?”

Maggie’s brows furrow at the bitterness that exists in that question, but then Amelia turns, walking away from them, and Maggie is the first to go after her.

_______

"Amelia, you’re the one who made the rule. You can’t back out now.”

They’re all huddled together at the sandy area near the dock that edges out into the dark lake, and Maggie can’t hold back her impatience. She’s a rule-follower, after all. She's also cold. And she just wants to be by the bonfire again.

“I know, I know. I’m….” Amelia trails off, exhaling harshly. “Just give me a minute.”

There’s momentary quiet. The kind of quiet that nearly gives room for everyone to re-think what’s about to happen. But, if anyone's thoughts were the loudest, they were Amelia’s.  

“The sun was still out when I made up this rule!”

That’s true. Maggie can give her that. It’s late now, purely dark outside except for the glow of the moonlight reflecting off of the lake.

“We don’t know what’s in there…” Amelia adds, eyes focused on the body of water before them. “We don’t know if it’s safe to swim here.”

“It’s a state park,” Winston chuckles.

“And there’s a sign right there,” Lexie adds matter-of-factly, nodding towards the edge of the sand. “No lifeguard on duty. Swim at your own risk.”

“Amelia, it's a swimming beach.”

There’s an element to Amelia’s expression that Maggie sees herself in. It provokes that feeling. The heart-lurching feeling that comes with the awareness that you can’t bring yourself to do the thing you intend to do. The restlessness that rises with the opposition of your mind moving miles a minute but your feet remaining frozen where you stand. It takes place in the nervous system. And it’s like the physical manifestation of not being able to rip the bandaid off, or not being able to take the plunge, to be more literal in this scenario.

Suddenly, Maggie’s hit with the fleeting recognition that everyone’s the same deep down. Some were just better at hiding it than others.

The revelation almost makes her feel sympathy. Almost.

Because Amelia’s version of hiding it was turning out to be displaced over-confidence.

“I knew you were all talk and no-”

“I’ll jump in with you,” Link interrupts, nudging Amelia, who shakes from her daze as she turns away from the lake, locking eyes with Link.

“Shit, I’m down, too,” Jo shrugs. “I’m right behind you guys.”

A look of pure skepticism crosses Amelia’s face, and Link just starts to grin, hugely.

“No,” Maggie breathes. “No, no, no.”

Because she knows what this is about to turn into. And then it’s all happening, fast.

Link is stripping down to his boxers, tossing his clothes into a pile on the grass just left of the dock. And then he’s running. His feet clamber against the wood paneling as he takes off over the structure that extends along the shore and into the body of water.

There’s a huge splash. And then he resurfaces, gasping.

“It’s not that deep, come on!” He yells. “And it’s warm, too. Like a hot tub!”

The next thing Maggie registers is that Jo is following suit, peeling off her sweatshirt and tossing it towards Link’s pile of clothes.

She feels Winston’s hand grip her shoulders, gently pushing her towards the dock as he murmurs “Come on, babe.”

There’s another splash somewhere, and then Jo resurfaces, giggling hysterically. "Link!” She gasps dramatically, “You liar, this is fucking freezing!”

And all Maggie can think is this is so unfair.

_______

It’s so unfair.

The fact that five people have somehow endured jumping into this lake and yet, Amelia remains unscathed. Secure, on dry land, a smirk on her face that can only signify that she thinks she’s won.

“Amelia!” Maggie yells once again. “You have thirty seconds to get into this water.”

“Maggie-”

“No way,” Maggie cuts her off before the smug tone can set her off even further. She lets go of Winston’s shoulder, which she’s been holding onto for dear life since she jumped in, and she swims closer to the dock. Closer to Amelia. “I won’t let you play us like this.”

Amelia grins further, dipping just her toes in the water. “Maggie, I’m not trying to play anyone, I-”

“Get in the water, Amelia!” Maggie shouts, but her impatience only leads to more smugness on Amelia’s behalf.

She almost gives up. Accepts defeat. But then Link is joining her, inching towards Amelia on the dock, whose expression falters only slightly as they approach.

“Should we splash her?” Maggie tilts her head towards Link, inquisitive edge to her voice. “We could splash her.”

The threat seems to be the push Amelia needs. She shakes her head incessantly as they make their advance, and she takes a deep breath before she goes to remove her jeans, adding them to the pile of clothes that everyone else has stripped off.

Jo whistles from somewhere further out into the lake and Amelia’s smirk returns, a complete result of the knowledge that she has an audience. Her classic Harvard sweatshirt gets added to the pile and then she’s on an even playing field with everyone else, dressed down to whatever underwear she’d thrown on this morning.

They continue their approach, and Amelia looks down just as a burst of wind forcibly shakes the branches of a tree above, thus causing her to wrap her arms around herself.

“You’ll warm up faster if you get in, Shepherd.” Link says in a low tone.

“I know,” Amelia’s tone is just as low. “But I’m not jumping.”

“What happened to adventurous?!” Maggie mocks her. Not harshly, but more so aiming to re-inspire the fearlessness that previously had been.

“I’m not jumping in,” Amelia repeats as she sits at the edge of the dock, letting the water hit her up to about mid-shin. “I’m just gonna kind of slide in….” She trails off as Link pushes forward, now in shallow enough water to stand. And when Amelia goes to wrap her arms around herself again, Maggie swears it’s out of modesty this time.

“It’s harder that way,” Link smiles up at her. “But okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats his sentiment, but doesn’t make any move to get into the water.

“Okay,” Maggie interjects, directing her next words at Link. “As apparently the only rule-follower here, I give you full permission to do whatever it takes to get her into this water already.”

Her instructions result in a mischievous twitch of Link’s lips, and conversely, a look of complete betrayal from Amelia.

“Your rules.” Maggie quietly defends herself.

Link turns back to Amelia, who meets his gaze with pure panic in her eyes. But he steps closer anyway, placing his hands around her shins and pulling her a couple inches closer to where he stands in the water.

She gasps. Her hands fly out, landing on his shoulders. “Wait wait wait!” She cries, the alarm in her voice matching the frantic action of her nails digging into his skin.

Link stops his movements, placing his hands on her knees as he tries to read her facial expression.

Her eyes dart between his. “You swear it’s not too cold?”

“It’s not cold, Amelia,” he murmurs, moving his hands underneath her bare thighs and pulling her forward an inch more.

Maggie looks between the two, suddenly feeling out of place, or like she’s witnessing a private moment. But, she can’t tear her eyes away. She feels transfixed by the eye contact happening between the pair, and she lets out a stunned chuckle.

“It’s not cold,” Link repeats, and now Maggie scoffs. Because this moment is becoming almost unbelievable with tension. But then Link’s expression changes. Just as quickly as flipping a switch. The facet of mischief returns to his eyes and then he’s opening his mouth again.

“And I’m so sorry for this!” He shouts as he finally pulls Amelia into the water, throwing his head back with laughter as she resurfaces before him.

Her arms are still wrapped around his shoulders in a viselike grip. “Alright, screw you for that!” She laughs as she comes to her senses, consequently letting go and distancing herself from Link. “But thank you, I guess."

“My pleasure.”

Maggie watches, eyes burning with curiosity, and she’s not able to hide the smile that creeps onto her lips as the pair move as far away from each other as possible. The interaction is way too amusing, and part of her feels like, if she were the menacing type, this would be the perfect opportunity to pay back some of Amelia’s relentless teasing with some of her own.

“Can we get out now?” Lexie swims up, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m kinda over this.”

“I just got in. Was that for no reason?!”

“And whose fault is that?” Maggie snickers. But it doesn’t sound harsh at all, as she offers Amelia a comforting smile.

When they eventually leave the shoreline, Maggie feels a sense of fondness course through her. Or maybe protectiveness. Whatever the feeling, it was definitely the stark opposite of her previous annoyance with the way the evening was turning out.

She carefully observes as Amelia slows behind the group, and she slows with her, matching her pace.

Amelia offers her a small smile, before a shiver takes over her body, interrupting her guise. It makes sense, Maggie thinks. Because soaking wet hair and the sun going down in the middle of nowhere might just bring on that sort of involuntary action.

But she can’t ignore the shift in energy. The sudden vanishing of the confidence and even the playful competitiveness.

“You okay?” She eventually asks.

“Tired.” Amelia only offers a shrug, her thumbnail nearly reaching the corner of her mouth in a restless action. But it’s like she catches herself, as Maggie’s stare burns into her, and instead she drops her hands to her sides.

“Me too,” Maggie’s voice is soft, and an impulse rises in her that screams comfort. Suddenly, her arm is wrapping around Amelia’s shoulder tightly, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get some sleep.”

_______

It’s a known fact that Maggie hates camping. She can think of several reasons for that. One of the side effects she’d fail to consider, though, was the consequent lack of rest that would come with it.

It couldn’t be any later than 5am, she concludes, as she unzips her and Winston’s tent and steps out into the dark campground.

To much of her surprise, she’s not alone. She’s not the only one experiencing the unwanted side effects of sleeping in a tent.

“Hey,” Amelia’s voice sounds gravelly, as she perks up from the chair she’s seated at around the empty bonfire. “Good morning.”

“How can it be morning?” Maggie groans. “Does it really count as morning when you didn’t get any sleep at all?”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

Maggie frowns. “You didn’t sleep?”

“Link snores. And Lexie talks in her sleep….” Amelia weakly attempts a smile, and it just makes Maggie’s frown deepen.

“Everything alright?” She asks.

“Yeah, just wish I’d slept better.”

Maggie squints, because there’s detail there that she can’t quite decipher. She scans Amelia’s face another moment, before an idea strikes.

“Do you want to go on a hike with me? Watch the sunrise?”

“You don’t really seem like the hiking type.”

“You’re right. I guess ‘hike’ is a strong word. But anyway, how about it?”

Amelia stares blankly at her for a long moment, before eventually she nods, standing up.

“Alright,” Maggie grins. “Let me tell Winston where we’re going first.”

_______

They take a marked path. Signs at every turn highlight for them which way to go. It’s a few minutes into the hike before either of them speaks. It’s Amelia who opens up the conversation.

“Ready to be home?”

Maggie laughs. “Absolutely. I’ve been ready since the moment we got here.”

“Well, hopefully they have the cars all packed by the time we get back.”

Maggie nods, then reaches for the water bottle she’d brought with her, taking a few sips.

“Do I tease you and Winston too much?”

The question completely catches Maggie off guard, and she harshly swallows her sip of water.

“Huh?”

“I can be….a little overbearing sometimes. But,” Amelia offers a quick side-glance. “At least I’m self aware about that.”

“Not at all. I mean, honestly, Winston gets a kick out of it so-”

“Yeah, but do you?”

Maggie stops walking, her face muddled with confusion. It takes Amelia a moment to realize she’s stopped, and she turns around, meeting Maggie’s stare expectantly.

“Amelia….If it bothered me I would tell you.”

Amelia nods at this information, and then turns away, continuing on the path.

“Was I too harsh last night? About the rules of the game?” Maggie quickens her pace, catching up.

“No,” Amelia laughs under her breath. “We needed the discipline, I think.”

“Yeah but you didn’t need to jump into that lake. I can be a little of overbearing sometimes, too, so-”

“Nah. We balance each other out.”

Maggie squints, a little surprised by that observation. She’s taken aback by the accuracy of it, and it’s evident in her inflection.

“We kind of do, don’t we?”

Amelia beams at her, before her gaze returns to the path below. “I’m glad we came to that realization.”

Comfortable silence falls between them, and there’s a few minutes dedicated purely to the hike, before Amelia clears her throat to speak again.

“Although, I am trying to jump less. So maybe I need you to balance me out just a little more.”

“You lost me,” Maggie quirks an eyebrow at her. “Are we talking about the lake still?”

“Metaphorically. Maybe.”

Maggie’s expression just grows more perplexed, urging Amelia to continue.

“I’ve been….historically known to jump into things. Or people. Or habits, or…” She cuts herself off with a harsh breath, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “I’d like to do that less. The whole….jumping blindly and hoping I’ll land, thing. So. Maybe I need you to balance me out a little more.”

Maggie nods, slowly grasping the explanation. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Well, no,” Maggie frowns. “I’ve never been one to….do anything, really, without weighing the pros and cons first. But, I do get what you’re saying, though. Even if I can’t personally relate.”

Amelia keeps her eyes glued to the path ahead, and the lack of response forces Maggie to attempt filling the silence with her own self-reflection.

“I’ve been thinking of taking a note from you, in that way, actually. Sometimes I really need to think less.”

This makes Amelia smile. “Maybe we can try to meet in the middle somewhere.”

“Yeah, that might be good for us.”

As the conversation trails off again, Maggie can’t help but question what specifically Amelia is referencing. She doesn’t want to push, especially given her recent self-proclamation as overbearing. But part of her thinks that one last inquiry won’t hurt.

“You and Link seem to have fun.”

Amelia’s eyes snap up to Maggie’s face before the sentence is even finished.

“What makes you say that?”

There’s not an ounce of emotion in Amelia’s expression. It’s probably the best poker face Maggie has ever seen. And so she’s careful with her next words, her voice slow and questioning.

“I just mean....you know….the banter?”

“Banter?”

“Yes the banter, Amelia,” she lets out a stunned chuckle. “I don’t know how else to put it! It’s like you’re constantly play-fighting. It’s like….it’s like this weird, alluring competitiveness that’s almost uncomfortable to watch. It’s being at each other’s throats over a stupid game of ‘never have I ever.’ It’s the craziest form of flirting I’ve ever witnessed, and it’s-”

“Link and I are friends.”

“Winston and I are friends.” She bites down on her grin, trying to contain the pride that radiates as she uses Amelia’s own pointed claims against her.

“Okay, don’t pull that on me.”

“I think it’s perfectly fair-”

“Maggie.”

“Amelia.”

Two pairs of eyes tighten upon scrutinized contact.

“Amelia,” she softens her expression a bit. “All I’m saying is….despite it being weird to watch.” She releases an awkward exhale.  “I think it works. I think you’ve kinda met your match.”

“There’s no match to be made, Maggie! I’m-”

They’re both a little caught off guard by the frustration and volume of Amelia’s tone. And Amelia takes a moment to breathe before she continues, an octave lower this time.

“I’m jumping less, remember?”

Maggie wants to frown. She wants to disagree. She almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

But they’re edging towards the outskirts of the campsite. She can hear voices, and the distinct sound of car trunks slamming shut. Which signifies that they’re nearing the end of the hike, so she bites her tongue instead, because Amelia looks too exhausted to argue it more.

They clear the trees, entering the campground, and Winston watches them approach.

“Hey! Cars are packed, but it’ll be a tight squeeze again,” he smiles sympathetically. He walks forward to rest his hands on Maggie’s shoulders in familiar reassurance. “And you get to sleep in the car, because this time I’m driving.”

_______

Maggie doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

Her lack of sleep the night prior results in Winston’s refusal to let her drive. Which only bothers her a little, because the exhaustion outweighs her requisite for control.

Her eyes feel heavy as she rests her head against the window. She tries to focus on the road ahead as Winston drives; doesn't want to give up being a second pair of eyes as she sits passenger side. But her fatigue gets the best of her. Although it’s difficult to separate her overtired brain from certainty, she doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

She hears it first. Link’s chuckle.

It’s enough to shake her from her reverie. She lifts her head and tries to be conspicuous as she turns, glancing into the backseat.

Amelia’s sat in the middle seat again, squeezed tightly between the camping supplies and then Link on the other side of her. Her eyes are fighting to stay open, and she's doing that weird head bobbing thing. That subconscious move that happens quite literally before falling asleep.

“Hey. Here.”

The sound of Link’s voice causes Amelia’s eyes to widen, quickly becoming aware of herself. She continues to blink, fighting off a bout of exhaustion that Maggie completely sympathizes with.

When Amelia locks eyes with him, Link simply pats his shoulder, indicating a potential landing spot for her head.

She frowns tiredly at him.

“Just do it,” he shrugs, patting his shoulder again. “I’m a better option than that boxed tent.” He nods past her. “As far as pillows go, at least.”

Amelia seems to fight it for a second. She really does. Her eyebrows pull together as she continues to stare blankly at Link.

Maggie diverts her attention because once again, she feels like she’s intruding on some private moment. But she remains listening. She can’t help it. There’s some shuffling around and then-

“Hm.” She hears Amelia hum. “You do make a decent pillow.” It’s followed by a murmured “Thank you.”

“Sure. What are friends for?”

Link’s response is barely a whisper, but Maggie can hear it still, even over the general hum of the highway below. She doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

What are friends for?

It’s enough to make her turn in her seat again, an incredulous stare plastered on her face as she raises her eyebrows in Link’s direction.

He seems not to notice her interest, or rather her disbelief. Because his focus is consumed by the dark head of hair resting against his shoulder.

Amelia’s eyes are shut tight, her expression revealed when she adjusts herself slightly against him. And then Link smiles to himself, still unaware of the scrutiny descending from the front seat.

Maggie allows the doubt to flood her mind as she turns to rest against her own window again, and she fights off a smile as she lets her eyes finally close.

Friends. Right.

//

[avengershumanresources]

blood 11 - Strange/Stark!Reader

Relationship: Dr. Strange/Princess!Stark!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Adult Themes, smut, adult language, implied sexual violence, general violence

Synopsis: Reader is the daughter of the legendary King Anthony Stark, Uniter of Lands, The Iron Defender, and leader of the realm. When the king disappears during battle, hope is lost and he is presumed dead.

When the late king’s uncle, Obadiah, takes the throne until your brother Peter is of age, he quickly arranges a marriage for you with a wicked king in a neighboring kingdom.

With the realms politics in question, and rumors of an upcoming siege to overthrow Peter’s rule before it starts, you quickly learn who is loyal to the crown and who is not.

part 10 - part 12

Masterlist

Chapter Playlist

11 - a battle cry

“Good as new,” Wanda helped Stephen sit up, her arm wrapped around his torso, his arm sling over her shoulders. 

“I feel like a horse ran over me,” he grumbled, pressing a finger to his temple. 

You’d long fallen asleep, though you’d been too stubborn to leave his side and sleep in a proper bed. Instead, you’d curled up in one of the ornate chairs and passed out, hand draped as close as physically possible to the injured sorcerer. 

“It was an herb from Brock’s kingdom that stopped the blooding from clotting,” Wanda explained, summoning the book she’d read the antidote in. “It’s rare, even for that kingdom, and she wouldn’t have had enough to cover all the arrows.”

“Someone must be bitter,” he commented dryly. “I don’t know why, I’ve been nothing but nice to the old witch.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle in your romancing of the princess,” Wanda reminded him with a knowing smirk. 

“Not a good enough reason to try and kill me,” he decided, standing and giving his arms and torso a stretch. The wound still tickled slightly when he shifted, a side effect of the magic used to seal the cut. “Now, do we have any idea why the princess is a homing signal of magical energy?”

Both of their eyes fell on you. Your seidr had spread, making gentle waves of violet light over your skin as you slept. It was almost overwhelming how powerful it felt to the magic users. Stephen felt almost suffocated and he didn’t miss how Wanda skirted the edge of the room, avoiding direct contact with you. 

“Loki sent a raven to Asgard,” Wanda supplied. “Hopefully Frigga has a suggestion.”

“It won’t matter if Amora keeps her wards up,” he huffed in frustration. “There’s nothing at Kamar-Taj on the subject that I’ve been able to find. The ancient Asgardians were effective in their campaign.”

“I’ve solidified the wards around the keep as best I could, but this is going to break through and Amora will know,” Wanda warned, chewing her bottom lip anxiously. 

Stephen tried reaching for your hand but the seidr snapped back at him like a guard dog ready to fight. He ran a tired hand over his face, shaking his head at the situation. This certainly was not ideal.

(—)

“We maintain our plan of attack,” Peter instructed, pouting around the base of the castle. “We’re going to use the tunnels.”

“The wards are all around the castle,” Loki protested. “There’s no way in.”

“My sister, Gods rest her soul, had snuck past every ward that every Master had put on the castle,” he pulled up the map Sam handed him and drew his finger across the page. “They’re outside the boundary lines and protected by older runes. The wards don’t effect them.”

“The problem is, we can’t bring enough men to thoroughly attack their forces from within,” Sam continued, eyeing Loki. “We have to take down Amora and break down the wards so our men can get through.”

“That’s a suicide mission,” Loki frowned. “She’ll kill anyone on sight.”

“And you trained under your mother as well,” Peter noted. “You know her tricks and capabilities. If anyone is getting close to her, it’s you.”

“Peter, I appreciate your enthusiasm but I’ve tried killing her numerous times in the past,” Loki replied tersely. “We’re evenly matched. If she has any other magic users with her, that’s it.”

“We need something more powerful then,” Thor reasoned pointed, looking to Loki with a knowing stare.

“Short of a miracle, we’re limited in what we have until more Asgardians arrive,” Peter countered. “We need to get inside and take back the castle.”

Loki had fallen silent. 

There was a way. A force of magic more powerful than any known user could imagine.

It was risky to say the least, and he knew at least one person would disagree.

(—)

“Absolutely not,” Stephen snapped throwing his hands up. “Have you lost your mind?”

“She’s going to be found regardless,” Loki directed the statement to Tony. “And intrinsically, her seidr will lower Amora’s defense enough for myself or one of us to get a move in edgewise.”

“It isn’t entirely unreasonable,” Wanda voiced, earning a glare from Stephen. “We send in the guard with her to protect her from a physical threat... certainly she would be able to handle any magical ones.”

“She’s untrained,” Stephen stressed again, looking to Tony for support. “What if, Gods help us, the seidr stops doing whatever it’s doing? We don’t know. It’s too unpredictable and unreliable to make a plan centered around it.”

The trio had tasked you with helping some of the wounded men while they debated Loki’s suggestion after he’d returned from the battle front. The general agreement had been that you would have immediately volunteered and that didn’t bode well for some of the logistic issues that needed to be brought up ahead of you charging headfirst into battle.

“It defeats the point of faking her death,” Tony agreed, looking to Loki for a rebuttal. 

“It doesn’t,” he insisted. “Amora won’t see it coming. Not until it’s too late.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it,” Stephen snapped back. “She could be across the kingdom and anyone with a speck of magic in their system would sense her coming. She’s a storm of uncontrolled energy.”

“Is she?” Loki asked innocuously, quirking a brow. “I certainly don’t feel anything in here... isn’t she only the next room over?”

Stephen froze. 

The Asgardian prince was right. 

He couldn’t feel your seidr anywhere in the room, outside of it, or within the castle walls at all. 

“What did you do?” he asked, dumbfounded. 

Loki held up a small amulet and he heard Tony suck in a breath of surprise. 

“Where did you find that?” the king demanded, standing from his chair and reaching for the necklace. Wrapping his fingers around the amulet himself, he ran his fingers around the edges while he listened. 

“Your late queen entrusted it to my mother,” Loki explained. “It arrived an hour ago with her written incantations to seal the seidr temporarily. It had to be taken by Lady Sif to the Asgardian border, then transported to Kamar-Taj by Mordo, and delivered to me by Wong. A lot of trouble went into getting it and I would hate to see it go to waste…”

Tony clutched the the chain of the amulet in his fist and held it up for Stephen to better see. 

It was definitely old, with weathered metal and jewels embedded in the ridges that had long lost their luster to time. 

“If there’s a chance, it would be in this,” he stated firmly in agreement. “Alexandra used it while she was still training her abilities with Frigga. It saved a lot of trouble while she experimented and on her death bed, when her powers were in a frenzy, this protected the kingdom from harm.”

He turned it over and showed the sorcerer the rune on the back. Stephen was, admittedly, unfamiliar with the symbol. It resembled old Asgardian, but the way the letters curved suggested another origin.

“Vanir,” Tony explained when Stephen flickered his gaze up curiously at the king. “She found it in an old temple on the outskirts of Asgard near the old Vanaheim border.”

“The princess keeps it with her, and we slip in undetected,” Loki continued. “We ambush Amora, and Peter’s troops break the siege and the castle is once again under the proper Stark royal.”

“I don’t see why the princess can’t remain here, with the amulet, undetected and safe while we deal with Amora?” Stephen seethed. 

“Stephen, it’s as best a plan we have,” Wanda urged, watching him with a steady gaze. “You knew the potential outcomes. It isn’t ideal, but this isn’t unexpected.”

“What?” Tony looked to her, furrowing his brow. “What do you mean? Was there more than you told me?”

“Nothing has changed in your destiny,” she quickly assured him. “But your children... their paths have been sporadic.”

“Explain, now,” Tony shot back. “Are they in danger?” 

“Your majesty, it’s best not to dwell on potential futures,” Loki cut in, slipping between the king and the sorceress with an arm. “They’re possibilities, not guarantees. Tampering to avoid certain outcomes is how you end up in a worse scenario than anticipated.”

“I want to know,” Tony snapped, looking to Wanda. “What else did you see?”

She looked up at Stephen uneasily and he finally relented, holding up a hand in her direction and taking over the explanation for her. 

“They were cloudy,” he replied. “The princess was in the throne room during the siege. Prince Peter was nearly overwhelmed by a wave of Northern Kree. They were vague and not necessarily connected.”

He left out the part where you were stabbed. 

Stabbed through the heart, more specifically, but Brock Rumow’s sword. It’d devastated him for days after Wanda had shown him the visions. He’d worked so hard to keep you out of the castle, to move you t safety, and avoid the very outcome. 

But it seemed the fates were not done with your part of the story. 

“You told me this ended with me by the throne,” Tony turned on Wanda. “My children out of harms way. Peter’s coronation.”

“Nothing is certain,” Loki caught him by the arm and spun him back toward him and Stephen. Tony from, fixing up the prince who dared touch royalty so directly. “The visions are murky. They’re not clear and if they were to be solidified by the decision we make, we would know.”

Tony looked to Wanda who nodded slowly in agreement. His boyd language softened.

“Is this truly the only chance we have at taking the castle?” he looked between the trio. 

Stephen saw something in the king’s eyes that begged for one of them to disagree. 

But even Stephen could see the inevitable. 

Amora was too powerful and too evenly matched against any or all of them.

Using your seidr was the only way to overwhelm her and kill her.

He hated it. Gods he hated it so much and had prayed, despite not necessarily being a religious type, that someone would have a better plan. Loki and Wanda were among the strongest after himself, after all. 

The room remained silent at the kings question.

When no one objected, Tony swallowed hard and nodded to himself. 

“Bring her in then,” he murmured. “We must move quickly.”

Stephen offered to retrieve you, quickly filling you in on the idea. 

And to no surprise, you readily agreed and volunteered your help in whatever capacity you could manage. Stephen sighed, weaving his fingers through yours while stopping outside the meeting room.  

No seidr was fighting back at his touch. 

Loki’s amulet was working. 

“I’d hoped you would put up more of a fight,” he confessed, lifting your hand and seeing none of the violet glow that once emitted from your body.  

“You nearly died,” you reminded him tersely. “I have a bone to pick with Amora. Not to mention, there’s nothing more I loved to see than Brock’s body skewered on the top of one of our men’s swords.”

There was a venom to your tone that seemed almost unnatural considering your usual caring personality. Never had Stephen seen you so determined to cause harm to another human, but perhaps he’d underestimated the fury you felt toward the enemy king. 

“Right,” he murmured, giving your hand a squeeze and pulling away. He opened the doors, ushering you inside while the others began detailing the plan. 

(—)

Peter was directing his men when a portal opened up and Loki stepped through with Stephen and a cloaked figure. 

“We need a distraction away from the base of the castle,” Stephen explained briskly, maneuvering his body so Peter couldn’t get a good look at the third figure. 

Assuming it was just Wanda, Peter turned his attention to the battalion nearby.  

“I can have them make a move for the western wall, but it’d be pointless if Amora’s sorcerers have up their barriers,” he explained, running an anxious hand through his hair. “They’ve barred us off.”

“We just need attention diverted long enough to slip through the tunnel system,” Stephen supplied, sending a knowing nod in Peters direction.

Three powerful magic users? Going in undetected? 

They were going to break down the barrier, Peter realized and immediately started rallying more men. 

“Thor! We need a distraction,” he called to the Asgardian prince. Thor reached for the large hammer on the ground next to him and lifted it to the air. 

The sky began to crackle above them, and Thor’s expression filled with an excited glee.

“That, my friend, I think we can manage,” he bellowed, grinning between Loki and Peter, turning to wake the Asgardian soldiers who’d been sleeping in the camp nearby. 

“I’ll start the first wave, give us thirty minutes to start an approach before trying to breach the tunnels,” he instructed, again trying to catch the eye of the cloaked figure. 

He couldn’t be sure, but he almost thought the person’s eyes were glowing violet, not red. 

Chalking it up to a lack of sleep, the group started toward the castle in the darkness at the edge of the forest, and Peter focused on readying his men. 

What Peter didn’t know was what his father had planned for after the shield fell. 

The Wakandans had finally arrived and in greater numbers than King T’Challa had originally promised. 

They’d remained discreet and undetected by Rumlow and Obidiah’s forces, and once the shield was down, they were prepared to storm the castle with the entire combined armies of Tony, Thor, T’Challa, Carol, and Peter. 

The final key was taking down Amora and her circle of magic users. 

Ultimately, once she fell, the others would quickly fall in turn and that was exactly why you were trudging through the forest with Loki and Stephen toward one of your preferred tunnels to the castle. While Peter and his men readied their attacks.

“Natalia and James are still inside posing as servants,” Stephen explained. “They have agreed to lead us to Amora. They sent a message through one of the kitchen maids’ sons.” 

“No one recognized them?” you asked in surprise. 

“We both know how talented they are at blending in,” he hummed with a sly smirk. “In fact, I seem to recall Natalia being the one to show you the tunnels in the first place. They didn’t garner their reputation for nothing.”

You let out a small breath of relief. Of course he was right. If anyone had a penchant for survival and adaptability it was Nat and James. Still, they were your friends and beloved companions, you were going to be worried about their well-being assassins or not. 

At least Peter was still in one piece. And Morgan and Pepper were in good spirits in Asgard, at least according to Loki. Your family was safe, but even so, Stephen had insisted upon accompanying you and Loki into the belly of the castle. 

You’d protested significantly. He was healing. He was a target. It was too dangerous with Amora, and he’d countered backwith similar arguments. 

In the end, your father made the final call, sending you both and joking the two of you would do well to protect one another. 

“Perhaps when this is over, you and your sorcerer can come to Asgard to train,” Loki murmured while Stephen scouted ahead for any stray troops. 

“And here I thought the offered had been rescinded after Stephen showed up and started to tutor me?” you teased, recalling the conversation you’d had with the prince at the ball honoring Stephen’s arrival all those years ago. 

“It was always there, you know that,” he replied, glancing you over. “You forget I was tasked to look after you. My mother would be pleased to see you both. When Strange studied in Asgard briefly, she had nothing but high praise.”

You could tell the compliment bristled your old friend and you set a hand on his shoulder. 

“Everything has changed, hasn’t it?” you asked quietly, watching Stephen’s darkened form maneuver the wilderness ahead. 

“The dawn is going to rise on a new kingdom,” he agreed. “My father will be disappointed in your selection of a groom.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the off handed comment, though you didn’t bother to object. Stephen was the one. Your heart couldn’t even consider another. Not now. Not after all you’d been through together and how he so lovingly knew you mind, body, and soul. 

“And your mother?” you asked lightly. 

“She’ll be thrilled regardless,” he hummed. “You’re the daughter she never had. She adored your mother, you know that, and promised to take care of you. Marriage or not.”

You paused, carefully selecting your next words. 

“What about you?” 

He stilled. You must have taken him by surprise, or maybe no one had ever asked him directly. Loki looked forward at the tree line ahead, taking a few moments longer than expected to give you an answer. 

“I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

You were about to open your mouth to ask him if he really meant it, when Stephen reappeared in the shrubs in front of you. 

“The areas clear and I can hear Peter and Thor have started their attack. We need to move now,” he waved the two of you over and you sent a final glance to Loki who flashed a small, reassuring, smile before following shortly behind. 

One step at a time, you reminded yourself, your heart giving a small throb of guilt at his reaction. Marriage, betrothal, none of it mattered until your enemies fell. 

(--)

12- a memory 

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