#it just feels good and i really can’t believe i thought i was asking for too much in the past

[perfectlyoongi]

A CONFIRMATION - Yoongi, wc: 1.020, u know the drill -just trust me.

The rain was heavy, loud, noisy, attacking the windows with the fury of anguish that lingered in the grey, thick, resentful clouds of that night. The wind was pressing, setting in the streets and neighborhoods of the city, devouring all the life it saw, envious of its simplicity and eternity.

But the real storm had originated in your house, in your room, mere words ago.

“You always knew that, didn’t you?”

Your eyes burned with the pain of betrayal, red with the aggression of hurt, tearful with the intensity of agony.

“It has always been my knowledge, yes.”

Always.

Your started to walk around your room, trying to release some of your anger in the hurried steps you took, painting tumultuous paths between your bed and the door over and over and over again.

“And didn’t you think it was better to tell me that before we went this far? Before I gave myself completely to you?”

You spoke to yourself, letting all your frustrations escape your lips. It was a song of despair, a symphony of regret running away from you with every step, every word, every tear trapped in your eyes.

How could’ve you been so dumb?

You knew it was a mistake. Your whole story – a mistake. From the moment you allowed yourself to fall in love with Yoongi to the moment you let yourself be carried away by his hollow, empty, manipulative words that involved you in a relationship too perfect, too beautiful, too good to be true – or sincere.

How could’ve you been so naïve?

How did you allow yourself to be carried away by promises addressed to the stars, how did you allow yourself to fall into confessions declared to the skies? Nothing he said, nothing he confessed to you, was directed at you. All the words he said to you were never really meant for you – they were always given to the possibility of the universe, offered to the infinity of time and space, never lingering in the moment, in you.

“Tell you… what?”

You stopped walking and looked at Yoongi, his eyes closed in pure confusion, his speech too light to be a tease or a lie.

“What do you mean what?” you huffed and sat on the bed, tired, hurt, broken. How your head hurt at that moment. “I asked you if you liked me, if you loved me.”

“Yes.”

Yoongi was still confused, an almost comical expression on his face as he tried to follow your reasoning, all is intellect practically nil when it came to you, to your relationship.

“You said no.”

“Oh!” Yoongi sat beside you when your explanation lightened a little the darkness in which you had left him. “I don’t love you because I believe that’s not enough.”

You looked at him in the middle of the storm, the rain slackening in line with Yoongi’s words, the wind momentarily withdrawing so that the following words could be heard clearly and without any hitch. That moment belonged to Yoongi, and the universe, devoted to your love, complicit in your passion, was ready to praise the true feelings that were in his soul, in his heart.

“Love ends up dying one day. A lie, a betrayal, or simply because it ceased to exist. Love is ephemeral. And what I feel for you, what we have, I know will transcend our time and the entire universe.”

“That doesn’t justify your reaction, why you were so rude when you know what it means to me.”

You never forced him to use the three words that flowed so freely from your lips whenever you saw him. You never forced him to be uncomfortable around you for your sake. But all you asked, all you wanted, was a confirmation of a question. A simple ‘yes’. And he attacked you with the cruelty of his thoughts, with the intellectuality of his feelings.

“I want to give you everything. I want to do everything for you. But I can’t give you what you ask, I don’t know how to give it to you. For now.”

For now. But already a little late.

Tears finally began to flow as the rain finally stopped. Looking at Yoongi, seeing how naturally he handled that argument, it was too much for your already broken heart.

There was a long pause.

“But I want you to understand what goes on inside me. I want you to know what I really feel. It’s not love, because I don’t believe in the existence of something so small and strong. It’s something big, that contains multitudes and that doesn’t fit in me. It’s something that forces me to confess to the stars, to promise the sky a continuation in the next life because this one is too small to love you completely, to love you as you should be loved. I am devoted to you, completely surrendered to you and your existence, bewitched by your soul.”

Yoongi had held your face in the middle of his speech, forcing you to look into his eyes, into his soul, and realize that only truth was uttered by him.

His thumbs wiped away your tears, smoothing your cheeks with the care of someone who really cares, someone who really loves.

“But if you prefer, I’ll say it. With all the letters and syllables, in as many languages as you want.”

But you shook your head and, in a last effort at comfort, you let your head hide in Yoongi’s chest, allowing him to envelop you in a tight embrace, feeling the pieces of your heart come together again with each caress given by Yoongi.

And, in the warmth of each other’s arms, you and Yoongi shared the rest of the night in the silence of your room and in the calm that came after the storm outside, letting the sounds of the city lull you into a necessary sleep, letting the love between you covered yourselves in that small space, with the assurance that your feelings had been heard, understood, accepted. After all, there were many ways to say you loved someone.

[sophrosynesworld]

Vogue

Prohero! Dynamight x Supermodel! Reader

Not really edited. No plot, just fluff.

“We’re just waiting for the car. It should be here any minute,” you hum into the phone, leaning casually against the kitchen island. The elegant outfit you’re wearing—a thoughtful gift from your in-laws—hugs your figure perfectly. The Bakugo's were ecstatic when Katsuki told them their daughter-in-law would be gracing the cover of Vogue.

The sound of heavy footsteps thundering down the stairs echoes through the house, followed by your husband’s voice calling out to you. You straighten up, pressing a finger to your lips to signal for him to keep quiet. His eyes narrow in annoyance as you turn your back on him, trying to refocus on your conversation with Momo.

“I’ll talk to his parents and see how they feel about that,” you say, struggling to concentrate as strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. Soft, peppery kisses trail along your neck, you squirm, attempting to pull away, but your husband’s grip tightens.

“The car’s here! Gotta go, bye!” you squeak, hurriedly ending the call as his lips continue their relentless assault on your senses.

You twist in his embrace, playfully pushing him away. “You're worse than a puppy.” you tease, crinkling your nose.

He smirks, pulling you closer to him again. “I'm no puppy.” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he tilts his head. “Have you seen my bite?”

“It's not worse than your bark.” you counter, looping your arms around his neck. “What’s so important that you had to interrupt my call?”

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “I'm not sure we should go out tonight." A confused look crosses your face while his fingers trace light patterns on your back. “You look way to good baby. Seriously, I think it's safer this way.”

You laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his. “You say that every time we go out. Do you want me to change?”

“Fuck no.” he mumbles before kissing you, his expression turning serious as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you okay? You seemed stressed on the phone.”

You take a deep breath, appreciating his concern. “I’m fine, just a lot on my mind with the shoot and all these meetings. Momo’s trying to help me but it's just alot."

His arms tighten around you. “Can I do anything to help?"

“No,” you smile softly, shaking your head. “I just want to go out and have some fun."

His expression shifts, disbelief crossing his face, as if he can’t believe you’d underestimate him like that. If you asked for the moon, he’d find a way to pull it from the sky for you.

“Fun?” he scoffs. “Tonight’s going to be the best night of your life, idiot.”

“I know,” you say softly, leaning in to kiss him again. “Thank you.”

Author's Note: I haven’t felt much inspiration to write lately, and I’m not really in love with what I’ve produced. But I don’t hate this. I like to imagine this moment takes place while you're getting ready for a nice dinner date or perhaps even a runway show that his parents are hosting.

[lxmelle]

Just some thoughts on 270

Yes the end is near.

Yes I almost threw up when I saw that unmistakable hairstyle...

Yes I was a bit disappointed that there were no visible satosugu crumbs - or are there? More on this later... and the it overall just felt a little bit 😔 empty 😪

Nevertheless, I want to just blab about a few things.

First, is it Geto/Kenjaku?

If we think about how Yuta’s copy CT works, Rika would need to consume a viable part of the sorcerer. The only part of Kenny left was his whole brain. He was the brain. The rest is Geto. We have not seen any evidence of Yuta having CSM, so it can be assumed that Yuta did not have Rika eat any part of Geto. Otherwise, it’s be Geto’s CT and not Kenjaku’s body-hopping technique.

Imho: The person with Takaba is not likely to be either Kenny or Geto. Geto cannot function without a brain, there was none “spare” either, so the theory of a spirit entering the body is going to make it alive again - no, it doesn’t. There is no other living sorcerer who can do that - Ui Ui maxed it out with the number of times and there is no other person to swap with. Just. Not. Possible.

And Kenny was seen to have told Mimiko and Nanako that he took Geto’s brains out to inhabit it.

So. My conclusion is that Gege is baiting. Just as he did with the “we have to help Yuta!” And the rude yelling that got so many of us wondering just who would speak to roughly to Yuta and what warranted it. We were all asking: who calls Yuta “Yuta” and not “Okkutsu-senpai” etc. I even thought it was Shoko, assuming that Maki was in the same hallway as the others, but the main culprit was of course the most obvious, Maki herself.

And that baiting thing with the clock theory about 2:21 pm linking with chapter 221 of Gojo’s unsealing - I theorised it’s about having presence (like how spiritualists, and in Shinto, believe that spirit is all around us) despite being dead and his soul with Geto.

And goodness know what other theories there are out there about time and Gojo revival. I’ve said before that I don’t buy into it, but it is interesting.

So is it Geto? Kenjaku? I 80% think not but... yeah, I am worried. To be completely transparent, I’m so scared that it is.

Because I’m in the camp of: please please Gege, please please please let Gojo and Geto be at peace in their eternal afterlife until they’re ready to be reborn and let them find each other over and over and over again.

So rationally, I doubt it is. But I’m worried. I’m worried for reasons like: why aren’t the bodies and resting places of Gojo & Geto still not mentioned?

Next thing to I have some thoughts on are about Itafushi. They’re really good friends and I think it’s also just one of those things Gege is doing because it’s JUMP and he doesn’t want to just pretend the Hana -> Megumi thing is forgotten. It also shows some character growth.

So overall, I’m rather neutral about the Megumi + Hana thing. They’re still kids, and Yuji + Megumi are compatible but they’re also not quite Satosugu, so their relationship will be undeniably different. Friends or otherwise.

It’s nice to see the Megumi is taking initiative and finding novel ways to make new meaning & connections. I wouldn’t read too deeply into it, especially since Hana obviously read too deeply into it and got it all wrong.

I will say that it feels cliche maybe. Again it’s maybe a JUMP serialisation thing shonen mangakas do, since a big portion of the fanbase are young boys too. Gege can’t be doing too much for lgbtq+ too obviously after all.

So it leaves me feeling it is a little reminiscent of the Sasuke and Sakura pairing in Naruto - as if it could become something seemingly out of convenience/settling/making do, but what do I know? Sometimes relationships in life are like that. I’d rather marry my best friend, but you know... different strokes for different folks. As they say.

Now it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t find a way to make it about satosugu. I’m imagining collective groans from people who may be reading this... so please skip if you’re bored of me now, lol. Or read on if you like to be in satosugu delulu brainrot like me.

One of the satosugu-related takeaways from this recent chapter is that it seems to reduce the possibility of interpreting Gojo not allowing Shoko to process Geto’s body as being out of consideration for her.

Her saying that the idiot should have let her process Geto’s body pretty much says Gojo took matters into his own hands. Not only was it protocol… but she also personally thought it would be a privilege. But Gojo did not let her.

We ofc don’t know the details.

So it leaves us with: He did it for his own reasons, or reasons at least relating to Geto. Kenjaku thought it was out of consideration. And Kenjaku is not a reliable narrator, nor was Geto... who tended to think he didn’t matter.

You know, as a person who can quietly just swallow vomit and shit rags without complaint. As a person who could practically transform the filth, negativity, evil, and darkness of the world into power that he could use for good - he was vessel of sacrifice.

Anyway, I digress.

It seems to indicate that Gojo kept his body to himself ... for his own reasons, breaking protocol.

And referring back to 270 again, for Shoko to talk about the afterlife right after preparing the body -> cremation is strange. Does preparing the body and cremating it have anything to do with the afterlife? 🤔 so somehow, prepare body -> cremate -> mourn/afterlife?

Interesting in that Gege is giving us yet another example of how everyone has a different reality / belief. If we believe what we saw in Gojo’s death, then there is one and Shoko will be proven wrong when her time comes like how Gojo was wrong about dying alone.

And it is also interesting in the sense that it’s familiar…

Something about how she said prior to Gojo’s unsealing, about “I couldn’t love either of you like you loved each other, but I was there too.” - am I reading too deeply? Probably. But it’s there for me to read.

Shoko prepared Tsumiki for cremation. She was made her beautiful for the afterlife - even if she was to be cremated, there was something about giving her something (dignity?) before she turned to ash. And those left behind can send them off into the afterlife feeling they did their best.

I think you’d need a certain level of trust for someone to hand your beloved over. Or at least feel like they would mourn the departed like you would. Or faith that your beloved would be happy with entrusting you with that decision. In some cultures, the family wash and swathe their dead in cloth with their own hands where possible.

So Shoko. Shoko could do it for Geto, for Gojo. She was there. She was willing. But. It was almost as if saying that Gojo 1. could not allow someone else to prepare Geto’s body, and neither did he seem to have mourned because 2. Geto was not cremated to be sent into the afterlife. As if he didn’t trust anyone. As if he could not let go.

Again, Rika kept Yuta’s body “alive” too. Parallels are paralleling.

I don’t know how Geto regenerated or if Kenny was responsible for it. Or if Gojo somehow did. But those are just unnecessary details at this point.

And again, Shoko was there but she could not be like what Gojo was to Geto and what Geto was to Gojo.

How complicated.

I’m reminded of that scene where he says to ichiji and Shoko: “There are just 3 of us remaining huh.”

In agreement to Shoko acknowledging that Geto’s body needed retrieving from Kenjaku, it was quite a pregnant pause from Gojo before he goes, “………yeah.”

He seemed surprised Shoko brought it up and decided to just gloss over it.

To me, it collectively implies that Gojo doesn’t let Geto be anyone else’s but his.

His friendship was his one and only. His loneliness was his. His dreams were his. His love was his. His life was his. His body was... his. And his soul was his too. As was his satisfaction.

I think Gege wants us to understand something here. By what he is showing and not showing us.

If I think about the exclusivity that they shared... the whole, “we are the strongest (together)” and “it wouldn’t be bad to be killed by you” or even “I’m jealous but if you were satisfied I’m glad for you.” and then “if you were there to pat me on the back I’d be satisfied.”

It’s a lot like... only YOU can be the one. And therefore I think Gojo kept Geto all to himself. Maybe thinking Geto would only want HIM to touch his body.

It was his exclusive right. And that was mutually shared... because Geto wasn’t really pleased with Gojo getting satisfaction from elsewhere (lol, you know, the “jealous” 妬けるね that got the fandom in a frenzy).

I’ve mentioned it in another post... link: https://www.tumblr.com/lxmelle/758015943938113536/i-love-the-idea-of-mutuality-that-is-deeply-rooted I really do like the idea of Gojo and Geto just teaching each other things. Like selfishness and love. Binding each other to the other. Selfishness and selflessness as part of being human.

Was this an act out of the side of Gojo that was “a little selfish, a little inhuman but a little too human”, and he wanted to keep Geto all to himself? Despite not giving his best friend a proper burial?

When I think about how he normally did what Geto approved of (you can dispute this if you wish) and I think back to how he might’ve really given Geto’s body back to his family- but what we saw in the manga seemed like they didn’t have much involvement either. Surely they’d have wanted Geto cremated?

So it leaves me with the idea that it was Gojo acting out his secret feelings.

Just Gege and how he shields Gojo’s privacy. Secret words. Secret thoughts. You know. Gege being Gege letting Gojo do Gojo things.

I think we might need to accept that Gojo and Geto just have this exclusive thing we aren’t privy to.

That’s all for now. Abrupt ending 🫡

Thanks for reading my rambling if you made it this far 🫶

Feel free to share your thoughts/comments/criticisms 😄

[jamdoughnutmagician]

Secrets Out (fluff)

Mechanic!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Set in the A Cut Above The Rest universe, and kind of follows on from the little fic I wrote a few weeks back. I just love these two and I really like writing little snippits of their life after the fic? idk?

Word Count:1, 772

Masterlist // Eddie Munson Masterlist

“I can’t believe that that’s our baby.” Eddie said, as he looked at the small black and white photograph that you were holding in your hands. “Like that’s inside you right now.”

You were sitting comfortably beside Eddie in his van after coming back from your very first scan. After finding out you were pregnant, the both of you couldn’t have been more thrilled, and the trip to the hospital had been filled with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

You watched as his big brown eyes shined with bubbling tears threatening to spill over his lashes as looked down on the photo with a soft smile.

“Aw, Teddie, you're getting emotional about this, huh?” You said softly as you rubbed a hand up and down his arm.

“It's not that. It's just… I don't even know what I meant to be looking at.” he chuckled slightly, wiping away his tears. “Like I know it's a baby, but it just looks like a gray blob!” 

“Oh, Teddie! It's okay! It won't look like much right now, our baby is still really small.” You reassured him. “The doctor said everything looks perfectly healthy! That's a good thing! Our little baby's going to have those strong Munson genes.”

“They're going to end up with my big ‘ol schnozz aren't they?”

Leaning in, you press a kiss against his cheek.

“So who do you want to tell first?” you asked Eddie as he plopped down next to you on the sofa, his hair still slightly wet after his shower and vaguely smelling of your coconut shampoo.

“I'm counting on it.”

You and Eddie had discussed it beforehand, and now you were at a safe point in your pregnancy where you felt comfortable telling people the exciting news.

“I was thinking that I wanna tell Wayne first. It’s his birthday next week and I wanna surprise him with the news!”

“I love that idea! You know he’s going to be so excited to hear he’s going to be a pop-pop. He'd always joked to me about wanting grand-kids.”

“And have you had any thoughts about who you’d want as godparents?” You and Eddie had also discussed the idea of having your child have godparents. God forbid that anything happen to either you or Eddie, but you wanted someone who would be able to look after your little one if anything were to happen.

“Well, I know who I want it to be.” Eddie replied confidently. 

“..And I know who I want it to be too. Do you wanna say it on the count of three?”

One. Two. Three.

“Robin and Steve.” you both said simultaneously. 

“Well, that’s that solved.” he chuckled to himself.

You and Eddie arrive at Wayne’s place nice and early, with his favourite dinner that you’d promised you’d make for him tucked under your arm in a glass dish, a lasagna made for sharing, and Eddie carrying a bottle of wine for him and his uncle to share. 

You and Eddie had spent time in Wayne's place enough for it to feel like a second home, but now with this big secret you were harbouring, suddenly the air felt different as you stepped over the threshold of the house. 

And with the dinner eaten and cleared away, and wine glasses emptied (and thankfully your refusal of said wine went without so much as an graying eyebrow raise from Wayne)

“Thanks for making dinner, darlin’” Wayne thanks in his gruff southern drawl. “But you kids didn't have to come down to spend your day with an old man like me.”

“Of course we did! We couldn't let your birthday go un-celebrated, uncle.”

Eddie says.

“Boy, when you get to be as old as I am, birthday's ain't much to be celebrating besides waking up another day and not being dead.”

“Oh, so you don't want the presents we got for you then?” You ask with a teasing tone in your voice. 

“Now, I didn't say that..” Wayne grumbles despite the slight smile curving at his lips.

You reach for the small gift bag that you had brought along with you, placing it on the table in front of Wayne.

“Just a little surprise for you, Uncle.” Eddie says. “It’s from both of us, we hope you like it.”

You and Eddie watch Wayne open up his present with bated breath. Waiting for the big secret to come out. The ruffles of tissue paper are pulled from the bag as Wayne pulls out his present. A new, very special mug to add to his ever growing collection.

“World’s best grandpa? Boy, I know I’m old, but I ain’t that old yet.” he jokes, looking over to Eddie.

“Actually, Wayne, I think you better look inside that card too.” Eddie prompts, nodding his head towards the bag where the envelope is.

Wayne reaches for the envelope that is tucked away in the bag before opening it up to see the front of the card.

A standard ‘Happy birthday Grandpa!’ card, with a birthday cake and candles on the front.

You and Eddie exchanged a quick glance and shy smiles, realising that Wayne still hadn't quite got the message you were putting across. However, it all came together as he opened his card.

‘Happy Birthday Grandpa Wayne, I can't wait to meet you!’ Written above a picture of your ultrasound that you had taped inside the card. 

“Wait..You’re…Is this real right now? You’re not yankin’ on my chain right now?” Wayne asks as he begins to show the slightest bubble of tears in his usually stern, steely grey-blue eyes.

 “No, it’s not a joke, Wayne! I promise!” Eddie assured him.

“Yeah, we found out a few months ago, and we wanted you to be the first one to know.” you said softly, tears of your own now coming up to gather in your lashes.

“I’m so touched that I got to be the first one to hear about this.” Wayne says, his voice shaky with emotion as he gets up from the table to pull you in for a hug. “I’m so happy for you guys, I really am.”

Eddie sits back, watching the two people he loves the most in this world sharing in this very tender and soft moment.

“How long was it before this one started freaking out, huh?” Wayne teases, raising his eyebrows towards his nephew.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I didn’t “freak out”, I was actually very excited.” Eddie defends himself.

“No, it’s true. I think I did enough freaking out for the both of us.” you laugh. “I count myself very lucky to have someone like Eddie to hold my hand through this.” 

You had invited Robin and Steve over to yours and Eddie’s place under the guise of having a chill movie night, but actually you just wanted them both to be together when you told them the news.

“I hope it’s not some sappy, romantic, chick-flick you’ve chosen.” Steve grumbles as he steals a handful of popcorn from the bowl Robin was holding.

“Don’t pretend you don’t secretly enjoy them too, dingus. I caught you crying when you were watching When Harry Met Sally the other week.” Robin calls him out.

“Meg Ryan’s acting got to me, alright!” Steve defends.

“Actually, before we start the film,” you interjected between the pair’s lovable bickering. “Eddie and I have something we wanted to share.” you say.

“Well, we wanted to share some news, and ask you both quite a big question.” 

“You’re pregnant aren’t you?” Robin blurted out.

“Oh my god Robin you can’t just ask that!” Steve chided her with a gentle slap on her arm, but the silence that fell in the room suddenly felt like the loudest thing in the world. “Wait..Are you?”

You manage to huff out a gleeful ‘Yes!’ in between giggles as both Steve and Robin rush up to hug you.

“Congratulations to both of you, that’s so amazing!” Steve smiles broadly.

“I knew there was something up when you passed on doing shots with me after work last week. Oh my gosh, that's fantastic news!!” Robin cheered, her freckled cheeks beaming brightly. “How long have you known?”

“Only a few weeks, it was certainly quite the surprise let me tell you!” you smile as the both release you from the tight hug they had you in.

“And that brings us on to the other important question of the evening..” Eddie said as he laid a gentle and reassuring touch on your shoulders. “We were looking for two godparents, we wondered if you knew any good ones?”

“I think what Eddie means is, would you and Steve consider being godparents to our baby?”

“Is that even possible? You know we're not, like, a couple or anything. Isn’t it too early to do this sort of thing? You only found out a couple of weeks ago, you said so yourself!” Robin babbles

But before Robin can babble anymore Steve speaks over her with tears brimming in his honeyed hazel eyes.

“Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. We’d be honoured to.” Steve manages to get out as he wipes away the tears gathering in his lashes.

“Well that went better than I could have imagined.” Eddie said with a smile. “Didn’t bet on you crying so much though, Harrington.”

“Crying? Who’s crying? Not me, this is just..uh..allergies…shut up..” Steve sniffles.

“Well it’s nice to know that our baby’s godfather is already so emotionally invested in them.” you laugh softly.

Resting a gentle hand on the almost unnoticeable curve of your belly, you can’t help the warmth that floods your heart. Even though your baby hadn’t been born yet, you knew that they were already going to be so loved by everyone around them.

As Eddie strolled into work the following morning, he’s greeted by Randy who was turning the garage’s oil-stained radio down as he came in.

“Your old man told me your girl’s got a bun in the oven,”

“News travels fast around these parts, huh.” Eddie nods, reaching for his toolbox sitting on his work bench. 

Laying a clap to Eddie’s shoulder, Randy fixes him with a stare, his forehead wrinkling as he  raises his dark eyebrows.

“Good fuckin’ luck Munson, you’re gonna need it.”

@penguinsandpotterheads @aphrogeneias @mrsjellymunson

@eddiesxangel @ali-r3n @seatnights

@munsonsbtch @keeksandgigz

[itsnotbird]

Orphic ~ File 3

Abience (n) ; the strong urge to avoid someone or something

Bucky!Barnes x Fem!Reader

Find previous part here

Masterlist

An entire month passes since the strange incident. A complete month fades before you’re even mentioned again amongst the Avengers, and that’s only because Nick Fury turns back up with a thick looking file.

It’s all hushed whispers, and he and Tony spend an hour and thirty minutes in a conference room, discussing just what was in the file.

“I still can’t believe I missed something as big as this.” Nat says, trying to listen in on the conversation. Her ear pressed to the locked door, Steve, Wanda, and Sam wait behind her, all curious too.

“Yeah, it was certainly interesting.” Steve adds, arms crossed over his chest. His morals say not to eavesdrop, but he’s only human after all and he’s completely curious.

Inside the room, Tony rubs his head, trying to process the information.

“It’s a brand new case that opened up, all because Barnes pulled her from the street. I wouldn’t be here if I thought she couldn’t be trusted.” Fury states in a serious manner, watching Tony pick up a few more photos.

He aches, knowing how bad he treated you. Now, your life is spread out in front of him, showing him exactly why you acted the way you did.

“You really want us to take this on? To take her on?” He asks, pushing the evidence photos out of his sight, not baring to look at your marks and the brand on the back of your neck any longer.

Fury gathers the multitude of papers and sorts them back into the correct places. “She’s smart, really smart.” He says. “She was monitored, observed, we learned her habits, her behavior. She’s perfectly in control of her power, we made immense progress…”

Tony cocks his head. “But?”

“But, she’s just a little odd. She told us everything she knew, then went completely silent. Her therapist said it’s normal, it’s how she copes. If you ask her to do a task, she’ll do it, she knows the importance of her cooperation…she just needs to work on her people skills. That’s why I want her here.”

His jaw sets, then he groans at Fury’s request. “Fine. We’ll put her here.”

Fury smirks, closing his brief case up. “Good, she’ll be moved here in an hour.”

Tony glares. “How did you know I’d agree?”

Fury simple chuckles. “Because you never turn away strays anymore, even if it makes you grumpy.”

What the group waiting outside doesn’t expect is for the door to open so suddenly, making them earn a displeased look from Fury as he walks past them.

“Oh, good, some of you are already here.” Tony states, motioning them in. “Team meeting.”

- - - -

“How are the nightmares?”

Bucky stays silent, then looks at the clock to see if his mandatory hour is up yet.

It isn’t.

“I don’t have them.” He half lies, looking back to Dr. Raynor.

She gives him a look. “I don’t believe that.”

He fights his urge to groan. “Well, maybe you should, Doc.”

She sighs, then clicks her pen and pulls her notebook to her.

“Oh, don’t start with the damn notebook.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m talking, aren’t I? That was the deal? I talk, you don’t write.”

The woman shakes her head. “You’re talking but giving no real answers.”

“I told you I’m not having the same nightmares.” He reasons, not realizing he just lead on to more questions.

“So you’re having different ones?” She asks, putting her pen down and giving him her full attention.

“I guess, yeah.” He shrugs, grinding his back molars.

“Are they better or worse?”

He wanted to storm out of the room, and he would if he wouldn’t get arrested. She had a way of poking and prodding at him, it made him twitch. Or maybe he was still feeling the side effects of the strange girl that shocked his nervous system.

“I don’t know…they’re different.” He states, a curt tone.

“What’s different about them?”

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m not…killing people. Guess that’s progress, huh?” He attempts to joke, but she doesn’t smile, she just urges him to continue. So he looks down at his knee bouncing up and down.

“There’s someone else in them…this person.”

She’s interested in this. “A different person? Do you know them?”

I pulled her from the rain.

“No, not really.”

Raynor nods. “This is good, this is change. What is this person doing in the dreams?”

His fists clench, he bites his tongue for a moment too long. “She’s not doing anything except for just being there-”

“She?”

Crap. Now he’s said too much.

“Can we just talk about something else?” He grumbles, blinking hard in hopes of pushing the vision of your grey eyes out of his mind.

“You want to talk about something else?” She sighs. “Okay, how about other small changes you’re making? Have you been talking to your friends? Steve, Sam?”

Bucky sneers. “Sam isn’t my friend.”

Raynor rolls her eyes. “You get my point. Have you been talking to them?”

“Yeah, we chat over tea.” He says in a dry sarcastic tone.

The woman shakes her head. “We talked about this, you can’t push people completely away. When I suggested the apartment, I told you it was to heal on your own time, with no negative influences. That didn’t mean stop talking to the people who care about you.”

She had no clue what she was talking about, it made him agitated. When Raynor determined that he wasn’t going to discuss this either, she lets out a long sigh, then looks at him in question.

“You gonna get a haircut?” She asks.

He throws his hands up. “Now my hair’s the problem? You’re extra passive aggressive today, Doc.”

“You say that every session, James. I’m just asking a question because it’s getting a little long.”

He rubs his temple where he feels a headache coming on. “If I get a haircut, will you stop being so harsh?”

“No.”

What is he doing with his life?

- - - -

The team would have been more welcoming to you if they could find you.

Simply, you find a very quiet corner and sit there, listening and observing. Not necessarily hiding, but people tend to pass by without even noticing.

“Where is she?” Nat asks the guys who stand in the dining room, waiting for the meal to be done.

They all sort of shrug, it’s Steve that motions in a direction.

“I think she’s in the west hallway, by the ficus plant.” He says.

Natasha scoffs. “Did anyone tell her we are going to eat dinner?” She asks, looking between the group of them.

They all share a look of ‘did we?’

The answer is no.

“Maybe you guys should work on your people skills.” She says before walking off to retrieve you.

It even takes her a second to find you, but when she does, she smiles softly. Crouching to your level, she reaches for the phone in your hands that has about ten contacts and a music app. You search the music library, clicking on songs you’ve never heard before. They play through your headphones, a gift from Fury himself when your therapist expressed your love for music.

As Natasha lowers the phone from your face, you gently jump in surprise, then take the headphones off.

“Hi.” She says. “We’re going to be eating dinner, I’m sorry if people ignored you.”

You don’t respond, just nod.

“I’m Natasha.” She introduces as you stand from your corner, and she looks you over.

Your shoes were not laced up, you had knee high socks on that the hem of your dress dusted. A much too large sweater hung over your frame to help keep your body temperature warm, though it doesn’t help too much.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to sneak you out and we’re going to the mall. Okay?” She tells you, feeling bad that you’re wearing clothes S.H.E.I.L.D pieced together from a donation bin.

You look at your outfit and then nod, enjoying the idea of wearing pants.

You trail behind this sudden new friend, still intimidated by the large size of the facility. Soon, you enter the more comforting area of the compound and the full table of faces greet you with unsure smiles.

“Sit here.” Natasha says, pointing to the empty chair between her and Steve.

You do just that, but what you don’t expect is for the face across from you to be so…tense.

Bucky came to dinner after Raynor said all the right words to piss him off. He needed to prove her wrong, needed to prove that he could socialize…he just chose not to…and he had to be here for the new project plan in the morning. But what he didn’t think was going to happen was the girl that’s been tormenting him for a month to come and sit across from him. Your outfit was strange and pieced together, your long hair was in a braid that laid on your shoulder, you sat there with confusion and unsureness as everyone began to eat and talk.

You stayed completely silent.

“You don’t need permission to eat.” Steve softly whispers as a reminder as he sees your hesitation.

Right.

Free will.

You had that now.

Utensils scraped on plates, people joked and laughed, you just ate in the most polite way possible.

Bucky stared.

And most get uncomfortable by it, but you just stare back. It’s not a glare, there’s no meaning of anger behind it, it’s just a shared expression that catches the attention of the ones around you.

“Oh great, we got another one that stares.” Sam exclaims.

Steve clears his throat. “That’s James, or Bucky, whatever you want to call him.” He tells you, and of course you don’t respond, just hold the strange eye contact.

Bucky’s the first to break, he talks a gulp of water and looks away.

Tony breaks up the awkwardness. “Alright, Five? Is that what they’re calling you? Your room is next to Nat’s, remember? So that’s where you go after your infusion.”

You nod, and it raised confusion.

“Infusion?” Steve asks as you stare at your spoonful of mashed potatoes before taking the bite.

Tony looks at you, almost expecting you to answer the Captains question. You’re distracted though with finishing your meal to show you are appreciative of their kindness.

So Tony continues. “There’s just some things she needs until we can ween her off of it.”

You hate the way he says it, with pity like you’re a sick animal. A junky.

Your plate is clean now, you put your dirty utensils on it and then finish your water.

No one notices this habit except for Bucky.

Because he remembers doing that. He remembers completing tasks so carefully and waiting for either approval or a slap in the face. It makes him feel odd, makes him want to reach across the table and knock your neat work over.

You pull the sleeves of the chunky sweater over your hands, feeling a wave of tiredness sweep through you as well as that almost violent shiver of coldness. Everyone is lost in conversation about what the plan was for tomorrow, but you feel that teasing heat source radiate beside you and can’t help the way you lull towards it.

“Is this normal?” Steve asks as he feels the way you lean into his side, like a reptile to a heat lamp.

You’re asleep in an instance.

Bruce frowns. “The place she came from had her on a lot of bad stuff…the doctors who were assigned to her at SHEILD say her nerves are kind of shot. That’s why she’s always cold. As far as the falling asleep thing…well, she’s kind of traumatized so that tends to make people exhausted.”

Everyone gets very quiet, and Bucky knows that look on his best friend’s face. His brows are creased, eyes a little sad as he looks down at you. That means one thing only, that he was going to go full Captain America mode and try and save you.

“Is that what the team meeting is about in the morning?” Natasha asks. “Her situation?”

Tony nods. “Looks like you and Sleepy the dwarf have some things in common.”

- - - -

Everyone left the dining room, but Bucky lingered momentarily.

He stared at that damn plate.

Steve had woken you up and sent you to the MedBay, you made sure things looked perfect before you went.

Now, he reaches out and messes the whole thing up before Wanda - who’s on dish duty because she could clean everything up in two seconds- catches him.

“Buck, hey.” Steve says as he finds his friend heading to his spare room that he stays in when there’s things to do early in the morning.

The two super soldiers walk in silence for a moment before Steve speaks up.

“She scares you, doesn’t she?” He asks.

Bucky lies. “Why would she scare me?”

“Because she’s in the same position you were in.”

Bucky clenches his teeth, cursing his friend’s intuition.

What was he supposed to say? That he wanted to stay far away from you for some unknown reason? That part of him wishes he wasn’t the one to rescue you? Or that he wants to ask you every question he has and try to figure out the way your brain works?

He can’t say any of that.

So he just avoids the statement all together. “Yeah, well you’re gonna tuck her under your wing just because she’s needy, so you shouldn’t be asking me about her, Pal.” He jokes with a smile.

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Oh come on, give me a break, alright?”

As they stop in front of Bucky’s room, Sam happens to pass them.

“You gonna get a haircut?” He asks Bucky.

The soldier glares. “Does my hair just offend everyone now?”

File 4

[cynthiav06]

With Percy, we know that he hates going to school and his goals don’t really line up with Annabeth’s, but Annabeth is kind of forcing him to do it with her because he can’t say no to her. Say Rick didn’t make Annabeth Percy’s entire personality, what do you think he would’ve done in the mortal world rather than go to university?

I was checking my drafts cause I am trying to catch up on all the asks in my inbox ( as I said in one of my earlier posts I was in middle of a medical situation so I have at least a month of backlog) and found this draft.

The funny thing is I had already written most of the post in the draft version, and this ask wasn't even being displayed in my inbox, so I was very confused as to when it was from.

But it's such a good prompt and a sort of controversial question in the fandom, so I wanted to post it asap.

Percy doesn't like studies, but he knows the importance of it, so I am sure he will finish his initial college, probably either in the science or arts section. We know at one point he got better grades than Annabeth at one point so he certainly isn't quitting studies and doing way better than what people expect. He also wouldn't like just staying at home and doing nothing (I am looking at certain Percabeth stans here), so he definitely would be doing one job or another.

1.

I don't think he would study marine biology like most believe. After a conversation I had with someone who had taken the course, I am convinced Percy wouldn't like it. It's heavily based on chemistry, and we know how much Percy is affected by sea creatures being mistreated or caged, so having to study marine biology wouldn't really be something he would choose.

2.

An interesting twist would be if he chose to be a writer like his mother.

We all know that Percy writes or at least dictates and narrates the first five books, which are written and narrated entirely from his perspective. Moreover, there are books on Percy just narrating his own sarcastic takes on Greek gods and Greek heroes. What if he did actually catalogue his own adventures in those books as a sort of manual for other demigods on how to deal with certain monsters and gods and such.

Through Percy's thoughts, even as 12 years old, we can certainly say he has advanced vocabulary despite being dyslexic and given how much he admires Sally, why wouldn't he be interested in following her footsteps. Sure, he has trouble reading, but that's not to say he wouldn't love expressing his thoughts through humorous retelling of his own adventures which he can pass as fiction to normal readers but actual experiences in demigod world. Who doesn't want to know the exploits of Percy Jackson?

Plus, it's a good money hack. And don't for a second tell me he wouldn't. Sally petrified Gabe, and then they sold his statute to a museum as a sculpture and earned money off of that. So Sally would definitely encourage it, and Percy would even follow through on it just for shits and giggles and the added benefit of helping demigods and earning money.

[I literally want this to happen just for the Godly reactions. I am all for god slander, especially Zeus slander. Poseidon would be half laughing at the book and half worried cause of the sheer catastrophes his son seems to fall into almost on a daily basis.

Apollo would be having a grand time, and Hermes will be half depressed and half impressed throughout. Overall, it would be hilarious all around, and it might finally make the gods feel a bit more accountable . It's literally the Reading Percy Jackson Series trope, and that's always fun.]

3.

One other option is that Percy will get into environmental preservation, specifically the protection of Rivers and Seas from pollution by actively involving himself and others in its cleanliness and purification. He would also run Beach cleanliness programs.

I think he and Grover would become environmental activists and would definitely get into preserving forest areas and other places where nature spirits dwell frequently. I can see them doing it a lot, long-term wise, too.

4.

I think he would kind of like marine explorations, but that might cause his powers to be somewhat exposed, so he might not do that, but it's a possibility.

That's all I can think of. I would like to hear everyone else's opinions on this.

[permanentswaps]

Being Grant Turner (Pt. 2)

Read Part 1 by @your-myst-world here.

(James' POV)

I still can’t believe I’m here, living in his body after all this time. Three years, and I haven’t left. Not once. Still got these chiseled abs, this bull chest, and arms that could snap a tree in half. Every morning, I wake up and flex, just to make sure it’s all real. And, every morning, it is. The same reflection stares back at me—Grant’s body, but my life now.

I have no idea how or why this happened. One day, I was in my old body, getting by as best I could, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up inside this one. It didn’t make sense at first, but once I found the obituary… well, that explained a lot. I must have died, though I don’t remember actually dying. One minute, I was just living my life, and then… bam, here I am, looking like a Greek god, with Grant’s muscles rippling every time I so much as lift my arm.

Now, I like to think that Grant—my sweet boy—somehow gave this to me as a gift. I mean, what else could it be? Maybe he felt like I’d died too soon, like I didn’t get enough time to enjoy life. So, in his own way, maybe he wanted me to experience this body, just for a little while.

At first, I tried to live his life the best I could. I owed him that much, didn’t I? I mean, it wasn’t like I’d asked to wake up in Grant’s body, but now that I was here, I figured the least I could do was repay him somehow. I got really into the gym, even more than he had been. I pushed his muscles, ran farther, lifted heavier. I wanted to honor the body he’d worked so hard to build.

I tried to live just like him. Stuck to his routines, kept up with his friends, even went on a couple dates with girls from his social circle—because Grant was straight. And, for a while, I was fine with that. I convinced myself that I was just filling in, that he’d be back soon, and when he did, he’d find his life perfectly in order, his body even better than before.

But then… after about a year, I started to wonder. Where was he?

At first, I thought I owed it to Grant to live his life perfectly, to honor what he’d built before… before whatever happened. I didn’t know where he was or if he could see me, but I figured the least I could do was take care of things for him. So, I threw myself into the gym, even harder than he had. I pushed this body beyond what he’d ever done, sculpting it into something truly remarkable. I made sure to live his life the way he would have wanted—straight, clean-cut, avoiding any of the temptations that, well, let’s just say I used to indulge in my old life.

I even went on dates with women, keeping up appearances, doing what I thought Grant would do. It felt weird at first, like I was playing a role in someone else’s life. But I did it because I thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d come back. Maybe one day, he’d take over again, and I didn’t want him to find his life in ruins.

But after about a year, I started to wonder… where was he?

Grant, if you’re still in here, why haven’t you taken back control?

I never got an answer. It was just silence, day in and day out. No whispers in the back of my mind, no sense of being watched. Just me. And after a while, I stopped waiting for him to show up. I stopped wondering if he’d ever come back.

Maybe he gave me this body permanently. Maybe he knew what he was doing when he… gave me this gift.

I remember the moment it hit me. I was standing in front of the mirror, just like I do every morning, and I caught my reflection, flexing those muscles—his muscles—and something inside me… shifted. A pulse of heat shot through me, and I smirked at my reflection, feeling the growing heat in my body. My hand slid lower, over the hard ridges of these perfect abs, until it rested on my bulging cock.

"You must’ve known what you were doing, son," I muttered, my voice thick with arousal, gripping myself harder. "Giving me this body forever... Damn, you’re a good kid."

What James didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that Grant had been cursed. A curse that allowed others to possess his body, the length of possession determined by the strength of their desire for it. The problem was, James’s desire wasn’t just stronger than anyone else’s; it wasn’t just about wanting his son’s youthful body. James was dead. And as long as he desired to stay alive, he had no choice but to stay in Grant’s body. Forever.

I started stroking, slow at first, savoring every moment, every sensation. This was mine now. It had to be. Grant must have wanted this for me—why else would I still be here? My grip tightened, and I started pumping faster, the thought of this body being mine forever sending waves of pleasure through me.

"Yeah, Grant," I whispered, looking at the reflection, my own eyes staring back at me, my hand moving faster. "I'm you now… and you're never coming back."

I felt myself getting closer, the idea of permanence—the thought that this body was mine forever—pushing me over the edge. I couldn’t hold back anymore. My whole body tensed, muscles bulging, and I came, hard, moaning Grant's name as I did.

"Fuck yeah, I’m a good kid," I gasped, feeling the release wash over me, my cock throbbing in my hand.

After that, day by day, I started making this body my own. It wasn’t just Grant’s anymore; it was mine. I started pushing the boundaries, doing things Grant would never have done. I entered a few bodybuilding competitions, showing off the work I’d put into this body. That got me lots of attention—guys at the gym, people online, and eventually, even a boyfriend. Yeah, you heard that right.

It still feels surreal sometimes, standing in front of the mirror like I am right now, running my hand over the fresh ink on my bicep. The tattoo—bold, intricate—stretches across the muscle, complementing the work I’ve done. Grant really would’ve hated it. He wasn’t into tattoos, and he probably would’ve thought it ruined his “clean” image. But if he hasn’t come back by now… well, the way I see it, I’m probably right. This is permanent. This body? It’s kind of mine to do what I please with.

And you know what? I can’t even begin to thank him enough.

I get to be me—gay me—and I have the most beautiful, strong, hunky boyfriend to enjoy it with. He loves my body just as much as I do, if not more. And the sex? Jesus, it’s the best I’ve ever had. He’s into the same kinks I am, especially the worship play. He loves getting down on his knees, kissing every inch of these muscles, telling me how perfect I am. It’s like a dream, really.

Sometimes, when he’s running his hands over my chest, whispering how much he adores me, I think about how lucky I am. Grant may have been straight, but me? I get to live in this hot body and live out all the things I used to want in my old life.

So yeah, maybe Grant gave me this as a gift. Maybe he thought I deserved one last shot at life. Whatever it was, I’ve made the most of it. And every time I look at myself in the mirror, I smile, because I know this body—my body—will be mine forever.

[starfoam-saloon]

HNNNNN

Twst au but instead it goes like this;

One of the twst boys(whoever) ends up getting transported to your world with no magic. They wake up in your house after you help them when you found them in the alleyway on your way home like ouch dude. You find out they aren’t from this world after they do some magic so you guys spend the entire summer helping each other and comforting them since they have issues with themselves and being homesick or something. Yadda yadda yall fall in love and are dating during it.

One day, miraculously on the last day of summer, yall find the mirror and that twst boy is sent back after yall promise to find each other again. Maybe like a years later(idk imagine time runs differently there) you’re getting ready for bed and you wake up in that coffin.

Something something and you end up starting your first day at NRC. Yayyyy!!!! And when you meet the twisted wonderland guy, at first glance yall immediately know each other and yall are just being cute and everyone who knows you is like “HUH???” Imagine meeting Ace and he can’t bully you cause oh no that’s his idiot. Meeting riddle and he immediately calms down. Meeting Lilia and silver is just like “huh.” Or it could be the other way around. Ruggie seeing Leona all soft and he’s just like “when???!?!!??” It’s such a funny concept to me cause imagine you and Ace are together and your friends are like “Ace how did you pull on the first day” and before Ace can stroke his ego you just say “he stuttered 15 times trying to ask me out”

OH OH imagine meeting Vil and he’s like “and who is- oh hello dear- and WHAT-???” Vil tenderly holding you as the rest of the VDC group is just shocked that Vil mr popular had a lover. Or any of Octavinelle thinking it’s a bit strange that one of them is really good at walking since they don’t believe either of them when they said they went to the human world for the entire summer. Jade or Floyd just think the other explored the ocean the entire summer idk—

Jamil angst a bit cause he thought the one he loved would never be here again and feels slightly betrayed when they ask for help from Azul of all people. But just appreciates them entirely either way cause yeah. If you’re dating either of the overblot boys I guarantee they aren’t gonna let you get in the way and might keep you at a distance while you try to help your friends. (Yum favoritism)

Or dating one of the RSA boys so imagine their shock when Chen’ya kisses you at an Unbirthday party when he steals some food. Or Neige hugging you and saying all kinds of honeyed words with heart eyes as he sees you again. Is a bit sad you’re in NRC.

AND MY FAVORITE ROLLO!!! Like imagine he’s just being all dramatic and he sees his lover and just opens his arms cause he knows they’re gonna jump in them. Rollo trying to not be jealous since Mallues seems to care a bit too much about his lover(Mal just wanna be a good friend I swear). He keeps you in the bell tower to try and not get you hurt but you end up accidentally falling with the others. Yadda yadda, you stay with Trein even if you’re the most stubborn person on the planet, and you eventually pull him to the side before Malleus can do his whole ‘imagine losing to me lmao’ thingy ig. And the two of you talk but you two eventually just love and care for the other and when you leave the others are asking if y’all broke up to which you reply “um… nuh uh.” While holding a letter from Rollo so you two can write to each other (he texted while he cans and calls you but he likes to send letters since he thinks it’s romantic and reminds him of the love letter he gave you in the summer in your world.)

They love you lots, so don’t be too surprised if they feel like they want you to stay here with them. :(

IF ANYONE MAKES A FIC OF THIS USING EITHER THEIR TWST OC/SELF INSERT/ READER PLEASE @ ME/TAG ME I WOULD LOVE TO SEE YALLS THINGS WITH THE IDEA I HAD PLSPLSPLPS☹️☹️

[ruewrote]

𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒.

PAIRING: jj maybank x fem!reader WARNINGS: no comfort, unrequited love, no use of y/n GENRE: ANGST SONG INSPIRATION: bored by billie eilish WORD COUNT: 568

navigation | inbox

you and jj sat on the beach, the sound of waves crashing gently in the background. the atmosphere was relaxed, but tension simmered just beneath the surface.

you had been friends for years, but lately, something had shifted. every laugh felt a little more meaningful, every glance lingered a moment too long. you couldn’t shake the feeling that you wanted more.

“hey, jay?” you started, your heart pounding as he turned to you, curiosity in his eyes.

“can i ask you something?”

“sure, what’s up?” he replied, a playful smile on his face.

you took a deep breath, gathering your courage. “i’ve been thinking a lot about us…and, well, i really like you. like, a lot.”

his expression faltered for a moment, and you could see the gears turning in his head. “come on. we’re best friends. you know that.”

“i know, but i can’t help how i feel,” you insisted, your voice firm but gentle. “it’s not just a phase or a crush. it’s real.”

jj rubbed the back of his neck, looking away as if he was searching for the right words. “but… what if it doesn’t work out? what if it ruins everything between us?”

you felt your heart sink. “jj, it doesn’t have to ruin anything. i just wanted to be honest with you.”

he shook his head, a frustrated laugh escaping his lips. “you’re talking about feelings like they’re so simple! you know how things are around here. i can’t just—”

“can’t what? acknowledge that we have something special?” you interrupted, unable to hide the hurt in your voice. “i thought you felt the same way.”

jj met your gaze, his expression conflicted. “i do, but it’s complicated. we’re…we’re a mess as it is. i don’t want to screw this up.”

“you said it, it’s already a mess,” you argued, feeling the heat of frustration rising. “but we can figure it out together. isn’t that what we do?”

he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “i just can’t wrap my head around it. i don’t want to lose you, and…i’m scared.”

“you won’t lose me. but if we don’t try, we might lose something even better.”

jj looked down, his shoulders slumping. “i can’t deal with the risk right now. i’m sorry.”

you took a step back, feeling a mix of disappointment and heartbreak. “so what? you want to pretend that this doesn’t exist? pretend i didn’t just tell you how i feel?”

“don’t say it like that!” he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. “i just…i’m not good at this stuff, okay?”

taking a deep breath, trying to process his words. “maybe you need more time,” you say quietly, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. “but i can’t just sit here waiting for you to figure it out.”

jj’s expression softened, but you could see the conflict growing within him. “i want to, y/n. you have to believe that.”

“i wish i could,” you replied, your voice trembling. “but right now, it feels like you’re pushing me away. and i can’t do this if you’re not all in.”

you wouldn’t let this define you, but you couldn’t deny how much it stung. the connection you shared was real or at least you thought it was, but if he wasn’t ready to embrace it,

maybe it was time to think about starting to let go.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

© ruewrote 2024.

[dizzymisslizzie]

Welp, just had my heart wrecked by the amazing writer and purveyor of angst @aforgottennymph by her latest chapter of The Brightest Star. (Please check it out if you're not already, it's sooooo good!)

In honor of crying at work, I'm adding this to one of my WIPs... Or maybe this just became a WIP... I don't know... I'm out of tissues.

Take care of yourselves!

Alex is falling. The pit is an endless darkness. He can feel the memories more than see them in his mind. Being soaked in a cold palace while the man he loves tells him to leave. He’s back at home and the bottle of Makers being wrenched from his stubborn grasp by June and Nora, then eventually Cash when they couldn’t get it from him. The gaping hole in his abdomen that claws at his throat every moment of every day. Fighting constantly to push it down and keep the tears from falling all the time. The man he’d thought would catch him, would love him and keep him safe, that would let him rest, had let him fall. Henry had let him fall into the pit, alone. Alex feels like a fool for believing that it would turn out different. He feels like an idiot for trusting the promise of Henry’s touch and the look in his eyes over what his mouth told Alex from the very beginning. “I can’t have you falling in love with me.” Alex was so stupid. He was always so wrong about people. Raf… Henry… even his dad. He trusted too easily and he was a fucking idiot for it.  His chest starts to hurt from the pain of it all. He takes deep breaths and tells himself that he’ll get through this. I’ll never love anyone like that again… but that’s a good thing… crushing heartaches happen in your twenties, right? Alex had asked for this, really. He’d loved to hard and too big and too much, which was everything that people didn’t like about him. So there. He doesn’t have to worry about this ever happening again. He’ll be ok one day. This will be a memory of pain instead of all consuming pain like it is now. Then he can move on and be less... more tolerable… He’ll try to be a better judge of people… figure out what they want from him is before he trusts again. He’ll learn from this. 

Open tag!

@miss-minnelli @tailsbeth @caterpills

[writingmydelusions]

Demetrian Titus HCs

(Because I need a sort of explanation )

-He’s very hurt and confused. Part of him wishes he had died with his Deathwatch Team. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s still breathing, or why him. (This probably slowly goes away after the ending of space marine 2)

-He probably doesn’t know that he’s hurt or confused. Shame hides both of those emotions.(Indoctrination induced. He cannot identify a huge range of his emotions. He still has them.)

-He struggles a bit with feeling listless (He tries hard not to show it.) He does think he should know better or recover quickly but his psyche still had a big gaping wound in it after a century of inquisitorial confinement and torture and no answers.

-The body does, unfortunately keep the score. He still struggles with phantom pain. (Probably why he collapses halfway through the game) His body still remembers when it was put through hell and won’t let him forget. He’s old, he’s battered mentally and physically and he’s been Frankensteined back together after his body thought it was done for. And he’s just been thrown back into the fray not long after it happened. (Maybe it was just a coincidence he collapsed next to a chaos monument idk.)

-I think he does indirectly ask about it at some point off screen. The chapter apothecary confirms his concerns but doesn’t know what he can really do about it besides the ol’ “try not to push yourself too much.”

-He’s really good at putting up a front. That’s all he knows. He despises himself for what he perceives as his weakness-his hurt and his pain he can’t entirely banish from his mind. (Oh I’ve tried to do the same.)

-It bleeds into his interactions with Chairon and Gadriel despite his best efforts to not let it happen (why he’s somewhat standoffish and reserved)

-He doesn’t trust chairon or gadriel enough to give them the full picture. (So he tells them it was his penance. He probably believes that.) After the ending, he thinks he’ll tell them one day.

-he really needed to hear that Calgar tried so hard to bring him home. It would have ate away at him otherwise.

IN SUMMARY:

-Titus is hurt, tired, pushed beyond his reasonable limits and very confused. Now that some things have been cleared up, he really needs a break in between the fighting. He needs a space marine Power Nap. It’s remarkable that he’s even lived this long. That’s ultra blueberry plot armor for you.

[brattybottombunny]

.

[seonghwaddict]

save a horse, ride your best friend — song mingi

in which your best friend can’t believe you’ve never ridden a dick before, so he takes it upon himself to teach you.

best friend!song mingi x fem!reader. requested by anon. genre. slight fluff. smut. best friends to friends with benefits. warnings. explicit sexual content mdni, inexperienced!reader, thigh riding, fingering, use of a dildo, big dick!mingi, multiple orgasms, unprotected, creampie, swearing, nicknames (baby, angel, pretty). wc. 4k. rating. mature.

lilo’s notes. this was requested a while ago but i’ve been putting it off because… i’ve never written anything about toys being used so uh, i was worried about the pacing and stuff. i wasn’t sure if you meant for them to be in an established relationship, so i went for the fwb route. IMPORTANT!!!! i lost access to my google account bc of a stupid mistake, if you sent in a request through my google form and would still like me to see it, please send it as an ask <33 i remember a few of them, but do send yours in just in case!!

listening to. need to know, doja cat // if u think i’m pretty, artemas // moonlight, kali uchis

masterlist.

it was a regular saturday evening. you were on a video call with your best friend, mingi, talking about anything that came to mind as you each ate a bowl of ramen as if you were really in the same room. he really only lived a couple buildings away, a two minute walk at most, but actually joining you in your apartment didn’t cross his mind until something interesting was brought up.

you weren’t sure what led to the conversation, but somehow it steered into the direction of something less innocent as you found yourself talking about an embarrassing date you’d gone on a while ago. recounting the story, laughing together, soon turned into a conversation about what each of you like in bed.

“oh, it’s just amazing,” mingi laughed as he gulped down a mouthful of water, momentarily pausing his rambling about how much he loves it when someone rides his dick. he ran a his hand through his short, washed-out pink hair, “honestly, my favourite thing ever since it probably feels just as good for whoever is, y’know, riding.”

based on everything he’s said so far, you came to the conclusion that he was more into giving than receiving, that he got off on seeing all the pleasure he can give his partner. so, it made sense he’d choose to mention the fact that riding him would feel good. not that you would know.

“can i admit something?”

he looked up from his bowl, sharp eyes looking almost hopeful as he nodded.

you looked around your kitchen jokingly, pretending to make sure no one sense was listened as you leaned closer a whispered, your hand cupping the side of your mouth.

“i’ve never done that before.”

his jaw dropped at that, letting out a small laugh. “you’re kidding.”

“no, really,” you insisted, going back to eating casually as if you were having the most normal conversation in the world with your best friend, “i really haven’t done… much, so i can’t confirm or deny your theory.”

“huh.” he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he thought for a moment. his head tilted and it was then that you felt how warm your cheeks felt, how your thighs were pressed together under the counter. of course, he was well aware of the fact that you had much less experience than him, only knowing about two people you had slept with. but damn. he clicked his tongue and shook his head ever so slightly. “that won’t do.”

furrowing your eyebrows, you opened your mouth to ask him what he had meant by that. he beat you to it before you could get a word out.

“i can… teach you, if you want?”

you blinked at your screen, resting your wrist on your countertop and gripping your chopsticks a little too hard. a silence followed his offer, though it wasn’t awkward. in fact, he could see you genuinely considering it as you thought it over. eventually, you gave him a tiny nod.

“i mean,” you shrugged, shifting your eyes away shyly, “sure, i guess. why not?”

he grinned, trying to hide it as he shoved a mouthful of noodles into his mouth and shoved his bowl aside. he chewed, swallowed then got up and made sure to bring his phone with him. you recognised his hallways then bedroom as he walked through his apartment. “i’ll be there in like 15, i need to buy something on the way. just wait there, and where something comfortable and… um, accessible.”

you nodded, despite your confusion, and he hung up. accessible? you looked down at your clothing—or rather, lack thereof. since you were home and not expecting anyone, you’d settled on wearing just a shirt you stole from mingi that was too large for him and much larger for you, and panties. you lifted the hem of the worn shirt, assessing how much of your dignity you’d lose if he saw your pink hello kitty undergarments that you only wore if you were doing laundry.

you could already hear him giggling at the sight.

groaning and cursing under your breath, you dropped the shirt and sped to your bedroom to dig through your closet in hopes of finding something a little more appealing. after making a mess of one of your closet’s drawers, you finally pulled out a pair of less offensive panties. they were made of soft cotton; a muted light blue with thin white lace trim, the cut shaped more like a bikini than what you call your grandma underwear.

deciding they were flattering enough, you slipped off your hello kitty pair—ignoring the embarrassing amount of wetness creating a wet patch right where it was pressed against your core—and replaced it with the new pair. as you untwisted the waistband and adjusted it to fit properly, your doorbell rang and you froze on the spot before pulling yourself together and heading to open the door.

the walk to the door felt abnormally long as you stumbled over on wobbly knees. admittedly, you were a little nervous. sure, there have been times where you wanted to do some more than friendly activities with mingi, but you never actually thought it was happen. yet here you were, opening the door for him so he could come in and show you what being a cowgirl feels like.

“hey,” he greeted you softly, stepping into your home and closing the door behind him. you noticed a small plastic bag in his hand, eying it curiously as you watched him kick off his shoes and hang up his coat. once that was of the way, he took one of your hands in your free one and pulled you to where he knew your bedroom was.

once there, he set the bag down on your bedside table and dragged you to stand between his knees as he took a seat on the edge of your bed. he looked you over, lingering on the familiar t-shirt.

“so you’re the one that took this shirt, huh?” he quirked an eyebrow, glancing up at you as he released your hand and brought both of his to your hips. his thumbs caressed the curve of your waist over the shirt. “it was my favourite.”

you laughed softly, “clearly you didn’t care enough if i was able to keep it for three years without you noticing.”

“you little thief.” his nose scrunched as he glared at you jokingly, giving you a gentle squeeze.

“if you really want it back, you can always take it.”

“nah, it’s fine, keep it. it looks cuter on you anyway.” he took a breath and gave you another once over, humming appreciatively when he moved his hands up higher, dragging the shirt with it until he caught a glimpse of your panties. you tensed, caught off guard by how close he felt. “i need you to relax a little, how about i help you loosen up, yeah?”

you nodded, averting your gaze but returning it to him when you felt him pull you onto his lap. he slotted one of his legs between yours, easing you down to straddle his thigh. his hands ran up and down your sides and few times before resting on your bare thighs, your breath stuttered and he held back a smile.

“are you still okay with this?” he asked quietly, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his your shirt. “if i do anything that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me and i’ll stop immediately and we can just watch a movie or something, okay?” when you only nodded, he continued, “i need you to say it, please.”

“i’m okay with this,” you muttered in return, resting you hands on his biceps, “and i’ll let you know if i need you to stop.”

“good, now…” without waiting any longer, he leaned forward to attach his lips to your neck, his hands slowly beginning to rock you back and forth on his lap.

you sucked in a sharp breath and clung into his arms a little tighter, your stomach fluttering at the feeling of your clothed cunt on his firm thigh, your panties dragging against your clit with ease thanks to how wet you already were. he lifted you slightly as he pulled you towards him, pushing you down as he pushed, the varying pressure making your lips part in a soft whimper. he nearly groaned at the sound, moving his lips right below your ear.

“you know,” he rasped between the licks and kisses, “i can’t deny that i’ve wanted to fuck you for a long, long time now.”

“r-really?”

mingi chuckled as he pulled back to look at your face, half surprised and half needy. he noticed that if he relaxed his hands, you’d continue grinding against his thigh.

“yeah, really. i mean, look at you,” he glanced down, one of his hands lifting the hem of your shirt to watch you ride his thigh slowly, a dark wet patch forming right where your leaking pussy sat. he bit his lip, “you look so perfect… and i bet you’d feel perfect, too.”

you nearly whined at that, fucking yourself on his thigh just a little faster as he sucked a dark mark right above your collarbone before returning to mutter dirty words into your ear.

“i know practically everything about you and your cute little body, you know. better than anyone else,” one of his hands inched it’s way up your thighs, brushing against the edge of your panties, “i’ll make you feel so good, angel, i promise.”

“mingi?” you whimpered, prompting him to lean back a little to look at you with a curious tilt of his head and a raised brow. “if you don’t shut up and kiss me right now, i might lose my mind so… please.”

his beautifully plump lips stretched into a smile as he wasted no time in practically pouncing forward and smashing his lips against yours. it started a little slow as you got acquainted with each other, despite the fact you could feel a nearing orgasm as a knot in your stomach drew tighter with each roll of your hips, but soon the kiss turned hungry.

he groaned into your mouth as you let his tongue explore, making you let out a quiet moan. mingi knew he wouldn’t be able to kiss anyone ever again. you, his best friend of all people, had the most inviting lips he’s ever felt. so inviting, so perfect and so soft. he thought everything about was soft. his hand slipped just under the edge of your panties as his other one made your grinds slow down.

you didn’t mind the slow pace, knowing just a few more rocks of your hips would have you tipping over the edge. but he evidently had other plans as he finally made your hips still completely. you pulled away from his lips with a pout. if you were trying to make him feel bad, it backfired terribly.

all he could think of as he looks at your swollen, red, wet, pouty lips is how much prettier they’d look wrapped around his cock. but he could save that for another time.

“there’s no need to rush, baby,” he chuckled, wiping some saliva away from your bottom lip.

eventually, when he was sure you had calmed down enough, he lifted you off his lap a little and turned to lay you down on your back, pressed against the comfortable mattress as he kneeled on the edge. he gripped your knees and bent them, pushing them closer to your chest with his eyes zeroed in on where your slick was leaking through your panties.

with one hand keeping your knees together and elevated, he ran his other over the fabric, pressing down on where he knew your clot would be and elicit a sweet little moan as you squirmed beneath him. he thought you were so cute like this, you looked so flustered as he gave you nothing but featherlight touches where you needed him most. for now.

“don’t get all shy on me now,” he cooed as he glanced up and noticed you covering your face with your hands, “let me see you, pretty.”

he didn’t continue his touches until you finally removed your hands, giving him a nice view of your abused lips and round eyes, pupils blown wide with lust in a way that had something stirring in his abdomen. and his pants.

he let down your knees for a moment so both of his hands could slip under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs. he actually moaned when he saw the strings of arousal clutching onto the fabric as he dragged it away, snapping when he got too far.

“you’re so pretty, baby,” he murmured, watching your entrance squeeze around nothing, making more slick drip out.

after tossing it aside, he wasted no time in getting your knees back to the previous position and running his fingers through your folds.

“oh, fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as you let out a moan when he tapped against your clit, “you’re soaked.”

he glanced up at you, wanting to see your face as he slowly pushed in too fingers and catching a glimpse of your hard nipples poking through your shirt. your face contorted for s fraction of s second before relaxing, your head tipping back against the mattress as you let out a whine.

he choked back a moan at the tight walls around his middle and ring fingers, the fingers of his other hand digging into your thighs. “sh-shit… you’re so tight. i’m gonna have to stretch you out first, okay?”

you nodded mindlessly, too distracted by his fingers prodding at your sweet spot to care about any words he may have said. but you furrowed your eyebrows and lifted your head when you felt both his hands leave you, finding him reaching for the bag. your curiosity outweighed your disappointment as he pulled something out.

it was a dildo. about as thick and long as the biggest person you had before, and made of what looked to be transparent silicon. your insides tightened at the sight, somehow the thought of him seemingly buying this just for you turning you on even more.

he returned to kneeling at the edge of your bed, leaning down to loop his arm around your waist and lift you up to place a pillow under your hips before letting lay back down.

“couldn’t find one my size, but this should be fine,” he held the dildo and ran the tip through your pussy, collecting wetness as you shuddered, “my cock will just have to stretch you the rest of the way.”

you breath hitched at the implication of his words. so he was bigger than that? your thighs pressed together at the thought of being completely stuffed by him. he chuckled, separating your knees enough for him to have a clear view of your pussy, pulsing and dripping and begging for his attention.

he began slipping the toy into you, filling you up inch by inch and watching your needy hole stretch around it and swallow it up. the sight had him choking back a moan, biting down on his bottom lip.

the stretch had your back arching and pushing yourself against it desperately, feeling like that alone could get you to finish. it only took a few deep strokes for your pussy to get used to the size, squeezing and writhing around it until you couldn’t handle it anymore. your arousal coated it quickly and seeped out with each stroke, squelching sounds filling the room that shot straight to his dick.

when you finally came, your toes curled and your body twitched as you let out a string of and whines and moans, little curses slipping between. he watched with fascination as you came undone right beneath him, not wanting to wait any longer to be inside you. he shoved the toy deep inside you, leaving it there as he leaned back for a moment to discard his clothes, slipping his hoodie and sweatpants off.

when you were brought back to your senses, you found yourself on his lap again, straddling his hips this time as he sat with his back against your headboard. you felt his erectile straining against his boxers and pressing against your core. you couldn’t help but rock your hips against his slowly.

“do you ever ride your pillow?” he asked suddenly, voice dropped what felt like two octaves lower than his regular tone. your eyes widened at the question but you nodded. he nodded too, his hands finding your ass and helping you grind against his clothes length. “this is a lot like that, except you have something in you… and it’s more of an up and down movement… and i’m obviously not a pillow… still, there’s really no right way to do it, just go slow and you’ll figure out what works and what doesn’t. plus, i’m here to guide you.”

he gave your ass a squeeze as if to punctuate his sentence, massaging the soft flesh in his palms. when you felt ready, you dropped your hands from his shoulders to his boxers, palming his length a few times before hooking your fingers into the fabric and dragging it down until his cock sprung out.

he definitely wasn’t lying when he said it would stretch you more than the already-big dildo. he was definitely a lot bigger than anyone else you’ve been with, well over average. you nearly dropped at the sight, wrapping your hand around him and jerking him off, eyes fixated on the angry red tip leaking precum as you passed your thumb over it.

the muscles of his abs rippled and squeezed as your worked your hands on his cock, his head thrown back against the headboard and letting out stuttering moans. all the sounds he made encourage you to sit up on your knees, guiding him through your folds and whimpering as you finally sank down on him carefully.

the two of you moaned at the same time, him at how well you squeezed around him and you at how well he stretched you. you stopped when you reached just halfway, unsure whether or not you’d be able to fit more. his hips jerked slightly as his hands squeezed your hips.

“come on, baby,” he moaned softly, looking up at you with encouraging eyes, “just a little more… we can make it fit, right? just breathe.”

you nodded and as you took a deep breath, he used his hold on your to sink you further down until he finally bottomed out. he cursed silently, the back of his head finding the headboard again as you whined and dropped yours onto his shoulder.

you felt his tip pushing against your cervix, the new feeling making a lump form in your throat as you blinked back tears. this time it took a while to get used to the stretch before you tried grinding back and forth. it was slow, almost painfully so. he was amazed that despite stretching you with two different things, you were still so unbelievably tight, hugging him in a death grip as your raised your hips an inch before dropping down again.

your soft noises were muffled by his shoulder as your hands rested on his biceps, panting and squeezing gently as every inch of him dragged against the sensitive spongy patch in your walls every time you grinded on him. soon enough you were able to lift yourself to his tip and drop all the way down, your wetness letting him slip in and out with ease.

still, you kept the pace torturously slow, savouring each bounce and grind. his hands had left your hips at some point, exploring your body under your shirt, massaging your breasts and tweaking your nipples. he lifted the fabric but kept it on your as he watched your tits bounce temptingly, your puffy pink nipples making his mouth water as he pushed himself forward to take one into his mouth.

your hips stuttered as he sucked and nibbled at your nipples, throwing your head back and arching into his touch as your grinds grew sloppy. he felt your decreasing pace, using the hand that wasn’t teasing your other breast to guide your hips once more. he angled you slightly differently in a way that made your clit press against his pelvis each time he bottomed out, the speed of your grinds picking up quickly as his hips bucked up to meet yours.

his lips detached from your bruised breasts with a popping sound as he leaned up to capture your lips in his once again. it wasn’t much of a kiss, more teeth and tongue and moans and groans than anything else as you swallowed each other’s sounds.

you finished first, pushing yourself down hard and stilling, filling yourself with his throbbing cock and pressing your clit against him. he held you tightly, burying his face in your neck to suck at all the spot he knew would get your to writhe. many tickling fights contributed to his knowledge on all your sensitive spots.

your body twitched as you returned to bouncing on his length, your juices looking at his base. the overstimulation burned a little, making your thighs and knees quiver, but you were determined to get him to finish too. and by the looks of it, it shouldn’t take much longer.

“shit, baby,” he said, halfway between a whimper and a moan, fingertips digging into your hips as he threw his head back in bliss, “‘m so close— fuck, you feel s-so good.”

his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, bottom lip caught between his teeth. his cheeks and the tip of his ears flushed a deep red, his plush lips a few shades darker and coated in your mixed saliva from your kisses. as you adjusted the angle of your hips, something in him snapped, grabbing your hips tighter and taking over. he took over your movements, thrusting his hips up desperately as you fell forward onto his chest with the sudden change in intensity. his tip pushed itself against your g-spot continually, another knot tightening in your stomach.

the wet sounds of your cunt and your skin slapping against his egged him on until finally he felt like he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“baby, p-please— fuck— please, can i cum i-inside you?” he begged through a groan, “i— please, angel, i-i can’t wait any longer.”

you nodded against his chest with a whine, you were on the pill anyway. not a second later, he released into you, filling you up with stuttering hips. he pulled you down, flush against him and keeping you there as he emptied himself with softly muttered curses, his head dropping to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder.

it felt new to you, the warmth making you squirm until you came again without warning. it was much weaker this time but still enough to make you shake in his arms, panting softly after letting out a strangled moan against his skin.

after a few long moments of trying to recover from the shared orgasm, he lifted his head, one of his hands cupping your chin to tilt your head to look at him.

“so,” he started, lips stretched into a smile, “how’d that feel?”

“fucking amazing.” you rolled your eyes at how smug he looked after your confession, not protesting as he leaned forward to kiss you.

this one was much softer than the previous kisses you shared, much more tender. it was a lot shorter too, he pulled away first to rest his forehead against yours.

“yeah?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your lips, “just wait until i hit it from the back.”

networks. @cromernet @wonderlandnet @cultofdionysusnet @pirateeznet

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl @likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd @coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf

[curryshesus]

jeon jungkook fics that had me going feral

hi guys, here's a part 2 to my favorite jjk fics on tumblr! note that many of these fics contain 18+ content. you are responsible for the content you consume! as always, if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, please take a moment to send some love to the authors! part 1 | other bts members

➺ cold nights & blurred lines - by @awrkive

summary: jungkook and you have been in a sexual relationship with each other for four months now, and it’s casual for the most part. but as time passes, you can’t help but feel that some of the lines suddenly got blurred in the process. is it a cliché to blur the lines with your fuck buddy? it definitely is. will you do something about it? both of your emotional constipation have a hard time saying yes.

➺ night crawlers - by @alphabetboyluvr

summary: jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

➺ this is how you fall in love - by @jeonqkooks

summary: after years of drinking and clubbing most days of the week and leaving every gig with a different girl on his arm, jungkook feels what it’s like to want someone with his entire being.

➺ the dilf installments - by @mercurygguk

summary: this series follows jungkook’s life as a divorced father. but wait, how exactly does one balance being a father, a boyfriend, a friend, and a respectable boss at the same time? read the installments below to find out!

➺ ultimatum - by @parkmuse

summary: your pervy, idiotic boyfriend just so happens to also be your friendly neighborhood Spider-man (in bed).

➺ a hero's journey - by @hansolmates

summary: jungkook and jisoo are the mightiest power couple. however, one drunken confession and that whole facade fades in an instant. you realize that maybe you need to break from your unvaried life for a bit and be the hero of your own love story

➺ tempest - by @kooktrash

summary: you’ve always considered your life to be more mundane than you would like to admit. it was a constant cycle of the same things over and over again that when you meet jeon jungkook at a bar, of all places, you didn’t expect to see just how much he would change your life and those around you. he’s got an air of mystery around him with his charming good looks and a violent past that you slowly begun to unravel when it feels like everything is going perfect.

➺ by its cover - by @gimmesumsuga

summary: the one where Jungkook makes a horrifically bad first impression.

➺ slow dancing - by @yoonia

summary: when your countdown appeared on your wrist right in the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you had thought that perhaps the universe was on your side, especially since the final seconds were already ticking so soon. You just never expected to have your first meeting with your soulmate to be the day when you had to let him go. But hope was not lost when you still found love without the bond, and Jungkook showed you that it was possible to find happiness beyond the system that was written for you. Except that the universe doesn’t seem to have enough of its game, when your past sacrifice comes back hitting you straight in the face, just when you had believed that you had written off the perfect ending to your bittersweet tale.

➺ e s p r e s s o - by @joonberriess

➺ hold me closer - by @ahundredtimesover

summary: when you're asked to look after your parents' house and meet them before they go on vacation, you, Jimin, and Jungkook take the trip to your hometown of Busan and relive memories of your youth. While your new relationship has you feeling like a lovesick teenager with all the affection that Jungkook shows you, you're still you - a professional trying to make it in the corporate world, and an eldest child trying not to disappoint her parents. And that turns out to be your undoing, as a little blunder causes a rift between you and Jungkook, resulting in a trip that you might as well have messed up… Not if your brother can help it, though.

[noemilivv]

What the…

HAZBIN HOTEL CAST are like as …

PARTNERS !! (and before that!)

Includes: Charlie Morningstar, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Alastor, Sir Pentious, Husker, Niffty, Lucifer Morningstar, Adam, Lute

Warnings: Swearing, S1 spoilers, sexual references, mentions of abuse, mentions of Valentino, messy, barely proofread

Also side note, if this is highly enjoyed, I will do a Part 2 with more characters!

Charlie Morningstar

Crush!Charlie is a bit obvious. Not TOO obvious, but maybe if you squint hard enough…

Crush!Charlie has a tendency to show extra attention to you, especially if you’re a resident at the Hotel who’s trying to go up to Heaven.

Example: You’re the first person she asks if they need help, invite for a group activity, etc

Despite the fact that Crush!Charlie is really eager to confess her feelings, she truly does find value in getting to know you as a friend first.

She believes that it has its perks, which it does.

Crush!Charlie enjoys getting to know your hobbies, interests, past, strengths, all of it.

But as you are going off on your usual yap sesh about your face topic …

Crush!Charlie can’t help but peck you on the cheek, you’re cheeks just look so squishy and cute!

You’re stunned… You would’ve never thought that.. Charlie? Likes you? Pffff… Ain’t no way!

Crush!Charlie scrambles to explain to you her genuine feelings, and how she’s wanted to be with you for a long time, and scrambles again to ask you if you feel the same.

Now it’s your turn to shut someone up with a kiss.

You give her a drawn out peck on the lips, not too short, but not too long. Just enough to satisfy.

And yes, you do feel the same.

Now GF!Charlie is totally stoked! But she’s also a bit scared of the shoes she has to fill.

GF!Charlie decides to give you a little candy bouquet (that she made!)! Honestly it’s the cutest frickin thing, it has little chocolates and lollipops like AAA get me a Charlie!

GF!Charlie decides to introduce you to her dad, sure you guys have crossed paths a few times, but like, formally this time.

At first Lucifer is intimidated by you (not that he’d admit that), similar to the rivalry he had with Alastor.

But after awhile, he warms up to you, at the end of the day he loves his daughter, and he sees that you do to. So long as you treat Charlie good and you like rubber ducks, he’s chill with you :)

GF!Charlie’s love language is gift giving and physical touch!

On one hand, she loves giving gifts, it’s very soothing for her to go out and find something to give you, or coming up with an idea to make something for you, it takes her mind off of things

But at the other end of the scale, she loves receiving physical touch, she kinda freezes when she does because it’s so much to her but at the same time she enjoys it dearly! Even something as simple as rubbing her hand with your thumb while handling hands, long hugs, or hand kisses send her into a spiral haha

At the end of the day, GF!Charlie loves you a ton and honestly is just happy to be there loving you lol

Vaggie

When Crush!Vaggie realizes she has a crush on you, it’s a bit of an ‘Oh Shit’ moment, y’know?

Due to her secret, and the fact that she has a bit of trust issues, they just don’t go hand-in-hand with love.

Crush!Vaggie is a bit dependent on you to make the first move, but that doesn’t mean she won’t, but she needs you to throw a few jabs first.

The more her crush on you stays and the more she doesn’t do about it, the more it starts to bug her

Crush!Vaggie decides one day she doesn’t know how much more of the subtle flirting and eye contact from across the room she can take, cause deep down, she has a gut feeling you like her too.

So, Crush!Vaggie decides she’s going to confess.

When it comes down to it, obviously you feel the same, and she really wants to make an impact right away!

Now GF!Vaggie decides to plan a little surprise for you, a date!

GF!Vaggie decides to just take you out to the back of the hotel and you two lay down and look at the night sky (as I’m not sure if there’s stars in Hell tbh.)

You two sit there and talk, it gets vulnerable for a bit, slowly but surely starting to break down eachothers walls… But not for too long before one of you is like “NOPE, too much emotions for one day!” haha

At the end of the day, GF!Vaggie, isn’t perfect at this whole girlfriend thing, but for you? She’ll sure as hell try.

Angel Dust

Like Vaggie, Crush!Angel is tempted to “NOPE” out, after falling into Val’s trap, he’s hesitant to try again.

But soon enough Charlie shows him that opening up got her an amazing girlfriend, so he decides, hey, might as well right?

Crush!Angel goes out of his way to obnoxiously flirt with you, but you thought this was normal behavior, as he does it with basically everyone at the hotel.

Crush!Angel thinks it’ll take time, but you’ll catch on, and well… not exactly…

One day, Crush!Angel comes back from a long shoot, and he pulls a good, classic flirt on you, and poof! Right over your head!

And he doesn’t know what got in him, maybe the alcohol, maybe Valentino, maybe the buildup stress, who’s knows, but he snaps…

Crush!Angel proceeds to go off about how he’s always flirting with you and how he just doesn’t get how you’re so blind that you just can’t see it!?

And you start to laugh, which at first makes him more mad.

“Well how was I supposed to know if you flirt with everyone here? I thought it was normal!”

And with that, you walk away, leaving him bamboozled.

The night goes on as normal, you head up to your hotel room, and just as you’re about to turn lights out you hear a knock on your door and a voice from the outside.

“So do you wanna fuck me too, or no?”

The next day, you and Crush!Angel have a talk over a drink or two, and decide, not only do you two wanna fuck, you also want to date!

Now BF!Angel is a bit nervous, but don’t fret! He has that feeling in his stomach that makes him want to grin like he’s never grinned before.

BF!Angel’s love languages are quality time and words of affirmations, considering all that Val can do to him in a day, he doesn’t love being touched without consent, but that doesn’t mean touch is off limits by any means! Just ask and he’ll give it to you!

And for quality time, you and BF!Angel don’t really go out for dates, considering how fans (and Val) are, also considering the fact that he just wants a break from life.

Instead, you two usually just spend time in eachothers hotel rooms, binge shows, give eachother makeovers, play dress up, just being the kids you never got the opportunity to be.

And once he sees that Fat Nuggets likes you, he knows you’re the one.

Alastor

When Crush!Alastor first realizes he has feelings for you, he makes a mental note and goes on with his day.

He doesn’t really understand the point in fussing about it like most do, but then again, he’s not most people.

Crush!Alastor does thoroughly enjoy spending time with you though, he likes to just sorta keep you around.

He sticks up for you, if somebody gives you a problem, it will be handled, even if it’s a bit sadistic, he will do it everytime.

Crush!Alastor doesn’t feel the need to confess directly, but if you ask him how he feels about it, he won’t deny his feelings towards you!

So whenever Crush!Alastor becomes BF!Alastor, he does lay down some ground rules, as a relationship with him, will not be the same as a relationship with others.

BF!Alastor is a gentleman, no doubt. He opens any door that you may come across (car, building, whatever), he asks for consent before doing anything — however intimate it may be, and he does buy you flowers.

But, that does not mean BF!Alastor is perfect, he’s not the most physically affectionate, unless he initiates it himself, and he’s not great with feelings.

If you’re upset, he tries to stay away, not because he doesn’t care, but because most of the time he’ll keep his upbeat energy and act like nothings wrong in attempts to cheer you up — but sometimes that’s just not what you need.

But, BF!Alastor kicks in eventually, and turns on some calming music, turns his radio affect down in volume so the sound doesn’t overwhelm you, and give you a nice, long hug as you two sway around the room.

By far, BF!Alastor’s love language is acts of service and quality time.

BF!Alastor honestly adores spending time with you, you’ve made him feel more alive than he has in years, and he follows you around like a puppy, but he makes it look like you following him around rather than the other way.

And he’ll always do things for you, even if he doesn’t understand them. If they make you happy, he might as well get started on doing them, because he can’t go awhile without seeing your darling face and your beautiful smile.

Sir Pentious

Crush!Pentious is… very… obvious.

But you don’t say anything, cause he’s adorkable.

You watch day after day out of pure adoration as Crush!Pentious tumbled over his words and changes his mind as he tried to make a move, and you loved every second of it.

This went on for awhile, and you started to notice his little quirks, which only made you fall for him more.

Eventually, one day after Crush!Pentious had tried to subtly say that he liked you, you decided to do him a favor.

“Pen.”

“I like you too.”

“I- UHM- WELL- YOU’RE- I- UHM-”

Yeah maybe that didn’t go how you thought it would…

Well in more ways than one, cause Crush!Pentious became BF!Pentious that day!

BF!Pentious was really nervous, he finally had you! But he didn’t wanna lose you cause he did something stupid either… He had to make the perfect move!

So he ended up asking Charlie to ask you a bunch of relationship related questions, and ending up deciding on your dream date with your favorite flowers. Basic, but gets the job done right?

BF!Pentious’ love languages are gift giving and physical touch. Like please cuddle him. He’ll get pouty if you don’t notice. So just notice already!!

BF!Pentious, like Charlie, loves making you gifts! He uses his knowledge from war machines to make something homemade and honestly it’s just the sweetest thing!

Is he perfect? Yes. But for this let’s say no. Does he try? Also yes!

Husker

Crush!Husk can’t even remember the last time he had a crush, but he’s chill with it.

Crush!Husk never planned on officially confessing to you, he just was going with the flow, ya know?

You start talking to him and realize maybe you like him too, but it wasn’t thought about much more than that.

It’s not until Angel asks you, “So are ya fucking or no..?”

And it makes you think, no, but you wouldn’t mind if that were arranged.

So one night, while you’re drunk and talking to Crush!Husk, you say… “Y-Ya knOW! We- We should HAHAH get together! HEHEHEH!” “Talk to me when you’re sober, you’re not making a stupid decision, I won’t let ya.”

And somehow, someway, you remembered that in the morning. So with a headache from your hangover, you go up to Husk’s bar and sit down, “What are we?” “Whatever you want us to be.”

From then on, Crush!Husk became BF!Husk!!

BF!Husk always made sure to look out for you. He’s the ‘defend you in public, correct you in private’ kinda guy.

BF!Husk is big on words of affirmation and acts of service.

He won’t hesitate to tell you how much he loves and cares for you whenever you need it, he’s a very honest guy, but he also loves doing little things to show that he cares.

‘Oh, I did the dishes for you.’ or ‘I cleaned your room.’ or ‘I folded your laundry.’ are things you hear daily.

Niffty

Crush!Niffty is another one that’s very obvious, and quite frankly, she doesn’t care.

Crush!Niffty has been open to you about her feelings since day one, and you make sure she knows you feel the same way.

So basically instantly, she becomes GF!Niffty.

GF!Niffty loves physical touch and acts of service.

She loves cleaning for you, and showing you all her accomplishments. But she also loves hugging you, kissing you, just being next to you is enough.

Life isn’t much different versus life with Crush!Niffty but you love it regardless, and you wouldn’t trade either life for anything.

Lucifer Morningstar

Crush!Lucifer doesn’t really have that shock of realizing he likes you, cause he always has and has always known.

You were the one person who was there after Lilith, even if it was only platonic back then, you were still there.

Crush!Lucifer REALLY likes you and considering how long he’s liked you (literal years) he decides to just man up and say it.

Unsurprisingly, you feel the same way and you two start dating.

BF!Lucifer doesn’t want to lose you like how he lost Charlie and Lilith, so he’s very certain that he gives you everything he thinks you derserve.

BF!Lucifer is a big jumble of all the love languages at once because of this. But I think he leans towards physical touch and words of affirmation.

BF!Lucifer is constantly in need of reassurance as he feels like he’s not enough due to his depression, and also hugs, because y’know, hugs help.

If you have a good relationship with Charlie, which you should, like cmon, he’s ecstatic! And sometimes he needs your help with parenting cause he really wants to try his best for you, and her.

Adam

Adam and you started off just fucking for fun, and fucking for fun turned into, friends, friends turned into- woah… it turned into a crush…

Crush!Adam is fucking clueless, he’s not good with this stuff, just guitar solos (FUCK YEAAHH).

During Charlie’s meeting with Heaven, he slips you a note…

Hey hot babe,

wanna do more than just fuck? (date)

And my God, you better accept because THAT is ART.

BF!Adam is far from perfect, but damn close. He really cares. But his main love languages are quality time and physical touch.

I mean cmon, he’s not great with his words, he can’t do much other than fight, he’s ass at giving gifts (he tried to give you a dildo once). So it’s really the only thing he’s good at, he can sit there, and touch you. That’s about all he knows how to do!

At the end of the day, BF!Adam really tries his best, he loves you, after all :)

Lute

Considering the fact you’re Lute’s boss, she spends a lot of time with you.

And because of that, she starts to develop feelings.

Crush!Lute realizes she has a crush on you almost immediately, although she hesitates to tell you, due to how much you guys are together and her job.

But after awhile, she has a bit of a ‘screw it’ moment.

And boom! She turns into GF!Lute.

GF!Lute is a whole new version of the person you had gotten to know. Her wild side comes out, unlike her normal stoic side. (Example: “RIP VAGGIES CUNT MOUTH OUT ‘ER ASS!!!”)

Also side note, GF!Lute is committed as fuckkk. Once she’s there, she’s there for good, cause she loves you!

— END.

Hello! This is my first Hazbin post! I haven’t written for these characters in a solid year so I hope it’s alright! As I said up top, if this gets a lot of love, then I’ll do a part two (Which will include Cherri and the Vees to name a few~) ! Also don’t mind my Lute bias lmao, she’s my fav, she’s so hatable but idgaf and I love her vibe lmao! I’m hyperfixating on Hazbin since the first season just came out lmao! So please send requests! Love ya :)

[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.)