#moral of the story: alcoholism rules!

[smugaltruist]

On a separate note, does anybody have any good character-focus AO3 fanfics for Yumi?

Cuz when in doubt, fanfic-fix it out!

Character Story - Yumi [RGGO]

After a couple weeks of seeing babies, I am back to online classes :D I’ve had half of this done for months, but in the end the motivation I needed to finish this in a week was 1) people still waiting for it, and 2) the fact that there is absolutely no Kansai speak here after how hard doing Minami’s was XD Thank you to @arysthaeniru​, @snuggetfish​, and @integralcalculus​ for voting for Yumi! Sorry for how long it took!

(Don’t be fooled by the card picture, this does not take place in 2005 :< )

Story: Yumi works at Serena with another hostess and feels inadequate in comparison up until said hostess leaves to join a prostitution ring, at which point she reveals her secret ability.

Notes: 耳が痛いわ or “my ears hurt” - means something like “that’s painfully true” (spiritually, it probably means “haha oof yeah”).

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CHAPTER 1

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Keep reading

[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.)

[shixcherie]

Damsel In Stress | Jeong Yunho & Song Mingi ☆

~ ~ call me chérie ☆

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☆ Day 04 : Bodyguards, Shower Sex

↬ [ Synopsis ] : When your bodyguards, devilishly handsome and undeniably sexy, promise you a night to remember, you take it all in stride. Whether it’s bending the rules or indulging in steamy shower sex, you’re ready to embrace the thrill, surrendering yourself completely to the experience.

Word Count : 3.9k Genre : Smut, Angst, Bodyguard Au. Pairing : Bodyguard! Yunho x F.Reader x Bodyguard! Mingi

WARNINGS : Pure smut, shower sex, double penetration, dom/sub undertones, multiple orgasms, praise, petnames ( doll and princess), playful banter and flirting, big dick agenda, mention of alchol and drug consumption.

Tag list OPEN! - let me know if you want to be tagged for this Kinktober list

☆☆☆ NOTE : Day 4 is here, and this is huge just like our handsome boys, Yunho and Mingi. :P . Hope you enjoy this ma chéries. This story contains themes related to alcohol and drug use. Reader discretion is advised.

“Yunho, ahh... keep going, please don’t stop” you cried as Yunho mercilessly pounded deep into you, his thrusts turning your brain to mush. “So good, princess, taking us so well.”

Us? Did he just say “US”?

“Is this what you wanted, doll?” Mingi's deep voice purred from behind, sending a shiver down your spine. “Feels good, doesn’t it… being taken care of like this?” His words heightened the sensation of being at the mercy of your two deliciously handsome bodyguards.

As you pieced together the situation, it felt messy, thrilling, and was definitely going to be hard to explain to your daddy.

Wait… how did you end up here?

Let’s rewind a bit.

—

Your friends called you “Damsel In Distress” for being daddy’s little princess, constantly getting saved by him and your bodyguards Yunho and Mingi and being the mischievous talk of the town. Causing trouble was not something you chose to indulge in voluntarily; it was just that wherever you went, trouble followed you like a loyal dog following its master.

Coming from an opulent family didn’t help either, because people loved to pick on someone who had everything that they didn’t and couldn’t have. Taking behind your back, purposely messing up your drinks to see daddy’s little princess act crazy, and snatching your boyfriend Mingyu were a few things that you had been dealing with for the past six months. With your best friends turning their backs on you, your situation got a thousand times worse. Bullying turned into actual harassment, and this daddy’s little princess went feral.

Up until a point, you did tolerate it; you got your dead mom’s patience after all. You didn’t want anything from a woman who cheated on your S-tier, greenest of the green flag, ultra pro max gentleman daddy, but fate had a way of shoving things down your throat that you didn’t want to be associated with at all. Hence, you were a spitting image of your mom, but the good thing was you got your dad’s behavior and morals, making you the most loyal person you would ever meet.

You were more like a “Damsel In Stress” after multiple failed relationships and a damaged reputation in university. The only people you could gawk at without getting labeled as a “creep” were your handsome bodyguards, Yunho and Mingi. Tall and handsome with Greek god-ish builds, they made anything in their vicinity appear minuscule, and your 5’3” tall frame didn’t help much.

But where your height lacked, you made up for it with your attitude (short girlies for the win). The last six months were the most nightmarish months of your whole freaking life; getting addicted to substances, smoking weed, and sneaking out at late hours to attend God knows what kind of parties became your choice of escape. Your only option.

These were the only things that somehow filled the empty void, hence your daddy decided to ignore it for a while, as long as you were safely back home at dawn, and Yunho and Mingi, being the most dutiful and uptight bodyguards, made sure of it.

Tonight was different, though.

Why? Because you met this girl online, her name’s Ryujin.

You both clicked instantly, shared similar past troubles, and were freshly single, addicted to drugs. You girlies had been planning a getaway to spend a wild night out.

Ryujin found this party happening a few hours' drive from your mansion, kinda illegal with everything from dangerous drugs to premium liquor available, but promising a wild night.

You needed that.

Hence, you sneaked out again without anyone noticing, not even your bodyguards. You sneakily tranquilized their drinks, hehe, not advisable, but kinda the need of the hour.

Then how did this perfectly well-planned night take such an unexpected turn?

You were here to forget all your sorrows, so why were you lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, disgusting, your body so limp it felt like you took a thousand fucking punches, not remembering a single thing? The last thing you remembered was Ryujin crying on her knees beside you, fear calling your bodyguards. Yes, they were saved on speed dial just so you could escape out of situations like these without daddy noticing it.

But what happened with you? Did you drink too much? Ingest something so strong that it blacked you the fuck out?

A thousand questions swirled around your mind as darkness took over. You could feel yourself being picked up off the cold and dirty bathroom floor, Ryujin thanking Yunho as he offered to drop her back home, which she declined sweetly, mentioning she could drive back as she had bought her car and had almost sobered up. Fucking traitor! Why call them?!

Wait, Yunho?! What about your drugged drink? Did it not work on them? Who the fuck is carrying you? Is it Mingi? Not complaining at all; you had dreamt of moments like this.

But when—how did they know—why—what the actual motherfucking fuck is this mess?

Yeah, your intoxicated brain couldn’t handle any more, and you passed out.

When the tiniest consciousness slipped into your brain, you opened your eyes to gaze upon the glorious sight in front of you: fine-as-freaking-wine men driving you somewhere.

“What are you guys doing here?” you asked, even if you knew what was going to come your way. “Aren’t you both supposed to be... umm... sleeping?”

It's our job to take care of you.

“It’s our job to look out for you, doll” Mingi replied with a small smile,just the way you expected, his deep voice slightly registering in your intoxicated mind, and huh, did he just call you doll?

“Sleeping? That’s cute. Aren’t you supposed to be in bed by now, princess?” Yunho asked you, a smug look adorning his face, still not answering your question, his sexy smirk visible from the rearview mirror.

What the fuck with these nicknames?

“Guess the dosage wasn’t strong enough, huh?” Mingi chipped in, his handsome frame in the driver’s seat way too distracting for you to register whatever the fuck he said, something along the lines of dosage being strong.

Huh?! You just got caught. Is there a way out of this? Will daddy find out? Will you be punished?

“He-hehe, what dosage are you talking about?” you nervously laughed, thinking of what to say next.

“Can we not play dumb anymore, princess?” Yunho teased, giving you a look that clearly said daddy’s princess just got caught. “Sorry to disappoint you, but boys don’t take naps on the job.” That sealed the deal for you; even the freaking drug betrayed you.

Your lips formed a thin line, your mind made up that any more excuses you planned on coming up with were not going to work on them anymore. You sighed in defeat, earning a chuckle from both of them.

A piercing silence fell over the car, soon replaced by a thick tension that made you shift uncomfortably in your seat, filthy thoughts flickering through your mind like a movie reel.

Was it the sexual frustration building up over the last six months, or the effects of the intoxication? You couldn’t pinpoint it.

But every time you caught Yunho's intense gaze through the rearview mirror, a jolt ran down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach. His smirk never faltered, his eyes shifting between you and the road, as if he knew exactly what was running through your head.

Mingi, sitting beside him, wasn’t any less subtle. His broad hand casually rested on the steering wheel, but his eyes would drift toward you whenever he thought you weren’t looking. That small smile from earlier still lingered on his lips, making your pulse quicken. You couldn't shake the way his deep voice wrapped around that nickname, “doll”. It felt too intimate, too... dangerous.

Why were your bodyguards acting up today? Was it the aftereffects of the drug, or perhaps... they did feel some kind of way towards you?

So, it wasn’t just you after all, was it? They had been battling with the same thoughts, the same desire simmering beneath the surface. You could feel it—thick in the air, undeniable. A flush creep up your neck, only heightening the tension.

“What’s wrong, princess? Feeling a little too warm?” Yunho teased, his voice laced with amusement as he noticed the way you shifted in your seat again.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, but there was no escaping the heat radiating from both of them.

They knew exactly what they were doing to you.

As Mingi turned down a quieter street, the path leading exactly where you feared, their house, your fears were confirmed. Or perhaps, it wasn’t fear at all... but excitement for what was about to come next.

Mingi pulled the car to a stop in front of their house, your pulse quickens heart racing a million miles in equal parts anticipation and fear, as Yunho opened the door for you, his hand reaching out to help you step down. His fingers brushed against your skin, seemingly innocent, but it sent a spark of electricity through your body.

No words were exchanged as they led you inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that had been building for months. You were halfway across the living room when Mingi’s deep voice broke the silence.

“You’re trembling, doll” he murmured, stepping closer. His proximity was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched. “Nervous? Or is it something else?”

Before you could respond, Yunho was behind you, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in. “You didn’t think you could drug us and just walk away, did you, princess?” His voice was low, teasing, and far too close for your mind to stay clear.

You turned to face him, heart hammering, but the words stuck in your throat as Yunho’s eyes darkened. In one swift motion, his lips claimed yours—demanding, taking what had been simmering between you for far too long. His kiss was messy, mind-numbing, filled with hunger. A hunger you hadn’t fully realized, or maybe one you’d knowingly ignored given the forbidden nature of your relationship with them.

Before you could catch your breath, Mingi was there. His hand gently tilted your chin toward him, his lips hovering over yours as he whispered, “We’re not finished with you yet.” The words sent a shiver through you. And before you could process the weight of them, his mouth was on yours—slow, deliberate, and utterly consuming, like he had all the time in the world.

You were experiencing things you had once only dreamed of, especially given the state of desperation you felt a few months ago. Even though you had deliberately ignored the hints Yunho and Mingi dropped, this moment felt like a culmination of all those unspoken desires.

A wave of validation washed over you, filling your heart with satisfaction as you realized that they shared the same hunger and lust that had been simmering within you for so long.The hunger that had been building for months had finally ignited, and there was no turning back.

As Mingi continued to kiss you, Yunho decided to take over your neck, decorating it with butterfly kisses. “You taste so sweet,princess” he murmured, nipping at your skin, urging pretty moans from you that were muffled by Mingi’s skillful lips.

“Is she always this responsive?” Mingi teased, pulling back slightly to glance at you, his eyes dark with desire. “We could get used to this.”

“Don’t let it go to your head” you shot back playfully, but your breath hitched as Yunho continued his trail of kisses.

Purple marks blossomed along your neck as Yunho explored further, nibbling on your earlobe before kissing you behind the ear. “You’re driving me wild,do you know that ?” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “We might just want to keep you like this forever.”

“Guess I found your sweet spot” Yunho smirked, oblivious to the way your body reacted as he kept kissing and nibbling that delicate area.

“Mhmm… Yunho… don’t stop” you gasped, earning a chuckle from him at the way his name rolled off your tongue. Your hands tangled in Mingi’s hair as he maintained his steamy kiss.

Mingi pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice low and husky. “Just imagine what else we can do to you, doll.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it” you chuckled softly, meeting his gaze. With a playful smirk, you added, “Have a feeling you two won’t disappoint me.”

Yunho caught your eye, his grin playful. “You have no idea how much we’ve been wanting this, do you?”

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you teased, “I might have had a hint… but now, I want a full demonstration.” It was true, tensions had always heightened between the three of you. But given the restrictions and the lack of loose moments like this, it had kept you from exploring each other,until now.

Mingi leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t worry, we’ll give you a show you won’t forget.”

Mingi's hands found the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly. “Let me take this off for you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as the fabric slipped away, leaving your skin bare to his hungry gaze. His gaze had you wet down south, aching to be touched and devoured.

Yunho stepped closer, his fingers eagerly working on your jeans. “You look incredible, but let’s make it even better, shall we?” he teased, his breath hot against your ear as he slid your jeans down your legs, pooling at your feet.

The cold air making contact with you sent goosebumps all over your body, excitement coursing through you.A faint sound of water running caught your ears—was it the shower? A knowing look spread across your face. Ah, so that’s what these two had been planning.

Quite steamy, you thought, and utterly exciting.

The idea of the three of you under the shower, bodies pressed together, both your holes stuffed to the brim,had your arousal pooling, your core dripping with desire.

“Figured it out already, doll?” Mingi chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes as he glanced toward the bathroom where the water was running.

“Then, princess shall not wait any longer” Yunho added, his voice low and sultry, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

Both of them took your hands, guiding you toward the bathroom. As you stood under the shower, water cascaded down your body, the heat mixing with your own as you surrendered to the moment.

Yunho's hands cupped your breasts, his touch igniting a fire within you. He played with your now-hard nipples as your head rested back on his shoulder, eyes closed, a disheveled mess with your lips caught between your teeth.

Mingi knelt before you, his gaze intense as he admired how the water glistened on your skin. “You’re absolutely breathtaking” he said, his fingers teasingly grazing your inner thighs before moving higher.

Your breath hitched as Mingi's fingers finally found your dripping core, sliding through your folds that left you gasping. “How does that feel, princess?” he asked, looking up at you with a smirk, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“Unbelievably good” you breathed, leaning back against Yunho, who continued to play with your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, making them harden under his touch.

Mingi’s fingers skillfully explored your slick heat, swirling and teasing, collecting soft moans from your lips. “Cum for us, doll. Just enjoy this moment with us” he whispered, his voice dripping with seduction as he picked up the pace, each back-and-forth movement driving you wild.

Yunho's hands moved from your breasts to your waist, steadying you as Mingi's fingers worked their magic. The tension within you built, a delicious pressure threatening to consume you.

Yunho’s breath was hot against your ear as he kissed the delicate spot, quickening your heart and serving as the final blow that made everything come undone.

With a soft gasp, you surrendered to the waves of pleasure, losing yourself completely in the moment as you released onto Mingi’s fingers.

Your head slumped against Yunho’s shoulder as he held you, and you watched Mingi lick your juices off his chubby fingers before shoving them into Yunho's mouth. The sight in front of you sent butterflies racing in your stomach; watching them taste your slick made your core throb with a desperate need for attention.

Without wasting any more time, Yunho twisted your body toward him, his lips glistening with remnants of your juices as hot water cascaded down his face. His hands pulled you closer, signaling you to jump. You wrapped your legs around his waist, a sense of urgency consuming you. In one swift motion, he thrust his hard, aching length into you, filling you completely.

“God, you feel incredible, baby” Yunho groaned, his eyes dark with lust as he relished the sensation of you around him, your walls hugging him providing a warm yet tempting sensation. He was hungry, yet he held back, waiting for Mingi to join.

Taking the cue, Mingi closed the distance, positioning himself behind you. “You ready for more, doll?” he asked, his voice low and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded eagerly, excitement pooling in your stomach.

With a firm grip on your hips, Mingi pressed himself against you, slowly pushing his cock inside your ass. “You’re so tight” he grunted, a mix of pleasure and disbelief in his voice as he slid deeper. “You’re going to feel amazing filled up by both of us.”

The sensation was overwhelming; the hot water, both your holes occupied, and the intoxicating feeling of being completely claimed by both men. You let out a breathy moan, a mix of pleasure and slight discomfort as you adjusted to the sensation.

“I’ve never felt anything like this. Boys, please move.” you gasped but responded to them, your body trembling with delight.

Yunho tightened his grip on you, his thrusts steady and deep, matching Mingi's rhythm as he began to move behind you. “Just relax and let us take care of you” Yunho whispered against your ear, his breath hot and inviting. “You’re going to love this.”

“We’ve got you, princess” Mingi encouraged, his hands finding your waist, guiding your movements as they both took you to new heights of pleasure. “Close your eyes and let loose.”

You obeyed as their pace quickened, drawing a chorus of moans from your lips, leaving you breathless. The overwhelming sensation, mixed with the heat of the water, only heightened your arousal. The boys were just as breathless, groaning with each hard thrust. Mingi's lips parted in a string of "oh my gods" as he pushed deeper inside you. You could feel him on the edge, just like your own release was building to its peak.

Suddenly, Yunho slowed his thrusts, savoring the moment as he realized both you and Mingi were hovering on the edge. “What’s the rush, baby?” he teased, his voice low and sultry. “We want to feel every single second .”

Mingi chuckled, pressing his chest against your back, his hands gripping your hips firmly. “Let’s take our time” he whispered hotly against your ear. “We want to enjoy you completely.”

The change in pace drove you wild, and you squirmed between them, desperate for more. “Please… don’t stop” you gasped, the need overwhelming you.

“Such a needy little thing” Yunho murmured with a wicked grin. “Just the way we like it.” With that, he picked up the pace again, thrusting into you harder, while Mingi added more pressure from behind, teasing and heightening the electric pleasure surging through you.

The urgency in your core built up rapidly. “I’m so close” you moaned, eyes fluttering shut as everything else faded away, only the two of them and the pleasure they gave you remained.

“I can’t hold on much longer, gonna cum.” you gasped, your body trembling between them. An urged need to release and break apart washed over you pushing you more and more and over the edge.

Yunho and Mingi exchanged knowing glances, their thrusts becoming more conssitent and delicious. “Cum for us, doll.” Mingi urged, his sultry voice in your ear. “We’re right there with you.”

With a final deep thrust from Yunho and Mingi's teasing dicks, pleasure crashed over you like a huge wave. A loud moan escaped your lips as your release hit, sending shock waves through your entire body. “Holy fuck”

Feeling you clench around him, Yunho groaned, his grip tightening. Mingi pressed against you from behind, both men overwhelmed by your powerful release had their cocks twitching for a release.

“Damn, you feel incredible” Yunho breathed, thrusting erratically. “We’re right behind you, princess.”

With one last powerful thrust, Yunho filled you, followed by Mingi, their warmth mingling as waves of pleasure crashed over you once more.

As they pulled out, you leaned back against Yunho, feeling blissfully satisfied. “Best shower ever” you murmured, wrapped in the warmth of their embrace

Truly that was the best shower and the best sex ever.

Yunho and Mingi stepped out of the shower, with Yunho carrying you. They took care of you, drying your hair and helping you get dressed before cleaning themselves up. Being taken care of like this was something you hadn’t experienced in a while, and it felt nice, you heart did a happy dance as you smiled at them, soaking their warm energy in.

Once dressed, you and Yunho settled on the living room couch, flipping through random channels on TV. Mingi soon joined, bringing refreshments, and settled on your left. The three of you cuddled on the couch, with you sandwiched between their warm, muscular bodies.

“What about my dad...?” you trailed off, the thought of explaining this to him crossing your mind as he was set to return from his business trip.

“Let’s worry about that later, yeah princess?” Yunho suggested, stealing a quick peck from your lips.

“Let’s just enjoy being together now, doll” Mingi added, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

Yeah that for the future you to worry. We’ll take care of daddy, lets enjoy the present for now.

For Now, Damsel no longer in stress.

~ ~ Chérie ☆ signin’ off

DISCLAIMER: This is totally fictional and not a real depiction of the ATEEZ members. It's all just for fun only so please don’t take anything seriously and keep the mood light around here.

© ShixCherie.

[ghostboneswrites2]

Hello! First of all I love your stories so much💖 and hope you're having an amazing day. I wanted to ask if you could write something with this, feel free to decline if not 😊

I have this idea of Daryl and the reader being a thing before the apocalypse, Merle hated his girl and left her closed in a place with loads of walkers around without D knowing(something similar to what happens to him in Atlanta) but she manages to escape and survive thanks to what D has taught her. The group at the prison helps her after finding her tiredly fighting some walkers close to there. D and M are in the woods and the scene of D's back comes and says that the reader was his saviour for staying with him even after that and that they were planning to escape and get married. They arrive at the prison and she punches M in the face and well says to D everything that happened. M gets to see how D gets around Reader and before leaving the prison says to reader to take care of his bro and "sacrifices" himself going to fight the governor, D and r found him already turned and they both cry, promising to take care of each other.

I love the detail here! Plz forgive me, this turned out way longer than I intended. Nearly 5k words! I hope I did your vision justice! It was getting pretty long so I had to cut and tweak some things but I tried make sure to include all your key details!

Separated

Summary: You and the Dixon brothers are on your way to Atlanta to find that refugee center you heard about on the radio before they stopped broadcasting. When your journey is interrupted and you and Merle get separated from Daryl, Merle impulsively leaves you trapped and stranded in fear Daryl would choose you over him if it came down to it. When you're reunited with your love, you face tragedy together.

Note: There are some time jumps here. They're labeled to hopefully avoid confusion. Also some canon dialogue <3 A lot of your backstory with the Dixons wasn't totally necessary but I was trying to create a ~vibe~

18+ MDNI || Warnings: profanity, TWD typical violence, canonically moral deficient character, death and dying, mentions of alcohol and pills

the way he cowers and shrinks away from Merle's walker makes me cry every time omg

Then:

        Things went south so fast. The three of you were traveling relatively trouble free. The guys could hunt, and Daryl had taught you a thing or two yourself, so food was never an issue. Finding water wasn't as hard as it would be later down the line. All the supplies left in homes and stores hadn't been completely ransacked yet. It was the beginning of the outbreak. With Merle's truck, Daryl's bike, some weapons and supplies, and the general survival skills you were learning from the two of them, fleeing to the city to find that refugee center had been as easy as something like that could get, until the water ran out.

        It should have been an easy pit stop. The town was small. Your grandma would have called it a 'blink of an eye' town, because when you passed towns so small on a trip they'd fly by in the blink of an eye. There was a general store right on the corner, so that was where you decided to start the search. Just some water, maybe first aide and booze. Who knew what you'd find? The truck was parked right outside the store. Daryl wanted a smoke. He said he'd meet you and Merle inside. Then the growls started. Daryl could hear them from a distance, so he knew it was a big herd. 

        None of you had had much trouble with the big groups of them yet. So far, maybe ten or fifteen at a time. You killed the ones that got too close and fled as fast as you could. No unnecessary risks, that was the rule. Merle always said if he died it would be from something cool like a police shootout or a bank robbery. He refused to go out the way those things took people out. Daryl always said he'd shoot himself before he let them get the chance to eat him alive or turn him. He'd never be a walking corpse. You? Daryl always said you were too pretty to die. You just said you were too much of a badass. 

        Daryl popped his head inside. There were only two freaks inside and they were easy enough to take down, so you and Merle were just looting by then. 

        "Incoming. We gotta head out." Daryl announced.

        "Just a second, baby brother. I'm lookin' for the whiskey." Merle said.

        "Ain't got time for that. I can hear 'em comin'." Daryl insisted. You zipped your bag up with everything you had found so far, including the water, and walked toward your broody boyfriend with a half smile.

        "There were exactly three waters left. How's that for good luck?" You said to him.

        "Why'd'ya think I keep ya 'round? You're my good luck charm." He winked before slapping the window to get Merle's attention. "C'mon, man! No unnecessary risks!" 

        You slipped past Daryl and stepped outside, throwing your bag in the bed of the truck. You could hear the moans and groans. You turned your attention in the direction of the noise and you could see the heads peeking up over a hill. Your eyes grew wide as your heart sped up.

        "Uh... Guys? We gotta go!" You called out, not taking your eyes off the herd that was slowly coming into view. You had never seen so many of them.

        "Merle, come on!" Daryl was growing more aggravated and impatient as the seconds ticked by. 

         Daryl jogged back to the truck just as Merle was emerging from the little shop. With no sense of urgency in sight, Merle just looked over the bottle of Jack he had found as he casually strolled over to the driver's side. You scooted into the middle seat and Daryl hopped in the passenger spot and slammed his door shut.

        "Hurry up, man!" Daryl urged his brother. 

        Merle grumbled some smartass remark about being afraid of 'a few dead bodies' as he cranked the engine and hit the gas, speeding away.

Now

        You were so sore. So exhausted. So ready to just give in, but you couldn't. You refused to give in that easy. Someone told you once that you were too pretty to die, and you took that to heart. 

        You kept swinging your machete at them as they closed in on you. You were cornered between a building and a fence. What the hell were you supposed to do now? You had no idea, but you were determined to figure it out. You had gotten yourself out of worse situations.

Then

        "Gon' have to circle back somewhere to get back on the interstate." Daryl informed, looking at the map.

        "I don't need a second driver." Merle waved him off. You rolled your eyes. You were glad to be surviving something so scary with the man you loved, but the third wheel was getting hard to live with. 

        "Whatever, man." Daryl huffed, turning his attention to the window instead of paying his brother any mind.

        You kept your attention on the rearview mirror, relieved to see the herd fading away as the truck rolled forward. Those things really freaked you out, especially when they were all together like that, stumbling and bumping into each other carelessly.

        A mile or so down the road, you heard a loud pop and the engine started to sputter. "Ah, hell." Merle sighed. 

        "What?" Daryl asked, leaning forward to see his brother.

        "Gas is empty." He replied, looking down at the dash.

        "Are you kiddin' me?" Daryl asked incredulously. "Ya didn't think to check before?"

        "I did check, but I thought we'd be back on the interstate by now. Plenty o' cars to siphon a li'l fuel from back there." Merle defended. 

        "Hate to raise the stakes even higher here," you interrupted. "But, that herd is gonna be catching up soon, so we need to figure something out."

        Merle shot you a sideways glance. If it was up to him he would have just left you back home and fled with his brother, but Daryl insisted on picking you up. Now, he couldn't even hop on his bike with his baby brother and sail away to safety because there wouldn't be room for you and Daryl would never agree. He wasn't the greatest brother, but he wouldn't leave Daryl behind either.

        "Wha's that?" Daryl suddenly asked, breaking the tense silence as the three of you considered your pressing circumstances.

        You both turned your attention to what the archer was pointing out. Just beyond the treeline was a small wooden structure. Some kind of shack. 

        "A house?" You wondered.

        "Nah. Shed or somethin'." Daryl figured.

        "Maybe we can hide there and let the freaks pass by. They're pretty stupid, right? Maybe they'll just keep going straight if we don't draw their attention." You suggested.

        "Won't even know we're there." Daryl agreed.

        "Well then let's quit the yappin' and get over there before they see us." Merle drawled as he pushed his door open. Daryl got out and offered you a hand while you stepped out of the truck. Your posh parents never liked him much, but they never saw what a gentlemen he could really be. You had cut ties with them long before the dead started roaming.

Now

        You were beginning to think maybe this was really the end. It really wasn't that many. Seven at the most. But you were just so tired. You lazily swung the blade into a skull and struggled to yank it out. You had climbed on top of a dumpster, so at least they couldn't reach you, but you were still trapped until you could get rid of them. You wondered how stupid it would be to take a quick nap. Surely one of them would reach you eventually. You decided against it.

Then

        Without any spoken agreement, the three of you grabbed any supplies you thought you'd need and jogged over to the dilapidated structure. It was vacant and smelled faintly of mildew and rotting wood.

        "It'll do." Merle sighed.

        "Do? This is a mansion compared to the truck." You remarked, stretching your body. You were stiff from so much sitting. 

        The three of you watched silently through the cracks in the door as the herd stumbled by with their swinging arms and dragging feet. The smell was something you couldn't get used to, and with so many of them, it was strong. You gagged quietly. Daryl rubbed a hand up and down your back when he noticed.

        The three of you really thought you were fine. You outsmarted the dead ones and soon you'd be on your way again. You had never been so wrong about anything before.

        Merle got a little too comfortable given the situation. He went and dug through his duffel for his whiskey. He had been drinking so much you wondered if his piss could get someone drunk. The entire time you'd been on the road with them, the man had managed to find liquor everywhere he went. There wasn't a single day he hadn't been drunk, and if there had been, you were sure he'd have a stash of pills to keep him feeling nice. You guessed you couldn't blame him. Shit was rough nowadays.

        When Merle found the bottle he dropped it and it shattered. After giving Merle a look that could kill, Daryl turned his attention back to the herd. A few of them were veering off. The sound had caught their attention. Only a few heard, but as they started walking toward the shed, more followed. 

        "Shit." You whispered. 

        "This place ain't gon' hold." Daryl added.

        "My Jack." Merle complained.

        "Hell with your booze, man." Daryl scoffed as some of the dead started to claw at the outside. "We gotta go."

        "Go  where, baby brother?" 

        "We could take down the few that are at the door and break for the truck."  You thought.

        "Nah, too many on the road. But we can run off that way." Daryl nodded toward the back of the shed.

        "Okay." You nodded, throwing your bag over your shoulders and readying your machete.

        Merle haphazardly hooked his duffel and cocked his pistol.

        "No guns. Too loud." Daryl reminded him.

        "Relax. It's a last resort." Daryl shrugged, tucking it unto his belt. With a nod to each other, you and Daryl kicked the door open and took down two walkers. Merle was right behind you.

Now

        Tires screeched from ahead. You looked up and saw a car. A woman and a man got out of the vehicle and rushed over, taking down the walkers with ease and precision. Gee, you thought. Bet it's nice to have someone that has your back. 

        The couple walked over to the dumpster and eyed you cautiously, glancing at each other. "You okay?" The man finally asked.

        "Could use an espresso." You quipped.

        "What's your name?" The woman inquired.

        "(Y/N)." 

        "I'm Maggie." She introduced. "This is Glenn."

Then

        Only using your energy on the ones closest, the three of you darted deeper into the woods. They followed, because they saw you and now they wanted you. 

        Only, there were more in the trees than you anticipated. Usually the woods were pretty clear save for a few stragglers here and there. These woods were not. You wondered why, but there was no time to guess. You just kept running.

        Eventually there were just too many. Daryl got pushed further and further away as more and more emerged from behind trees. When you realized you couldn't see him anymore you called for him.

        "Quiet girl! He can take care o' himself. You're drawin' more to us!" Merle hissed. You reluctantly obeyed, because you knew he was right. Daryl probably evaded them somewhere and would meet you both back at the truck.

        When the running began to take its toll and your chest started to burn, you put more of a focus on searching for somewhere to hide. To your advantage, there was an overgrown cabin not too far ahead. erle peered over his shoulder.

        "We're losin' em. Let's get inside an' wait 'em out. Daryl 'll meet us back at the truck when it passes." He strategized well for his inebriated state.

        "Okay." You breathed, just grateful for a chance to stop and rest.

Now

        "Need some help? Maggie asked, offering you a hand as you slid off the edge of the dumpster.

        "Thanks." 

        "You have a group?" Glenn wondered. Maggie gave him an unsure look. You noticed Glenn looked pretty beat up. You wondered what happened.

        "No." You said lowly. You did have people, but you were left behind. 

        "Well.." Glenn trailed off, looking to Maggie as if to silently ask what they should do with you.

        "You can come with us. Can't promise you can stay though." She spoke up.

Then

        The cabin had been vacant for a long time. Some of the old dusty furniture remained so you both sat down and just breathed. You handed him a water bottle and sipped on one for yourself while you waited. It felt like hours had gone by. It had grown dark out. Merle peeked out of the window. There were a bunch of them all around, but they had no idea the two of you were in there. It seemed like they lost their lead and just stopped, staggering around in the same spot. 

         "There's a lot of 'em, but they ain't payin' attention. I say we leave out the back an' sneak back toward the road." Merle suggested. You thought for a second. 

        "Yeah," you nodded. "Okay." 

        Just as you passed it by, Merle suddenly shoved you in a closet and shut it behind you.

        "Merle, what the fuck, man?" You complained, banging at the door. It wouldn't budge.

        "Quiet, now. Don't wanna draw in any unwanted attention." He taunted. You sighed.

        "Merle, c'mon this isn't funny."

        "'Fraid it ain't a joke, Darlin. Truck's outta gas an' my bike only carries two."

        Your heart sank.

        "Daryl isn't just gonna leave without me." You reminded.

        "He won't have a choice when I tell 'im 'bout how them dead ones took ya down." He mockingly lamented. "It was just terrible, ya know? They grabbed her. I couldn't pull'er away in time before they got to chompin'."

        "The hell, dude? Don't do this!" You begged, banging at the door again.

        "Look. Ya got your bag in there, got your weapon, got your wits. You'll figure it out." He reasoned.

        "Not if I'm trapped!" 

        "I'm sure you can kick that slab o' wood down if ya try hard enough." He was getting further away by the sounds of it. "Jus' try not to be too loud. Don't want 'em hearin' ya."

Now

        "I'd be grateful." You admitted. "I haven't had anywhere to rest in a while. I have some medicine here I'd be happy to share in exchange for a good night of rest."

        "Watcha got?" Maggie asked.

        "We actually came out her for medicine." Glenn added.

        "Some antibiotics, some Benadryl, some stuff for pain. Oh, and I found an EpiPen. I'm allergic to bees, so." 

        "Antibiotics is what we need." Maggie said.

        "Yeah, whatever you need. Thanks again."

        They still hit a few stores while you rested in their car. Maggie made sure to grab the keys just in case you tried anything, but you were too tired to try even if you wanted to. When they had found everything they thought they'd need for the prison, they drove you back. Rick and the others were apprehensive, with everything happening with Woodbury and recently losing one of their best fighters. Daryl was also their hunter, their tracker, and generally someone they all relied on.

        You explained to them that you were traveling with some people to Atlanta but they left you behind and you'd been on the move ever since. "I'd be glad to sleep outside if it makes you more comfortable." You said to Rick. "I can leave in the morning. I just really need somewhere to sleep."

        Rick studied you for an uncomfortably long time before he asked, "How many walkers have you killed?"

        "Walkers?" You asked. You'd never heard that term before.

        "The dead." He clarified.

        "Oh... I don't know, really. A lot."

        "How many people have you killed?"

        "None." You said honestly. "But there is one person I might beat to death if I ever see him again."

        "Why?" 

        "He left me stranded, surrounded by the dead."

The Next Morning

        Rick let you sleep in a separate cell block. He let you know you'd be locked in for a the night but that he'd come get you in the morning to talk. You didn't really care. You just wanted rest. 

        When he came and got you that morning you were offered a warm meal, which you gladly accepted. You made sure to give them the majority of your antibiotics as a show of gratitude. 

        Meanwhile, deep in the woods, two rednecks were hashing it out. Name calling, shoving, whatever it took to unleash all the pent up frustrations they had between each other.

        See, in all that time Daryl spent with Rick and their group, he began to find a side of himself that was suppressed with his brother around. The only person to ever make him believe he could be good was taken from him before they made it to the quarry. Merle, on the other hand, only represented everything that Daryl was trying to put behind him. Merle was capable of hurting good people or looking the other way instead of helping someone in danger. If only Daryl knew some of the things Merle had really done.

        "There was a baby!" Daryl defended as Merle laid into him for risking his own ass to save a family on a bridge.

        "Oh, otherwise ya woulda just left 'em to the biters." Merle retorted.

        "Man, I went back for ya. Ya weren't there. I didn't cut off your hand, neither. You did that. Way before they locked you up on that roof. You asked for it."

        "You know what's funny to me? Hmm? You and Sheriff Rick are like this now." Merle said, locking his two fingers together. "I bet you a penny and a fiddle o' gold you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

        "It didn't happen!" Daryl snapped. "And we woulda never had to if ya didn't let the truck run out o' gas! And my girlfriend wouldn't be dead!" Daryl's chest was heaving as his eyes stung, threatening to spill fresh tears at the thought of her. Merles eyes flashed something Daryl couldn't quite decipher.

        "It didn't happen 'cause I wasn't there to help you!"

        "When we were kids.. Who left who then, huh?" Daryl frowned.

        "What? Huh, is that why I lost my hand?" Merle rasped.

        "You lost your hand 'cause you're a simple-minded piece o' shit!" 

        "Yeah?!" Merle lost it. He grabbed Daryl by the shirt. "You don't know!"

        When Daryl fell to the ground, his shirt ripped down the back. Merle froze. His chest felt tight as he stared down at the gruesome scene left on Daryl's back from years of abuse at the hands of their father. "I -- I didn't know --"

        "Yeah, ya did." Daryl's voice cracked as he pushed himself to his feet. "That's why ya left. But (Y/N), she never left. She was always there, man. Always. She was the one who saved me. She protected me. Not you, man!" He wiped a tear as he took a breath between heated words. "We were gon' run away, gon' get the hell outta that town and get married, maybe start a family. I don't know, and I never will thanks to you!"

        He did blame his big brother for the loss of his love, but not in the way that he should have. He blamed Merle's clumsiness, carelessness, and negligence. He had no idea that Merle trapped and abandoned you.

Later

        Daryl went back home to the prison. Merle couldn't stand too watch him leave, so he followed. Guilt was starting to eat at him, gnawing away at his insides, mouthfuls at a time. He almost felt nauseous hearing about you and what Daryl had planned with you. He tried to imagine his battered baby brother in a nice little house with a wife and kids. Hell, he even tried to picture it for himself, but the image wasn't clear enough for it to seem possible. All either of them had ever known was violence and loneliness. That was why they needed each other. That was why he had to get rid of you.

        You had just finished a tour of the prison. Rick told you that you could stay for a while, but he didn't know if he trusted you as one of them. He shared a little about a rival community with a crazed leader. You understood. You never expected to stick around, even if they offered. You couldn't see yourself trusting anyone after what Merle did to you.

        You were sitting in the cell you slept in the night before, sharpening your machete and thinking about the things that you couldn't change. You heard distant voices echoing from the other block. It was some sort of confrontation from the sound of it. You snuck over to the cellblock where everyone stayed and peeked around a corner. Glenn and Maggie were blocking most of your view, but they seemed to be the most pissed off. Rick was off to the side trying to mediate.

        "You can't let him stay. Not after what he did to Glenn!" Maggie demanded.

        "He goes, I go."

        You stopped breathing. That voice sent chills up and down your spine. 

        "Okay." Rick held his hand out, attempting to set forward a solution but the room fell silent as you stepped into view. Merle noticed you first. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

        "Well, I'll shit bricks." He murmured in disbelief.

        "(Y/N)?" Daryl breathed, almost inaudibly. Your eyes were welling with tears as you stood just feet away from the man you loved.

        Daryl dropped everything and ran over to you, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you up. You couldn't even hug him back because your arms were trapped under his. All you could do was let out something between a giggle and sob.

        "Daryl." You whispered. Your body felt so perfect against his, just how he remembered. Then, it dawned on him. He set you down and turned to look at Merle, a blend of betrayal and fury flooding his eyes.

        "You said she was dead!" Daryl growled. 

        As everyone around you watched the scene before them unfold, they felt clueless. Daryl had never mentioned you because it hurt too much to bring up. Your feet began moving before you could even think. One second you were standing beside Daryl, then you blinked and you were inches away from Merle, rearing your fist back and striking his jaw with a force you didn't even know you were capable of. Merle stumbled and dropped to the ground holding his face. He moved his jaw around a little before he glared up at you.

        "Okay. I deserved that." He accepted.

        "Yeah, you did." You spat. 

        "Hold on. Someone care to explain what the hell's goin' on here?" Rick spoke out.

        You turned to Daryl, as if it was he who answered the question. You didn't care to share with the class. Daryl needed to know.

        "When we got separated in the woods.." You began, taking a breath. "Merle and I found a cabin. We hid there, waited for shit to blow over, and we were supposed to meet you back at the ruck. Merle figured you'd wait for us there."

        "And I left her." Merle admitted from behind you. You glanced back at him momentarily. You were surprised at his accountability.

        "In a closet." You added spitefully. "The place was surrounded. Took me forever to get out of there and even longer to get back to the truck. By then, you two and the bike were gone."

        Daryl's nostrils flared with rage. His fists were balled up so tight his knuckles turned white against his tan skin. His shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath he took. He was so pissed, so hurt. The weight of the revelation had weighed him down so heavily that his boots felt like they were nailed to the ground. Otherwise, he would have lunged at his brother and beaten the teeth out of his skull. All that time Daryl spent in pain, mourning the loss of someone who wasn't gone. All because his brother didn't like her.

        "Why." Daryl growled.

        "The bike only fit two, man." 

That Night

        You sighed contently as Daryl traced little circles over your shoulder. Once it was decided to leave Merle in a cell, and everything had been explained to Rick, you and Daryl retired to his own cell to enjoy your reunion in private. He was laying on the bottom bunk, one foot crossed over the other as he stared into space, enjoying the feeling of your head on his chest and your arm and leg draped over him.

        "I missed you." You whispered, breaking a long, comfortable silence.

        "Mm." He hummed. "I mourned ya every day. I shoulda gone back."

        "Don't do that. We're together now. Don't blame yourself." 

        "Shoulda never believed 'im. I knew how jealous he was. Thought he'd get over it." He confessed. You smiled softly and nuzzled up closer, taking in a whiff of his sweaty scent.

        "Me too." You agreed. "But he left me with my bag. He didn't want me to die. I think he was afraid if only two of us fit on the bike you'd leave him behind."

        "Nah. Woulda had your sweet ass ride the handlebars." He teased, twirling a finger through your hair. You giggled, then you paused.

        "Wow. I think that's the first time I've laughed since we got split up." You realized.

        "Sure ya didn't find no boyfriends along the way?" He joked. He always did that when things felt too heavy between the two of you. You rolled your eyes, not that he could see it.

        "You say that like I've had a lot of those. We've been together since we were like, twenty." You laughed.

The Next Day

        Merle and Michonne had disappeared. You learned that the leader of the opposing community -- the Governor, as they called him -- wanted Michonne in exchange for peace, but Rick refused. Merle had likely taken her as a peace offering since he knew what the Governor was capable of.

        You and Daryl left to search for him. He took you to a spot where they had previously convened for negotiation. The two of you did a brief sweep of the area before stumbling across some walkers. You each took one down after another until you were left with only one. You froze when you registered what -- or who -- it was. 

        A sob immediately escaped Daryl as he fell backwards. You blinked back tears as you crouched down behind him and pulled him against you, rocking gently as Daryl wept. Merle's dead body clumsily pushed itself off the ground and onto its feet. You stood first, hoping to put it down before Daryl had to do it himself, but Daryl was quick to push past you. He violently shoved the corpse. It sumbled back, but it walked toward him again. Over and over Daryl shoved what was left of his brother as he cried. Tears were freeling spinning down your cheeks. 

        When Merle's body fell on its back, Daryl crawled on top of it and plunged his knife into its skull over and over and over until he collapsed.

        You wanted to intervene, to console, to be his rock, but something told you to let him get it out. He needed to. So, you waited until Daryl's blind rage simmered down and placed an assuring hand on his shoulder.

        "Wanna bury him?" You whispered.

        Daryl shook his head.

        "Okay." You relented. You glanced around your surroundings and noticed a patch of wildflowers off in the distance. "I'll be right back." You squeezed him gently before jogging over and gathering each and every flower in the patch. When you walked back over to where Daryl was hunched over Merle, he looked up at you with wet, red eyes. When he clocked the flowers, he gave a single nod and stood up beside you. You split the flowers in half and handed Daryl a bundle. The two of you placed them each individually around Merle's corpse.

        You thought back to a conversation you had with Merle the night before, when you couldn't sleep and went out of the cell to get some water.

        "Take care of my baby brother, will ya?" Merle's voice echoed through the quiet block.

        "I always have." 

"We'll take care of each other." Your vice cracked as you spoke. "Promise."

        "Promise." Daryl whispered.

Join the taglist! || Masterlist

tags: @kissmeunicornbaobei @thesadcatt0 @clairealeehelsing @duckybird101 @tmntfixationxreader @ryoujoking @blackvelveteen1339 @yondus-girl @ladylincoln @sunshinebug9 @saylum559 @yoowhatthefuck @duffmckagansbandana @celtic-crossbow

[starsworldd]

➴ astro observations pt 4 ➶

reminder to go listen to domino 1 by iamsagsssssss out on all platforms now <3 (i know the artist very well i promise it’s good ⭐️

remember to please take the following with a grain of salt ⭐️

⥺ mars conjunct mc people are very hard workers but are often met with conflicts with people at work also. could be business entrepreneurs

⥺ people who have moon sextile venus are very kind and endearing <3

⥺ scorpio mercuries often hide weird stuff (doesn’t have to be innapropiate but it’s just weird and odd) on their phones and more than other people don’t show people their photos, social media, texts, etc…

⥺ mercury conjunct uranus people are some smart people let me tell you. i find that they’re often pretty witty and good with defending themselves in arguments too!

⥺ sun in 6th house people get burnt out really easily but moon in 6th house people seem to be working 24/7 and seem unbothered by it?? maybe they just hide it better. moon in 6th house people are also really smart. i want to look more into that though, because moon and sun are both luminaries so you’d think they’d both get pretty burnt out being in the 6th house of daily work and service…

⥺ the 8th-9th-10th houses i think explain how one finds their purpose in life and their calling. of course all the houses are involved in this because a chart works as a whole story, but i want to focus specifically on these 3 houses: we start at the 8th house of trauma and transformation. 8th house transits usually signify a new beginning (though it usually doesn’t come without trouble and hardship) and it is in the 9th house that we find what we can do to help ourselves out of hardship. what do we believe in? what do i learn out of this difficult time? what experiences can i engage with that help me be a better me? pluto (ruling the 8th house) is the ruler of the underworld and from there we literally go to the king of the heavens (jupiter, ruler of 9th house) to one’s calling in life, signified by the 10th house. it is through one’s hardships and main battles (8th house) that can show us how we can put our best selves out into the world (10th house). sorry to rant, i just think this is so cool to point out! if you guys want i can make a post for the rising signs on this topic ⭐️

⥺ pisces venus people are obsessive over their crushes

⥺ venus conjunct saturn natives may not be that interested or rushed into getting into serious partnerships, in fact they seem to not prefer it, usually due to a past experience unfortunately :(

⥺ does anyone else get their period when the moon crosses their ascendant? just me? okay☺️

⥺ aries sun people are so attractive

⥺ people usually say that musicians with the same moon sign as you resonate with you more, but, this is kind of an iffy observation BUT, artists with their moon in your fourth house may also seem to make music you really like as well or you may just like them in general

⥺ cancer risings having an aries midheaven meaning that their life’s ambition is about defining themselves and being themselves unapologetically <3

⥺ people with venus in a detriment sign are often really attractive (aries, scorpio)

⥺ cancer and leo risings have a natural almost child-like glow to them. also really attractive placement in my opinion

⥺ scorpio risings and mars are often perceived as mean and intimidating. same for moons (unless if there’s aspects to venus i’ve noticed)

⥺ mars in gemini 🤝 over-competitive in games (especially games to do with the hands like spit, word hunt, certain sports, etc..)

⥺ moon conjunct jupiter people are so wholesome. they have very good morals and care deeply for the well-being of others. such a lovely placement <3

⥺ bucket-shaped chart is giving “you have all this pizazz and potential but…(insert planet here) is giving you some obstacles”

⥺ moon square neptune could be an indicator of a parent who struggles with alcoholic or drug addiction

⥺ chart ruler square neptune can give poor perception as to how you’re perceived by others or anxieties about it

thank you for reading! hope you’re well ! ⭐️

[chimcess]

Nachash || jhs (Prologue)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Doctor!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU (that's putting it lightly) Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count:  6.6k+ Summary: After losing both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell her home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place she barely remembers despite having lived in Harlem for a decade. Her reality begins to blur as she loses track of dreams and waking life. At the center of this confusion is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her an eerie sense of déjà vu. She can't shake the feeling that Hoseok isn't who he claims to be, and she's haunted by a strange bar that keeps appearing in her nightmares. Warnings: Wet dreams, explicit sexual contact in those dreams, graphic violence, hard dom Hoseok, demon Hobi acting like the horrible creature he is, emotional manipulation, DEATH, alcohol consumption, sexual harassment (brief), dream manipulation, stalking, vampire mind control, asshole Hobi (seriously), morally grey Taehyung, morally grey vampires in general, vampire bar, use of pagers because this is the early 90s (I have pager code translations at the bottom of the page), lots of cursing, vaginal fingering, pussy slapping, multiple orgasms, sadistic Hoseok, death by sex in her dreams, did I mention how horrible of a person this Hobi is?, mans is an obsessive stalker, and this is just the prologue because Tumblr's new rules are weird and don't make sense, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I've had to split this into two seperate parts since Tumblr does not allow posts over a certain line count anymore (boo!), so I'm giving you guys the beginning section first! This entire story will be based in the 90s and will have a lot of pretty dark elements attachted to it. I really wanted to force myself to write a character that is so out of my wheelhouse it made me uncomfortable-- and that's exactly who incubus Hoseok is in this one. Happy Halloween everyone!

Next || Released early on AO3: here

August 1992

My bones cracked, the sound echoing through the sterile silence, and I struggled to catch my breath. A thin layer of sweat clung to my skin, and I patted myself down to make sure I was still awake, still alive. Slowly, the panic subsided as I took in my surroundings. The bright fluorescent lights above made my eyes ache, but their harsh glow was a strange comfort. I was still in the hospital. The bed beneath me creaked as I sighed and flopped back down.

The nightmares had been haunting me for a while now. I couldn’t pinpoint when the first one came, but it had been two months since they turned sexual. The worst ones hit during my 24-hour shifts, as if my mind was playing some twisted game. There was always a man—always the same man—with golden eyes that glowed in the darkness. His skin was soft, supple, and disturbingly perfect.

Even when I closed my eyes, his perfect face flashed in the darkness behind my eyelids. It always ended the same way. I would climax, my body thrashing violently, only to look up and see his skin peeling away, ashes raining down, with fire slipping through the cracks. My own body would begin to burn, and I’d scream in horror as his once-perfect face revealed a skull with flames and black smoke oozing out. I would wake up just as his skeletal hand reached for my throat. The scenario changed, but the ending never did.

Sighing, I fumbled around for my phone. When I found it under my pillow, alongside my watch, I realized that I was due back in twenty minutes. I groaned. There was no going back to sleep now. I carefully climbed off my bunk, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Dr. Boseman was fast asleep, blissfully unaware of my nightly torment. She still had another hour before she had to return to the floor. I didn’t bother looking in the mirror. The ER was filled with messy doctors, and I would be no exception. Slipping my shoes back on and shrugging on my white coat, I quickly put on my lanyard and left the little room.

It had been a relatively slow night. We all knew better than to say the dreaded “Q” word, but that didn’t mean we weren’t aware of the unusual silence. The most excitement we had was a car accident victim, and he would survive. My attending physician, Dr. Kepler, was at the nurse’s station laughing with some of the nurses.

“Morning, Doc,” came Shannon’s voice, the night custodian.

“Hey, Shan, how are you?” I smiled at the elderly woman.

“I’m fine. About to clean some bathrooms.”

“Good luck with that,” I waved, knowing the small talk was over.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll need it.”

Dr. Kepler smiled when I was close enough to talk. He was a handsome man with broad shoulders and pearly white teeth. I knew better, though. He had a bad habit of cheating on his wife with residents. He had never shown any interest in me, most likely because I never treated him differently. Some of the girls were too friendly with him and lost their professionalism, and he took advantage of that. As much as he disgusted me, I had to admit he was one hell of a doctor.

“Dr. L/N,” he greeted.

“Evening, Dr. Kepler,” I replied. “How’s it going, Angie?”

The tech beamed at me. She had started working at the hospital around the same time I had begun my residency, and we made fast friends. On quiet days like this, the two of us would sit at the desk and shoot the shit. She gave me a little wink.

“Oh, you know, paperwork and stuff,” she replied.

“One of those days?”

“When isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes.

“I feel your pain,” Kepler forced his way into our conversation. He was dreadfully boring, so I chose to ignore him whenever this happened. Typically, he would realize no one was paying attention to him and leave. “I had to help out in L&D tonight, and let me tell you, I am glad I did not go that route. Couldn’t imagine having to deal with hysterical females all day.”

I grimaced. He was such a pig. Angie rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut. If she spoke up, he would never leave. A few nurses gave half-hearted replies, and I caught the eyes of Issic, one of the nurse practitioners who helped out in the emergency room. Normally so well-behaved and soft-spoken, the large, teddy-bear-like man glowered at the doctor. If looks could kill, I could not say Dr. Kepler would be dead, but I had to admit he would be majorly hurt. Still, no one called him out on the gross comments. We never did.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Dr. Kepler bid us goodbye, his rant about how stupid specialties other than cardiology are.

Angie twisted her nose in disgust once his back was turned. She disliked him more than I did. He made obvious advances toward her, something that made her and everyone else at the station uncomfortable, but there was not much we could do. I told her to report him for sexual harassment, but she never did. Nor did anybody else. I had never noticed how little we stood up for ourselves before.

“Glad he’s gone,” Mariah, an RN, commented.

“Creep,” another tech said.

“Anyway,” Angie did not acknowledge them. “I’m going out for drinks with some of the other nurses. You want to come?”

“Where at?” I checked my watch. I would have to begin my pre-rounds soon.

“This new bar Dauphine. Selene went a few weeks back with some friends of hers.”

“I’m not in the club scene,” I reminded her.

I knew Selene, not well, but I did know her. We met at Angie’s Christmas party last year along with a few of her other friends. I had left early but not before Selene had started to bump and grind with anyone she could get her hands on. This included Jeon Jungkook, the local wack-job-false-prophet-wannabe-fortuneteller and my cousin’s boyfriend. The two ended up having sex in the back of his Impala where said cousin found them in the middle of the act. Jungkook said it was his “destiny.” Selene simply laughed and was right back on his lap. I did not care much for her after that.

“There are only certain rooms like that. The main area is like a lounge. She said it was chill until they went dancing.”

I hummed. It had been a while since I had gone out. Maybe it would be a nice distraction, especially with the weird dreams I’d been having.

“When?” Angie smiled wide. She knew she had won me over.

“Thursday. I made sure to get a day you weren’t on call.”

And then my watch began beeping, signaling my return to work. Angie pouted her bottom lip out and batted her eyelashes. I smiled and shook my head.

“Duty calls,” I turned around and began walking away. “See you Thursday,” I called behind me.

“Fuck,” I sighed, throwing my head back.

“You’re so wet,” the man groaned, releasing my clit.

I squirmed underneath him, legs shaking, and breathing erratic. The man chuckled darkly, sticking a third finger in. I cried out once more.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he rasped before slapping my right breast.

I screamed, the pain and pleasure mixing so many times tonight that I could no longer discern the two. He slapped the other side. Tears fell from my eyes.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” his voice felt further away than it had before.

His fingers were gone, and I whined. I hardly recognized the person I had become. Never had I begged for a man’s touch or wanted rough sex. I knew he could do anything to me, and I would not complain. I knew that he knew that as well. I also knew that he loved it. A sharp, painful slap was delivered to my already aching pussy. Another scream.

“And when I’m done,” slap, “I’m going to devour you.”

And I came undone for the third time.

I adjusted my dress again, feeling its snugness a little too keenly. It had been ages since I’d gone out, and Angie’s insistence on looking “sexy” felt like a cruel joke. Most of my wardrobe consisted of scrubs and old college hoodies, so my little black dress, tucked away in the back of my closet, had to do. Back when I was nineteen, it had fit like a glove. Now, it clung to my newer curves, which weren’t so new anymore. Should I change?

Groaning, I fell back on my bed. What am I doing? If Angie were here, she’d tell me to stop acting like “such a virgin” and laugh. She always laughed hardest at her own jokes. According to her, being with less than three guys by age twenty-three was unheard of. The fact that I was pushing thirty and had only been with two was some sort of medical anomaly to her. The virgin jokes had been annoying at first, but I’d learned that was just Angie’s sense of humor. Childish, yes, but she was likable enough to forgive it.

I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror again. The dress looked good, better than I expected. So why the apprehension? Struggling to pinpoint the source of my anxiety, I finally gave up. I threw on a leather jacket and started putting on the finishing touches to my look. I was meeting everyone at the club since Angie lived on the other side of town. She had kindly offered to pay for my cab. After texting her that I was ready, I slipped on a pair of black boots and stepped outside to wait for my ride.

The night was cold, unusually so for August, even for New York. Adjusting to the climate had been tough. Originally from Jersey, my family had moved to Florida when I was a child. I’d gone to Tulane for undergrad and then moved to New York for med school. After graduating from Columbia two years ago, I started my residency at Harlem Hospital Center. I was planning to stay for my ICU fellowship.

A gust of wind ruffled my clothes, and for a moment, I swore I felt phantom hands caress my hips. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine. My mind was still on edge from the nightmares. Last night’s had been particularly vivid: horns had sprouted from his head before he ripped a chunk of my breast out with his teeth, blood dripping onto my sheets as my screams echoed off the walls.

My phone rang, its sharp tone startling me. Angela had pressured me into getting a cellphone a few months ago, and I was still getting used to the intrusion. Handy at times, sure, but mostly an annoyance. The bulky Nokia was far too cumbersome.

“You in the car yet? The driver’s name is Jimin.”

As she said it, a pair of headlights turned the corner, and the car slowed down.

“About to get in now,” I said, eager to hang up. The assumption that I was wealthy because I had a cellphone always embarrassed me.

“God, I’m so excited to see you!” Angie squealed, the sounds of the club already drowning her out. I regretted agreeing to come out. “The password is Conti. Whatever that means.”

I smiled. “It’s a street name in New Orleans.”

The car pulled up to the curb, and I quickly opened the door. 

“I’m about to get in the cab,” I said, buckling up. “I’ll see you in a bit, Ang.”

“Page me when you get here!”

The ride was quiet. The driver greeted me, asked for my name, then lapsed into silence. Soft R&B played in the background. To distract myself, I sent a quick message to my mom and listened to the driver quietly singing along. He had a nice voice. Just as we pulled up, TLC came on, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I wouldn’t get to hear him sing along. I thanked him before getting out. Jimin drove off seconds after I closed the door with a polite ‘goodnight.’

The alleyway leading to the club was less intimidating than I’d expected. Angie’s description of a long, red-lit path had conjured far worse images in my mind. The lights were bright enough to see by, and the walk was short. Voices drifted from outside the club, easing some of my tension. Maybe the rumors were just that—rumors.

Dauphine had a reputation for attracting the town’s freaks. Drugs, alcohol, sex parties that ended in blood-splattered walls, and people who went in but never came out. The rumors spiraled out of control after Namjoon Kim was found dead outside. Typical media frenzy—no one cared when ten prostitutes went missing, but a rich CEO gets shot, and it’s front-page news. I rolled my eyes. Some things never change.

A group of friends stopped talking as I approached, and apprehension churned in my gut. Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. Their presence was enough to leave me shaking. One of them snickered, and I shivered. Without even glancing at them, I knew they’d be terrifying. The bouncer opened the peephole in the door.

“Conti,” I said, my voice harsh.

The door opened seconds later, and I practically ran inside, shoving past the bouncer without much care. He didn’t seem to mind my rudeness. Without their eyes on me, I could finally breathe. I paged Angie to let her know I was here.

Angela: 110 307

Angela: 209

Y/N: 08

I shoved my pager back into my bag and started navigating the maze of the bar. The nurse had been right; it was more subdued than I had imagined. Red and black dominated the color scheme, with large sofas and booths scattered about. Neon signs pointed to the restrooms, and the place was pleasantly devoid of orgies or bloodbaths. I felt a wave of relief—no strobe lights, no thrumming dance floors. 

A few minutes later, I found the bar. Only one man was seated there, engaged in a tender conversation with the bartender. She caressed his cheek, and I melted at the sight. It was heartwarming to see such affection in a place rumored to be so dangerous. I doubted many would be comfortable with their partner working in a place as infamous as this.

Respecting their privacy, I took a seat a few stools away and picked up a small drink menu. Angie was nowhere in sight. I stifled a laugh; the menu was a mix of classic cocktails and blood types listed underneath each one. For a place as notorious as this, I hadn't expected it to be a vampire-themed bar. I was already excited to see the dance floor. Themed bars in New Orleans had always been a blast during my Tulane days.

"Good evening," the bartender's voice was silky smooth.

I smiled. "Hi."

"What can I get for you?"

Suppressing a grin, I said, "I'll have a dirty martini. Shot of O negative."

The chuckle slipped out before I could stop it. The bartender smirked, her skin glistening under the red lights. The man at the other end of the bar looked at me, his eyes wide, before bursting into loud laughter. Eyes turned towards us, the sensation making my skin crawl, but I stayed composed. The bartender leaned in closer.

"Are you okay with cherry liqueur?"

I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

She laughed. "Then you don't want that shot, babe."

I nodded, glancing at my nails. Where was Angie? Rolling my eyes, I groaned. She’d probably run into some guy and forgotten about me. I straightened up, trying to see over the tall booths scattered about. No sign of her blonde head anywhere. With a sigh, I gave up. She’d show up eventually.

"Looking for someone?" The bartender slid my drink over.

"Oh," I clutched my chest, startled. "Just a friend of mine. She got here earlier but I can't find her. She said she’d come get me."

"I might’ve seen her." Her brows knitted in concern.

"She’s tall," I gestured, "really skinny. Blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s wearing a blue sequin dress."

The bartender nodded. "Yeah, I saw her and a couple of girls head to the back. She ran off with a guy not too long ago."

I groaned. Of course, she did. I must have missed her on my way in. Sinking into my chair, I threw back my martini, ripping the olive off the toothpick. My annoyance was palpable. I tried calling her, but there was no response.

Y/N: 420

Y/N: 3011

After a few more failed attempts, I paged Monica, another tech from the hospital I was close with. I used her last name; there were too many Monicas to keep track of. Her code number was written down on a piece of paper in my wallet.

Y/N: 221

"Hey," the bartender called out.

She seemed hesitant to speak. I felt a pang of guilt for making her uncomfortable. She probably thought her tip was on the line. I willed myself to calm down.

"Sorry about that."

"No worries," she replied, waving me off. "Just… be careful. We get some characters in here. I’ll keep an eye out for your friend."

I smiled at her. "Thanks."

"Anytime. If you need anything, just ask for 'Bootsy,'" she winked before taking my empty glass and returning to her boyfriend.

My pager buzzed.

Everson: 419

I rolled my eyes. I hated technology outside of medical settings. Pagers were useless for meaningful conversation. Luckily, Monica carried her cell everywhere, flaunting her family’s wealth. Her phone was much nicer than mine.

"Hey babe!" She shouted over the music.

"Angie left," I spoke louder than necessary, hoping she could hear. "The bartender saw her leave with a guy."

Monica laughed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. We were too different to get along beyond pleasantries.

"Go Ang!" She giggled drunkenly. "We’re all in the back."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s my first time here."

"Bar, take a right, walk straight until you see a bunch of doors."

"What’s the entrance look like? Everything looks the same here."

"The door is black with a purple bead hanging off the handle," she hiccuped, then burped. "The lights around it are really red."

Annoyed, I shoved my phone into my purse and slid off my chair. The long hallway was daunting. This part of the bar was dimly lit and far more unsettling. Unlike the eyes on my back earlier, there was no one here. The jazz music faded, and I fought back a shiver. This place was creepy.

I went to the end of the hall only to find it empty. No door, no beads, nothing. Monica had given me the wrong directions. As frustrated as I was, I couldn’t be too upset with her. She had no idea what she was talking about and already had a few drinks in her system. My anger towards Angela only grew. I sent her another text, seething, and started to wander again, hunting for the elusive door.

The nurse was right; this place was a labyrinth. High ceilings and narrow passages could make even the most fearless person feel claustrophobic. I had to hold my breath when the walls seemed to close in. Aimlessly, I roamed, still finding nothing. The longer I walked, the more convinced I became that this lounge had been a catacomb at some point. From the outside, it didn't look nearly this expansive. My heels clicked loudly in the eerie silence. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I glanced around nervously.

"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?" I cursed myself, turning back the way I came. The bartender was nice enough; maybe she could help.

"It's a lounge, sha," a voice said behind me.

I screamed, flinching, and spun around, losing my footing. I grabbed the wall, but the impact scraped my arm against the rough bricks. The person offered a hand, but I ignored it, picking myself up and glaring at the stranger.

He was gorgeous—tall, slender, with broad shoulders and lean muscles under a white button-down shirt. His hands, large with long, piano fingers, slid back into his pants pockets. His doe eyes sparkled with amusement, and his grin was wide and boxy.

"My apologies," his voice was honeyed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

I kept glaring. "Startle? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

He snickered before his eyes fixed on my arm. "You're bleeding."

I looked at my shoulder, noticing the rip in my jacket and the blood seeping out. Throwing my hands up in exasperation, I yelled, feeling tears welling up. Tonight had been a disaster from the start—the dress, the people outside, Angie ditching me. Every part of it felt like a waste of time. I should just go home.

"Are you okay, sha?" he asked, gently touching my arm.

I laughed bitterly. "Does it look like it?"

"No, you look upset."

"Great detective work, Captain Obvious," I snapped, rolling my eyes and yanking my arm away. "And it’s pronounced cher, not sha."

He stepped back, his smile never faltering. He seemed amused, which I found odd, but I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t like him. He was creepy, even in his beauty, and his eyes reminded me of the group outside. Yet, my feet felt rooted to the ground, as if frozen in fear.

"No, cher, it's sha where I’m from."

I sniffled. "Louisiana, huh?"

"Born in France, but my family moved to New Orleans when I was young. I learned Kouri-Vini from a trumpet player in the French Quarter."

Embarrassed by my outburst, I nodded. Trust me to correct the grammar of a Frenchman. The night’s mood soured further, all my hopes for a good time dashed. Still, I couldn't deny a strange attraction to the stranger. His presence, unsettling yet warm, invited me to stay.

"You looked lost."

"I am. Trying to find my friends, but I have no idea where to go. They said 'the back,' like that’s helpful. I’ve been wandering for at least thirty minutes."

He placed a thoughtful finger on his chin. "You really shouldn’t walk around alone," he warned. "There are a lot of unsavory characters here."

"Are you an Anne Rice character or something?" I scratched my shoulder, wincing at the sting. "Why are you talking like that? It’s weird."

"Should I apologize?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not if you can get me back to the bar."

He laughed. "I believe that can be arranged."

"You're doing it again." This time, we laughed together.

The walk back was shorter than I’d expected. He moved silently, with perfect posture, his perfection unsettling. Too symmetrical, too beautiful, and far too polite for someone who looked younger than me. As the jazz music grew louder, I learned he played the saxophone and trumpet for years in New Orleans. He opened his first bar, Midnight Moon, a few years ago and moved to New York City to branch out.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I’m a resident."

"Doctor," he whistled. "Very impressive."

"Not as impressive as being a rich, successful CEO in your twenties."

He laughed loudly, drawing a few looks. On cue, I lowered my head, feeling strange. Normally confident, here I felt the need to stay unseen, their eyes on me unnerving.

"What’s your name?" he asked, surprising me.

"Y/N," I answered, meeting his gaze.

He smiled, dazzling and unsettling. "I'm Taehyung."

"Nice to meet you, Taehyung," I said, my heart racing.

His eyes were a strange color, almost black with flecks of red under the lights. They were beautiful, but the spell broke, and I looked away again, feeling uneasy.

“There’s someone here who wants to see you,” Taehyung said, his voice rasping, almost angry. “But I don’t want to share you yet.”

I sucked in a breath, startled by his proximity. He had moved closer until we were chest to chest. I breathed him in—freesias and honey. My mouth watered, but I stepped back with effort. Taehyung didn’t follow.

“It’s probably my friend,” I said, noticing the bartender’s boyfriend staring. “We were supposed to meet here.”

“Y/N,” Taehyung’s eyes locked onto mine. “Remember what I said about unsavory characters.”

I nodded, dazed, as he brushed my hair behind my ear.

“Don’t leave with it, sha,” he whispered, sending a shiver up my spine.

I was too stunned to respond. Whatever Taehyung had said flew over my head as I placed my hand on the cheek he kissed. The skin still tingled where he had touched. When I looked up, he was gone. I spun in a circle, but there was no sign of the man anywhere. I made eye contact with the guy at the bar again and felt uncomfortable going up to him. He was frowning at me.

Taehyung had said someone was waiting for me, and the only person I could think of was Angie. She must have decided to come back after seeing my messages. Her hookup must have been lackluster if she came all the way back here. I chuckled to myself and finally walked to the bar. It would be fun to drink and talk shit. Then we could finally meet up with Monica and the girls, and my night could start looking up.

Angela was nowhere in sight when I got to the bar. The same man was still looking at me, as was the bartender. A new figure sat in my chair. It was another man by the looks of it, judging by their shoulders and haircut. I continued my search for Angela but still came up empty-handed. She was just looking for me.

"Looking for something?" the bartender asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, the guy I was with said someone was looking for me. Have you seen her?"

She pursed her lips and glanced at the other man. "Can't say I have. Taehyung was probably confused."

My shoulders dropped in defeat. Again, I was left stranded. I should probably just go home and call it a night. A small voice told me to go and find Taehyung. He had said he didn’t want to share me. How had he known someone was waiting for me?

I couldn’t think about it for too long, as if my mind wouldn’t let me. I thought about him, his perfect face, and how beautiful he was. His eyes, eyes I could not recall the color of for the life of me, staring down at me. His voice, a gentle purr in my ear beckoning me closer. A draft startled me out of my daydream and I realized I wanted to leave.

I sighed. "I think I’m going to head out then."

I swore I saw relief wash over her face. Her lips had been tight when I came back around, but she gave me a small, genuine grin. Probably some asshole customer. Every place has them, even a luxurious one. Her shoulders stiffened when the other man raised his arm. Her boyfriend’s hands clenched. That guy must be the douche.

"Bourbon." Oh, yeah, definitely a tool.

I rolled my eyes and did not think before taking a seat at the bar. I could at least distract her. She frowned at me and continued making his drink.

"Thought you were leaving?"

"I could get another drink before I go." I smiled at her.

"Dirty martini for the lady," the mystery man said.

My heart stopped. His face... My mouth dropped open at the sight of him. My dream man. He was sitting right in front of me. Every detail, every line and curve were the same. Even the mole on his lip was there. Just like Taehyung, it was hard to look into his eyes, but I knew they would be the same. I couldn’t remember what they looked like, but I was certain they shined a gentle, soft gold in the dark.

"You do like them dirty, right?" He grinned.

I couldn’t respond for a few moments. The resemblance was uncanny. The anxiety Taehyung’s presence had given me was nothing compared to this. It felt like an elephant had sat on my chest while every nerve in my body screamed at me to run. And just like Taehyung, I found myself unable to move. I found that I did not want to. I welcomed the feeling.

"How did you know that?" I asked, still in awe.

"I overheard you earlier. Was going to buy you one then but you left before I could."

I swallowed my thickening saliva. It was hard to get down. Every part of me wanted to run. My body begged to get away from him, but it also yearned to be near him. I was alight in every way possible, and the confusion was hard to wrap my head around. Do I stay or do I go? As if he could read my mind, the man reached out and ran a finger over the top of my hand. Electricity shot through my body, and it burned where he had touched.

"Have a drink with me."

"Okay," I whispered, hypnotized by his voice.

The bartender placed my drink in front of me before going back to her side of the bar, like she was trying to stay as far away from the man as possible. I knew his name, it was on the tip of my tongue, but I was insane to think it was even possible. He was a stranger, and there was no possible way he was my dream man. The two just looked similar. In my dreams, his eyes were gold, and his skin was much paler and sickly. I glanced at his hands and relaxed even further. In my dreams, the man had scars over every inch of his body.

"I’m Hoseok, by the way." He smiled at me, and I quivered.

There was something off about his teeth. His canines were too sharp. In fact, all of his teeth were. They were so white they almost glowed in the red lights. Too perfect. Everything about him was. I scooted away from him and angled my legs toward the bartender. I wanted to leave again. I wanted to get away from him. I had been right about his name.

I took a nervous sip of my drink. Why had I sat down in the first place? At the moment, it had seemed like the right thing to do, but now I felt conflicted. Had I really wanted to stay? It surely felt that way at the time. Now, I wanted to go home, and my body language was clear. Still, I could not stand up and walk away. Still, I took another sip and curled away from him without moving.

"Are you okay? You seem tense."

I nodded too quickly and enthusiastically to ever be taken seriously. Hoseok seemed amused by this, just as he had been smirking at my squirming moments before. He was unsettling. Maybe it was his resemblance to the monster from my dreams that had me on edge. Yes, I thought, that had to be the reason.

"Bad night," I replied, my hands shaking. I quickly finished my drink and stood up. Hoseok smiled at me. "Thanks for the drink. I’ll be going now."

"See you soon, Y/N."

I was so focused on leaving the bar, I did not hear the slip of his tongue. I had never told him my name. That night, after I got home, I dreamt of Hoseok killing me again. The next day, Angela never showed up for work, never answered my messages. No one else had heard from her either.

Her body was found mutilated and tortured in a motel room a few blocks away from Dauphine the following morning. My dreams began to include her in them. She cried for me to help her, blamed me for her death, and even laughed as I got my throat ripped out. I was never able to focus anymore and was blessed that my residency program finished only four months later.

After graduation, the dreams stopped. I stayed with my parents for the summer, played in the Florida sun, and decided against going back to New York for my fellowship. Instead, I chose to stay in Tallahassee and start my career. It was safe there. He was gone. A few years later, I left for Jacksonville, and my paranoia had started to fade.

Years had gone by, and my memories of his face began to escape me. His name was nothing more than a gentle whisper in the deepest pits of my mind. Even then, saying that would be an overstatement. My return to New York was in the wake of my mother’s death. My dad had passed away a few years prior, and our vacation home in Harlem, the same place I lived in so many years ago, had become prime real estate. I got a fellowship through Columbia upon my return. Life was looking up despite my grief, and I was ready to start a new venture in my medical career.

That was the beginning of my eventual end. I had cheated death all those years ago. Angela was my replacement, though I had no idea at the time. That thing knew she was waiting for me. It knew she would not let me out of her sight, so it took care of the problem. My fear gave it power, and it indulged itself in my torture. When I came back, it knew.

This time, I would not be lucky. Nothing and no one would get in its way. Soon, all memories of that night vanished. Angela’s name escaped me first, then her face, and finally what happened to her. Dauphine and its never-ending halls were gone. The thing that sat at the bar made sure of that before making his next move.

It was mid-October when he came back into my life, all memories of his face wiped from my mind, and his game really started. My death would be his favorite. A death he rejoiced in for years to come only to be disappointed that nothing lived up to that night.

Things like Hoseok lived for the chase, and I proved to be his greatest target.

Next

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[dinoburger]

let me just get my thoughts down for a moment after a light perusal of the Mouthwashing tag -

I don't think The Point of Mouthwashing is "who is and isn't a bad person" with a backdrop of "capitalism bad"

the story is explicitly about the exploitative, hierarchical conditioning capitalism enforces, that creates situations like what unfolds in the Tulpar

I think to say "this is the fault of [this or that character]" is to miss the forest for the trees.

to view what happens as a series of random, unfortunate events that just happen coincidentally to the moral inclinations of the characters is missing the very palpable deprivation that all of them feel when it comes to how much control they have over the situation they've found themselves in.

I'll try to break this down a little more:

Curly is definitely one of the more contentious characters when it comes to morality and I think what people miss is... he has far too much control. As captain, he has the first and last say in everything.

There's no possible way he could understand exactly how to handle every situation appropriately. Nobody could. It weighs on him a lot. To the point where his fear of messing things up is exactly what blinds him to the chain of events that initiates Mouthwashing as we know it.

He tries to smooth things over. Because of course he would.

The problem is that he is set up to fail from the start.

Breaching just about any condition on the ship can get the pay of his poor subordinates docked. He has to obey the company rules to protect them, too. The omnipresent horse keeps all of them "in check". He can't afford to take a moral high-ground, because most of them can't afford it either. He's trying to keep the house of cards together.

The most telling line to me is when Anya points out the lock on the medical room door that's absent from the sleeping quarters.

The company puts more value on the expensive equipment on board than the human lives. It tries to cut as many corners as possible. It undermines their livelihoods to maintain itself - in vain, ultimately.

The cargo of mouthwash is more valuable to the company than they are.

You can see also in each of them, the kinds of people capitalism makes.

Swansea tried to fix up his life and do everything right. He tried to become a good worker for the sake of his family. But is he much better off than when he was an alcoholic? He says the best part of his life is still when the only troubles he had was the bottom of an empty bottle - nevermind his family, his sobriety and becoming a "correct" person in capitalist society.

His existential crisis grips me because it does raise questions about if living the way you're "supposed to" is worth it.

Daisuke wants to prove his worth in his capabilities. Daisuke is still trying to prove himself as valuable to the system, even at his own expense. Swansea laments this, because he just knows there's no point where you become valuable or worthy enough in the system.

Anya, as the only woman on board, takes the blunt of the lack of autonomy enforced by the system.

Jim... Jim is exactly the kind of person this system breeds, too. He's entitled. He's hungry for more power, but he can only see it by wrestling it off his coworkers and enacting interpersonal violence. He sees himself as a temporary victim of circumstance, who has a right to the power Curly has.

He is the exact sort of person who might have been a captain on some of the other cargo ships. Can you imagine if he'd had that much power from the start? The company doesn't give a shit, so long as the cargo gets there in one piece. The toll of the psychological trauma taken on the staff will never outweigh the value of the goods being shipped.

Even if it's just mouthwash.

I think you could maybe also read Jim's affinity for the cartoon horse as a metaphor for his hunger for power, too. It's something he both desires and dreads. He wants to have his cake and eat it too, he doesn't want the consequences that follow. It's the carrot and stick. He'll take as much power as he can before the axe finally drops and he has to face the music, even if it means making everything so, so much worse in the process.

[bloopitynoot]

8 WangXian Mafia/Crime Au's

This list is for @yiling-laozu-is-loml but open to all please enjoy! If you want a specific Wangxian rec list - feel free to DM me, I would love to put one together for you!

NOTE: All of my lists are created using tried and true fics; I've read and loved them all! Request asks for this list:

Wangxian focus

bottomxian ONLY if applicable

if applicable (I don't think it has appeared in this fic at all) no yin iron plot- book canon only

Define mafia/crime aus: this includes anything in which they are apart of a mafia, gang, underground crime group, are assassins', spies, OR are targets/affected by one of the above categories.

CW: being the genre it is some of these fics get pretty dark/gory/and of course often feature Wangxian's canonical CNC- please heed the tags!

The list:

1 Shooting suns to get to you (3,368 words) by 2501987

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate universe - Mafia, Blood and Gore, Murder Husbands, Kidnapping, Gangs, Romance, Inappropriate Humor, Dubious Morality, Murder Family, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Aftermath of Violence, Not Beta Read, Don't Like Don't Read Series: Part 1 of You & Me Baby, We'll Eclipse the Sun Summary: it had been two minutes. Two fucking minutes.

NOTES: This fic says it's only just under 4000 works but trust me, all parts combine make a banger of a 130ishK story. This universe is a very dark ganster au featuring loads of freak4freak wangxian but also a decent plot! If you want a long and wild ride, this one is for you.

2 For good (6066 words) by apathyinreverie

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, mafia, everyone is a little darker, lxc really needs to practice those people skills, general warning for JGS, Domestic Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Praise Kink, Simp Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Series: Part 20 of Wangxian collection, Part 13 of MDZS oneshots Summary: Wangji should have seen this coming. (Kind of mafia AU. Where the Jins are their usual treacherous selves but Wei Ying is perfectly capable of getting revenge. Which they absolutely deserve. For having made his Lan Zhan so much as frown.)

NOTES: A solid little BAMF WY, I love a good fic in which the Yiling Laozu is his absolutely debauched self. Bonus that he basically single handedly saves the Lans. Extra bonus for murder husband duo :'3 I just wish there was more set in this universe!

3 Rules, Rules, Fools (91487 Words) by 2501987

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe,Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Violence, Gang Violence, Blood and Gore, A - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Pining Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Mutual Pining, Protective Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Angst and Feels, Obsessive Behavior, Harassment, Denial of Feelings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Harassment, Non-Consensual Touching, Explicit Sexual Content, Deepthroating, Somnophilia, Wall Sex, Face-Fucking, Not Beta Read, Don't Like Don't Read Summary: This was a request developed for SiennaAlessi. Inspired by the lines:“And baby, for you, I would fall from grace, just to touch your face.” (Don’t Blame Me, by Taylor Swift). Lan Wangji is personal bodyguard to Wei Wuxian (mafia kingpin), and they are pining for one another. LWJ is a stickler to the rules and doesn't make a move on WWX out of professional protocol/dumbassery. WWX pines unhappily, constantly tries to rile the other up or gain his attention in every unhealthy way possible - doesn't look after himself, drinks himself stupid, flirts with other men to make him jealous - anything to make LWJ admit they belong together. Someone else enters the game, before managing to threaten WWX's life, forcing LWJ to lose his shit and throw protocol out the window.

NOTES: Another fantastic mafia/gang/crime au by 2501987. This one features a rule abiding body guard LWJ and the Yiling Patriarch and resident baddy WWX. This fic includes SO MUCH pining but LWJ is a PROFESIONAL (mostly) and would NEVER (he absolutely does) hit on his employer. Meanwhile WWX does everything in his power to make LWJ break. Solid fic, I love their flirtations.

4 Baby, You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet (177680 words) by TriviasFolly

Chapters: 30/30 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Alpha Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Omega Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Omega Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Alternate universe - Mafia, Alternate Universe - Crime, Alternate Universe - Clans, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Sects are Clans, Feral Wei Wuxian, Feral Omegas, once again making WWX a feral murdering machine, Nurse Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Dark Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Dark Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian plays with his fem side, feminine Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, wwx's cannon desire to be a sugar baby/trophy wife, Breeding Kink, Mpreg, wwx tries to use lwj but catches feels, and lwj knew what he was doing all along, wwx posing as mo xuanyu, wwx 'secret' identity, meandering self indulgent plot, no seriously it goes where ever the vibes take me, No beta we die like wwx, WWX and LWJ have dating histories Summary: For thirteen years, Wei Wuxian had been cautious. He hadn't done anything that could risk his new identify as Mo Xuanyu. He'd distanced himself from anything that had to do with the Clans he grew up with. Only for one coworker's sick kid to cause his past to come hurtling back at him. His past, of course, is named Lan Wangji. And this time, he won't let Wei Wuxian go.

NOTES: This fic was so good! Mind the tags though my dudes, there is so much in this fic that can be a squick. It's got a solid plotline, A/B/O dynamics, gangs/clans, and so much plotting and scheming! Can our bby boy Wei Ying catch a break? Maybe!? Anyways a fantastic longform crime au but again, i cannot stress this enough, mind the tags.

5 Game Night (46683 words) by Hobbsy3

Chapters: 12/12 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Kidnapping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Witness Protection, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Comedy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Protective Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Protective Jiang Yanli, Protective Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Actually protective everyone they're all pissed, Being Actually kidnapped during your fake kidnapping murder mystery party, Fusion with the movie 'Game Night', Mentioned Junior Quartet (Modao Zushi), They show up here and there but they're six years old, TGCF cameos if you squint, The Wen siblings do show up I promise, Just in a little while Summary: It was supposed to be a game - a fun challenge for Jiang Cheng's birthday, solving riddles and clues to 'save' Wei Wuxian from a gang of kidnappers. But things go dangerously wrong, and instead of a group of actors, Wei Wuxian is abducted by merciless men working for the most dangerous crime lord in the country. If his family cannot find a way to save him for real, the night may well end in murder… A loose fusion with the movie Game Night

NOTES: I LOVE this author so much, one of my all time fav WangXian Au writers. This author does such a good job of setting and describing a scene and then making you feel too many things. This is less directly Wangxian in the crime/gang au and more so them (read: WY) being affected by the AU. Truly when the murder mystery game night is TOO damn real.

6 Across the street to another life (99065 words) by danegen

Chapters: 13/13 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, unleashed au, Family Fluff, Set in America, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Addiction, Crime, Amnesia, Ableist Language, another fridged mother, POV Alternating, past wwx/ofc, past wwx/omc, Medium parent Yu Ziyuan, A-Yuan is wwx's biological son, Musicians, Happy Ending Series: Part 1 of Over the rainbow Summary: Wangji stays on the piano bench as they’re closing up. Wei Ying chews his lip, knowing what he’s going to do but horrified at himself. But what’s the alternative: kick the guy out and find him sleeping beside the dumpster in the morning? And that’s if the cops don’t take him in for vagrancy. “Wangji?” Wangji looks up. Please don’t be a serial killer. “So, we’re closing up for the night, but A-Yuan and I live upstairs. Do you want to join us for dinner?” Wangji blinks. His head bobs in what’s probably a yes. “Great!”   Fuck.   Or a ragged monosyllabic man wearing a collar shows up at Wei Ying's music store. Wei Ying and A-Yuan ask, is anyone going to adopt this guy? And then they don't wait for an answer.

NOTES: Okay, buckle up. Full disclosure your boy Wangji is Not Okay in this fic. Steer clear if descriptions of child abuse, torture, grooming bother you (they should be tagged honestly, even though it is a past mention, it was still so painful to read). This fic does have a happy ending but there is a ton of angst in it. This is another not quite Wangxian in the gang but rather linked/affected by the gang/mob.

7 Refuge (5281 words) by Leahelisabeth

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Not Rated Additional Tags: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jin Rusong Lives, Single Parent Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, mafia, Sort of anyway, Fluff, Koi tower is destroyed, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting Summary: A wet, bedraggled creature in black practically tumbled through the doorway, leaving puddles of dirty water in Lan Wangji’s recently mopped entryway. The creature threw back its hood to reveal itself. “Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji asked, incredulous. “I didn’t know where else to go,” Wei Wuxian said as he crumpled to the floor. After being gone for years, Wei Wuxian reappears on Lan Wangji's doorstep, and he's not alone.

NOTES: A shorter fic that is a child acquisition fic but also an impacted by the gang (sort of and loosely) fic. I love a solid "Lan Zhan is not the step father but the father who stepped up" plotline. Any fic in which Lan Zhan see's WY with a child and is like "I must keep and protect both of them" is my absolute favourite. Anyways this is basically a bunch of fluff.

8 Target Acquired (A Family) (11712 words) by relenafanel

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Cultivation Sect Politics (Modao Zushi), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Acquired family, Yiling Laozu Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, BAMF Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Feels, Disguise, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Wears a Dress, i can't believe that was a tag, Domestic Fluff, Comedy Summary: Wei Wuxian has been on his own for months. It’s easier to pull off surprise assassinations against the sect that destroyed the Jiangs if most people think he’s dead. He doesn’t expect Lan Wangji to join with his own vendetta against the Wen. And he certainly doesn’t expect to acquire A-Yuan in the middle of a job.   WTF do two assassins do with a child? Put him in daycare, of course.   A Buddy Daddies AU.

NOTES: When two assassins acquire a baby- what do they even do?? The answer is coparent, and also fall in love LOL. This is an adorable little fic that I absolutely wish was longer and made into a slowburn because the plot was such a brilliant idea. Two Assassins and a Baby makes a good cleanser between fics.

[skzhocomments]

1375 - “How does he make you feel?" - Mafia AU - Jeongin (Stray Kids)

General Masterlist

Request me a story

---

Writing Prompt 1375 - “How does he make you feel?" – Mafia / Mobster / Gangster AU - Jeongin 

(Warning: Explicit)

Word count: 3.2k words

Wattpad | AO3

~

Ever since you were young, you’ve always been the perfect little goody two-shoes. Always abiding by the rules, always studying, never straying away from your path of becoming someone your parents would be proud of. And you never failed to make them proud – you’ve been the perfect child, the perfect student; you’ve simply been perfect.

Your whole life revolved around reading books and being as knowledgeable as possible, and your moral compass was so strong, making you live your life by a perfectly set framework of guidelines and principles. It came to no surprise to anyone that you ended up going to law school.

And so, your day-to-day life wasn’t too particularly interesting. You had friends to hang out with, you occasionally went to bars or clubs, but mostly, you’d spend your days locked in your apartment to study for the next big exam. It’s safe to say that you’ve always been a role model to follow.

Always, except for one time, when you accidentally allowed yourself to be less than perfect.

You went to the bar with your friends to celebrate the end of your way too long and tiring semester, and with each hour that would pass, you’d find the night becoming blurrier. You had one too many drinks when you decided to finally head home, stumbling on your own feet and barely able to get out through the door.

It was unlike you to get caught in a bad situation, and what you did that night screamed textbook danger, but your mind was too intoxicated to realise that getting out of the bar on your own way after midnight and fully drunk wasn’t a good idea. You also failed to notice the stranger following you home into the dark alleys back to your apartment.

You involuntarily let out a gasp as he grabbed your wrist and spun you around, smiling cunningly when he noticed the shocked expression on your face. You tried punching him, but your moves were sloppy and your limbs tired from the alcohol in your system.

You realised that you messed up big time, that you’ve encountered one of those criminals you’re studying hard to put behind bars eventually, and you would just become another victim, another statistic, which made you shudder.

However, moments later, just as if you were in a movie, someone who heard your screams came to your aid just at the right time. Your saviour was a man with black hair and dark eyes, he looked cold and distant, and he looked surprisingly fox-like, but despite all of this, you found out he was actually soft.

On the inside, that was, because his exterior was a ruthless person who didn’t hesitate to slam that man’s face right into the brick wall, knocking him out.

You found out his name was Jeongin as you stumbled on the way home and he followed you to make sure you got there safe, even giving you a piggy ride at some point when your legs stopped working.

You invited him in, not yet knowing about the dangerous life he was living, and he helped you sit down at the kitchen table and drink some water.

Maybe it was your intoxicated mind, maybe it was your heart still racing hard after the dangerous encounter with that sleazy man. You didn’t know what it was, but before Jeongin could leave, you decided you didn’t want the night to end that way. You grabbed his leather jacket and pulled him into you, crashing your lips against his, and doing once more something you never thought you would.

Jeongin’s eyes widened for a brief moment, but to your surprise, he leaned into your touch and kissed you back. He could taste the alcohol on your tongue and knew he shouldn’t do this, but it was hard not to give in and lose himself in your body when you seemed so damn sweet. And so, he did. He let himself be embraced by you, and you let him touch every inch of your skin, and you kissed and made love in such a passionate way, no one’s ever made you feel the way he did.

Jeongin felt the same way. You were the shiny new toy, and he could swear up and down that he’s never felt as interested in someone else as he felt in you. As he got to know you better, though, he realised that the two of you were complete opposites. While his life involved illegal late-night activities, yours was mainly regular, with waking up at 7 AM sharp and eating a balanced breakfast, grabbing a coffee on the way to Uni and paying attention in class for the whole day.

You used your evenings for studying sessions and then would go to sleep at a normal hour alone, but still, each time you’d wake up, Jeongin’s body was somehow tangled with yours on top of your sheets.

He’d always hear your alarm and groan as he’d pull you closer, squinting his eyes and not wanting to get up. You didn’t know how he’d always come in your apartment, as he didn’t have a key – that you knew of –, but you decided to turn a blind eye and never inquired about it.

You truly loved Jeongin, but it didn’t take you too long to realise that he was not good for you. He was your counterpoint, in direct contrast with you, which made you wonder how you could be so in love with him in the first place, to the point where your heart was heavy and you were willing to overlook whatever it was that he was doing, that got him to come to your apartment at 3AM covered in blood most days of the week.

You never asked, because you didn’t want to know. You knew that once he’d tell you, everything would be over, and you wouldn’t be able to stay oblivious any longer.

Thus, you kept silent, you let your relationship run its course even though you embodied the antithesis of one another, and you let yourself be embraced by him whenever he wanted to love you.

As perfect as life seemed from the outside, your world soon came crashing down. The ethical dilemma of dating a criminal when you were doing your hardest every day to learn how to put people like him behind bars began eating away at you, and in the next stage of your relationship, you decided to try and make him more like you, and less like himself.

You foolishly thought you could change him and his ways; if you’d say the right words, he would leave that lifestyle behind and start working as an honest citizen, next to you, in your perfect pink bubble. 

Of course, nothing of that sort happened; you started to notice that you were the one slowly changing instead. It started little by little, but your moral compass would wobble like crazy, unable to get stabilised anymore. Your perfect peace suddenly turned into chaos, like you were inside a snow globe and an excited child began shaking it violently, and you found yourself questioning all your beliefs.

You realised you couldn’t do it any longer. The world of organised crime and drugs wasn’t something you wanted to be involved with in such a personal manner. It was exactly what you wanted to fight, and it was hard to accept that you were a hypocrite. No matter how in love you were with Jeongin, you just couldn’t keep going like that, knowing that he did illegal shit every other day, that he lived in the world you took an oath to destroy.

It took you a few weeks to muster up your courage and break up with Jeongin, and surprisingly, he took it better than you expected after you explained your reasoning.

He let you go. He would no longer come by your apartment, and you wouldn’t meet him anywhere else. No texts, no calls, no nothing. It was radio silence from the moment he stepped out of your apartment, and you haven’t seen him since.

With no longer seeing his face every day, you found it a tad easier to force yourself to forget the little things about him, even though your heart would still long for him more often than not. No matter how much of a hypocrite you’d been, you couldn’t deny that you loved him with all your being.

It hurt to have to let go, to have to start anew after you’d gotten so used to having him around, but you eventually started to convince yourself that you got over him, and most importantly, that you did the right thing. You couldn’t be with someone like him – a mobster, a criminal, or God forbid, perhaps even a murderer.

~

Almost a year had passed ever since you’ve last seen Jeongin, and although you’ve broken up and haven’t seen each other since, certain things still stayed the same for you as if you were still together. One of them was the fact that no matter the time of day or the part of the city you’d be in, you felt safe. You could go to the bar and get blackout drunk, but no man would dare to follow you home, approach you or touch you in any way.

Your life was much the same, except for a small - actually, extremely large and life-changing - detail, which was your schedule. You were finally done with Uni, and you’d just taken a series of the hardest exams of your life to enter the magistracy.

When you found out you got in, you were so happy, you celebrated with your friends for days, and with all their nagging, you decided to also accept one of your classmates’ advances and went out on a date with him.

He was pleasant to be around; you shared an expensive bottle of wine as you celebrated your success over some high-quality food in an amazing restaurant, and once he walked you home, you realised he was also a good kisser.

His tongue danced with yours, and you were about to invite him in, however, something inside your heart clenched, and you drew away and decided to thank him for treating you, promising him that you’d see him again.

As you stepped into your apartment, though, you weren’t sure if you would.

It’s been almost a year since you broke up with Jeongin, but still, it somehow felt wrong to kiss someone else, to let another man touch you like that. You felt the need to go in your shower and turn on the steaming hot water, hoping that scrubbing your skin under it would somehow make that man’s touch go away.

Thirty minutes later, you got out of the shower a new person, covering yourself with a large white towel. You looked around and cursed yourself for not bringing your phone with you to the bathroom, but didn’t want to pat around your walls to find the light switch, so you just walked slowly and carefully in the dark until you got to your room.

As soon as you stepped in, you felt someone grab you, and you immediately wanted to scream in fear, before a hand covered your mouth.

Your body froze, but as you breathed in, you realised that you could recognise the stranger’s smell, and as he started speaking, your whole body began to relax under his touch.

“My love…” Jeongin spoke almost menacingly, his voice making you dizzy.

Your heart began thumping against your chest and you involuntarily clenched your legs together as Jeongin’s hand tilted your head to the side, giving him access to your neck. He began peppering soft kisses on your skin, and once in a while, he’d bite your neck ever so slightly, to get a reaction out of you.

“Jeongin…” You moaned his name as soon as his hand disappeared from your mouth, and he turned you around.

“Who was that you were with, hm?” He asked softly, bringing his face closer, his lips hovering mere centimetres in front of yours.

The anticipation was killing you and having him so close to you after so long, you couldn’t control yourself any longer. Much like the first night you met, you grabbed his collar and pulled him into you, and as if on cue, your towel fell to the ground, leaving you naked and exposed in front of the man you’ve so dearly missed.

“Answer me, love.” He grabbed your neck and squeezed tightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a message that you were not to kiss him unless you told him everything. Despite his apparently harsh action, you weren’t scared. You trusted Jeongin to never hurt you, no matter what, and that was a given.

“That was… just a colleague from Uni.”

“Hmm… is that so?” He tilted his head, and despite the room being dark, you could see the sparkling in his eyes. “Do you normally kiss your colleagues like that?”

As he asked you this accusatory question, his hands travelled around your waist to your back, moving lower until he reached your naked butt and squeezed your skin tightly.

You let out another pathetic moan, making Jeongin chuckle slightly.

“I… I don’t. I don’t kiss them, Jeongin.” You replied as if you were in a trance.

Jeongin began walking forward, forcing you to take steps back until you reached the bed, and you fell on top of the mattress, with his body right on top of yours.

“I’ve seen something entirely different, my love.” He continued again, pressing a tight kiss against your lips. “Not even an hour ago, this pretty mouth kissed someone else.”

“I…” You started, but didn’t know what to say.

Jeongin kissed your jawline, then made his way down first to your neck, then to your chest, giving your breasts open mouthed kisses as you became a moaning mess under him.

“How does he make you feel, hm?” He continued asking as he parted your legs, connecting his mouth to your pussy and licking stripes feverishly.

You tried moving away, but he was holding you tightly, and there was nowhere to go any further away from him on the mattress.

He ate you out as skilfully as always, clearly remembering exactly what made you come undone quickly, and as you came on his tongue, he asked you again.

“Does he make you feel better than I do, princess? Can he make you cum like this?”

“N-no. No one can.” You shook your head, drunk with pleasure. You missed Jeongin’s touch badly, and in these past months, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re doing just fine without him, but now, having him again, it was clear that you’ve just been lying to yourself.

“That’s what I thought.” He chuckled as he got undressed as well, and your heart once more rose in your chest in anticipation.

Jeongin entered you with ease and set up a steady pace, moving you around by your hips as he saw fit, and all you could do was moan under him as he used your body to chase his own pleasure.

You always thought missionary was an intimate position, but the way Jeongin made love to you made you feel butterflies flying erratically in your stomach. He sucked on your neck as he pumped in and out of you with precision, and you held onto him tightly, bringing him as close as possible to you.

He loved it when you were so needy, and as he let go inside of you, he raised his head and kissed you long and hard, biting your lips as if punishing you for kissing someone else.

“I missed you so fucking much, and yet what do you do?” He chuckles in an almost mocking way.

“I missed you too, Jeongin… but… you’re not good for me, baby… I...” You frowned, stopping yourself before you could say another life-altering thing. You hoped he didn't hear your blabbering near the end, but oh, of course he did.

“Finish your sentence, my love. I know you want to tell me something else.” He smirked. How well he knew you...

How well he knew that you just couldn’t stay away from him.

“I want you so, so bad, though…” You finished, and Jeongin kissed you again.

“And you can have me. What’s stopping you?”

“I… I can’t, Jeongin…”

“Didn’t this year apart teach you anything, my love? Didn’t it make you love me more?” He asked, and his voice was so convincing, you felt yourself being hypnotized.

You knew how wrong it was, how toxic he was for you, but bad habits are so hard to get rid of. Lighting up cigarettes and puffing them fills your lungs with smoke, suffocating you, making you slightly dizzy from the lack of proper oxygen, and yet, even though you swear it’d be your last one, you still end up buying one more pack and burning your insides again and again.

Jeongin was much the same to you. He was filling your heart with love, but your brain with poison, and you didn’t know who to listen to: your rational side, or your emotional side?

You and Jeongin didn’t have a future together, that much you knew. You were way too different to allow yourself to even dream of the fairytale ending for the two of you. However... you’ve spent all your life working towards that perfect, certain future, which prevented you from living in the present, except for those few months spent with Jeongin.

Would it be good to keep seeing him and feel alive again, or should you go back to your boring, regular life for good and complete your life ambition of fighting injustice?

“My love, why don’t we make a deal, hm?” Jeongin spoke after a little while, noticing you kept silent.

“A deal?”

“You’ll fight for your justice, and I’ll make sure to give you interesting individuals to put behind bars. Drug lords, criminals… I know so many of them, my darling. I’ll make sure they get caught for you, hm? You’d get rid of all my enemies. We can be good for each other, too.”

Jeongin’s words sounded extremely convincing, but you knew that it wasn’t right. Still, would it be wise to trust your moral compass and break up with him, this time for good, leaving no way for him to come back to you? Or should you let him manipulate you into believing in this soul-sucking love that would little by little consume every part of your being and rationale?

It was way too easy to fall back into those bad habits, and the goody two-shoes you once were was slowly being replaced by her arch-nemesis. But still, would it be worth it to let go of yourself once again for Jeongin?

You didn’t know. But what you knew was that the last year without him was extremely empty, with a never-ending routine where only doing the good thing grew old quick. So, perhaps it wouldn't be too bad to live next to him for a few more years, and when you’d be ready to become that perfect, role model girl once again, you would let him go.

But until then…

“Alright.” You whispered. “I… I want you, Jeongin. I want us to get back together.”

“I knew you’d make the right choice, love.” He kissed your lips again, and your heart began beating faster, filled with a mix of love an anxiety due to the uncertainty of what your life was about to become.

~

[romana-after-dark]

Room's on Fire: So Afraid

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader

Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader

Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader

Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna learns her power.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

Extra warnings for chapter: I dont wanna spoint things so just proceed with caution. DM me if you'd like specifics before reading. I dont think its as bad as other things but.... you'll see

3.1k words (so sorry)

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BTW if you dont read the lyrics usually i feel it really hits hard this time

I been alone All the years So many ways to count the tears I never change I never will I'm so afraid the way I feel Days when the rain and the sun are gone Black as night Agony's torn at my heart too long So afraid Slip and I fall and I die. ~ Go Insane, Fleetwood Mac

“He’s fucking unraveling.”

Ben is pacing inside the sanctuary, Will leaned against the wall listening to him rant. They were waiting for the others and Madonna, having to perform a healing ritual. As far as Will could tell, she was going to be okay outside the lasting scars and the mental terror, and she was past the point of miscarrying from the incident, but the people needed assurance. They needed to feel a part of something. The doors were opened other guard had seen what had happened, and from what he and Ben had heard from the rumblings of the people, they were nervous. Unsettled.

Will had to set the course straight, concocting a story of possession and torment by demons to explain Santi’s behaviors… which of course cleared Santi of responsibility but still left Delta scarred. He continued to listen to Ben’s rants.

“He’s gonna fuck it all up. Doesn’t he know more than anyone what we’re doing here? He could have killed the savior.”

“And Madonna.” Will reminds him, but Ben turns to glare at him.

“I’m aware of that. I’m aware of how important Madonna is, you don’t think I love her too? You don’t think I’ve spend every night in her bed-”

“Next to Frankie.”

Ben stopped, stepping forward and looking like he might start a fight. He was drunk, and when Ben was drunk he was either madly horny or ripe for anger fits. Will’d seen him kill a man with his bare hands at a orgy for kissing Frankie. Orgies were orgies, but Santi kept rules around Frankie, rules that had been enforced by Ben’s rage he pushed down below his crown of sunshine on his hair.

But then Frankie opened the door.

“Hey guys.” He walked in his formal wear, and Will had to admit he understood why everyone wanted a piece of him. His eyes were bright in the yellow light.

“Where’s Madonna?” Will asks.

“She’s finishing eating, Rey’s with her. I wanted to talk to you guys alone.”

Will nods.

Ben seems frustrated, crossing his arms in that pout he likes to do. ”I don’t like her alone with him.”

“He’s her personal guard, Benjamin. We have to trust him.”

He shakes his head. “We should rotate her guard so no one gets attached. You know how she breaks down everyones walls better than anyone, Frank.” There was a bit more bite than Frankie expected after the close nights they’d been spending in each other's arms next to Madonna, but when Ben was drinking it was always a bit of a guess.

“He’s her only friend. The first friend she’s had since we decided to set her dad on fire. I think we can allow her-”

“UUUUGGGHHHHHHHHH” Ben rolls his eyes and his whole head in annoyance. “Can’t she just be friends with Iris?”

Will spoke up now. “I think you ensured that won’t happen.”

“And you ensured she can’t trust Jonah” Frankie snapped, not sure why he was defending Ben. He didn’t know he did anything half the time.

Sighing, Will scrubbed his face and then held out his hands. “Both of you relax. I’ve got it taken care of. I doubt Rey has any interest in Madonna, but considering I don’t this Iris is putting out with him, we can’t be too sure. And considering what Pope did to her, we can’t have her falling into his arms. I’ve got it.”

Frankie nodded. “Rey doesn’t have eyes for anyone but Iris.”

Ben’s drunk anger shifted to his horny drunk. “To bad Madonna doesn’t have eyes for Iris.” He looked far away, smiling, no doubt thinking of their wife fucking the pretty cook. Will couldn’t deny she was beautiful… it was a wonder she was unclaimed by the time her punishment began.

A smack from Frabkie broke Ben out of his thoughts. “Ow!”

“You’re sick, you know that?”

“I can dream!”

Will was about to shout at them all to shut up when Pope opened the door. He wore a red tunic, reminding Will of pictures he’d seen of pentecost robes from the before. Not as tight as Frankie, but Frankie gained more weight in recent years. 

“Gentlemen.” He greeted, eyes raking over Frankie’s form. “Are we ready?”

Everyone nodded, Frankie doing his best to hide the anger, the furry, the disgust he felt at Santi. He could hurt him, but how dare he hurt Madonna?

Will nodded over to the entry to the church. “Frank, Ben, start the prayers. We’ll come out in a bit when Madonna arrives.”

Pope narrowed his eyes, but told Ben and Frankie to go, watching Frankie’s ass as he walked through the curtains to the congregation. 

“You couldn’t be more obvious, you know.”

He breaks Santi out of his lustful view.

“Hm?”

“Everyone knows you want Frankie more than anything. Can’t keep your eyes off him.”

Santi attempts to brush his concerns away with a whisk of his hand. “I love all my spouses.”

“You love Frankie.”

“I love him, Ben, you, Madonna.”

“You just want the savior-”

Rushing close to Will, Santi presses his chest against his lover and whispers in a harsh tone. “The savior is a part of her!”

Will grips his tunic, keeping them pulled close as he whispers in his ear. “You need. To calm. Down. Breaking her breaks the savior. Breaking her breaks the whole community. You are losing touch with reality and if you do not get. Your shit. Together. Everything will come crumbling down.” He pulls back just far rough to meet his eye and walks forward, backing Santi up until his ass hits the slab of marble they all deflowered their wife on. A faint trace of her blood remained.

Santi was panting, chest heaving and his cock rose in his robes. “Everything I do is for our community. Who do you think got her pregnant? We’re going to save this doomed earth, we’re bring The One Mighty and Strong to earth and Divine Mother will finally let us all be happy.”

“Santi…” Will caressed Santi’s face, enjoying how easily Santi submitted. Frankie was easy. Frankie melts at the simplest touch of anyone who shows him affection. Santi only submits to him. “You need to relax. She’s pregnant, and she’ll be okay. The savior is coming. You just need to-”

“Don’t tell me what to-” He begins to snap at Will, but before he can finish he’s turned around and bent over the altar. His tunic is being pulled up, and when his hands move to stop him, they are pinned down to the cold stone. “WHat are you doing?”

Spitting on his hole, Will lines his cock up at Santi’s ass and leans in. “You hurt Madonna. You need to learn a lesson.”

*

You enter at your cue, giving Rey’s hand a squeeze before he lets go to open the door. You hated this, you hated being out in public knowing everyone knew what was done to you. Will said Pope was possessed, that he was fighting a battle with the devil, spiritual warfare and he needed prayers, he needed your strength. You had to be strong for him. You forgave your husband and felt sympathy he was in so much pain… But why do you still want to recoil when he touches you? You were sleeping in your bed again, but one always accompanied you to help if the nightmares returned…. You never slept when it was Santi’s arms around you

Francisco and Ben were leading the congregation in prayers, praying for Pope’s strength in his battle and you prayed along, Francisco getting up to walk you down to the raised area. You remember, as you always did, walking down the aisle on your wedding day, unable to bare looking at them for too long, finding solace in Jonah’s eyes… Now he was talking nonsense, and you were worried about him.

The other day, early morning, you’d slipped out of Ben’s arms to find something to eat. Baby was kicking, apparently wanting sugar and you hoped Iris wasn’t up. Things were tense between you, and you could make your own pancakes. You had, of course, thanked her profusely for caring for you when… when it happened, genuinely grateful for the care she showed you… You wanted to be her friend again, god you really did, you wanted to go back to singing with Rey and her and Jonah in the kitchen… but something in the air had shifted.

Wish granted, Iris wasn’t there. Jonah was. He was drinking coffee, PJ pants slung low on his hips… No shirt. He had a lean body even at his age, hip bones prominent below the weak elastic and a trail of hair going down-

When the floor under you squeaks, Jonah stands up fully, shuffling to move behind the kitchen table. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be alone…”

“Baby wants pancakes.” You rub your stomach. He’s not looking at you. You make a move to the cabinets, But Jonah cuts off your path.

“I got it, you should rest.”

Your shoulders slump. “I’m not a baby, I’m just carrying one. Let me do it.”

Jonah shakes his head. “Please, just… let me.” He gives you a small smile. “I know you’re not a kid. They should all be afraid of you, Madonna.”

He made good pancakes.

*

Will and Pope returned from their prayers in the sanctuary, Pope looking… Off. He looked ruffled, confused, his eyes a little glassy… maybe Will exercised the demon out?

Pope began his prayers. “Our beloved Madonna, Holy and Beautiful, our maternal bride, has suffered pain and scarring from the demonic attacks of the devil, we must pray for heeling over her body.”

Will’s hands reach for the back of your dress, lowering the zipper when you gasp, jolting away and turning back to him. “What are you doing?!” You whisper, eyes watering with panic. Francisco mutters Will’s name, but he ignores him, opting to pull you close. He cups your face, whispering in your ear.

“They need to see the wounds, Madonna. They need to see you’re healing, they're worried.”

“But… I don’t wanna be naked, Will.” You turn to glance at the crowd, catching Pope glare. You shiver. “There’s people here who made fun of me…”

His fingers lay your hair down. “It’s just your dress, Madonna. Don’t worry, we’re right here. Trust me.” 

Echoes of the past flitter in your head.

I’m going to touch you, just stand there and take it. Trust me.

Will unzipped your dress, the fabric pooling down around your ankles. Murmurs wave over your body, whispers from the people who loved you. Were they mocking you? Were they laughing?

Just down to her underwear, Francisco.

Your bandages were off, but the skin was marred horrifically. It was bad enough those in the back could see it spreading over your pregnant stomach. Were there jealous women in the crown? Your dorm mates that didn’t understand why you were chosen?

Will’s hands find the clasp of your bra, and you tense again. “Will?”

“Just relax, Madonna. Relax for me. Don’t worry.”

It’s just me, it’s just external, don’t worry.

When his hands went for your underwear, you didn’t protest. 

You stood naked, your scared body on display for the whole congregation.

Your husbands stood at your side, each laying a hand on your stomach as the crowd began to pray. You felt like you were being punished, humiliated. What did you do wrong? Your lip quivers, panic rising in your chest again. No, no you would not melt down here. You see a woman who was particularly nasty to you… she tried to make you eat a worm because you didn’t say hi to her when you were 10 and she was 12… You were in one of your “no talking episodes” as your dad called them, the playground was too loud, your new bra you had to wear adding a sensation to your skin you hated… she took it personal, and tormented you for the next 12 years. She was smirking. 

You feel Ben’s hand on your ass, coping a feel.

You think of Will’s lies.

You look at Santi, his eyes only on your stomach. 

You look at Francisco, not saying the prayers and looking at Be’s hand on your ass.. Did you and the baby even matter to him? Why was he so disconnected?

You didn’t feel sad anymore.

You were angry.

“Kneel.”

Your voice, while quiet, makes the four of them turn to you, surprised by you. But no one moves.

“Kneel. If you’re praying for my healing, kneel.” You don’t look at them.

Santi speaks. “We don’t kneel to you, Madonna. You kneel to us.”

Your body wants to shake, you want to fold like you do every time a boundary is crossed but you don’t. 

“I am carrying the savior. I am more important than your ego.” You say, firm in your stance and keeping your voice steady. “Pray to the divine mother to protect me, if you really want this child,” you turn to Pope. “And to forgive your sins.” You turn to Francisco now, his eyes wide with fear. “Get on your knees. I know you know how.”

There was a beat of silence, everyone waiting for Pope’s movement, you knew. Then, Francisco kneels to you. Then Will. Then Pope. Then Ben, only ever following in what the others do.

When they do, a hush falls over the crowd.

You raise your arms, shouting. “We pray for a hedge of protection around me and my child.”

A voice from the crowd shouts, “hail to the mother and the savior!”

All throughout the room, the congregation echos the sentiments, shouting your praises as the smile grew on your face. They adored you. They loved you. Standing naked wasn’t humiliating, it was power. You feel Francisco’s thumb caress over your bare skin. He smiles as he mouths ‘Hail to the mother.’

*

You were running high on the endorphins, even excited enough to ride Will’s dick despite your protruding stomach. It was an amazing high, knowing the power you held, the power to make Santiago- Pope, you mean- to make Pope kneel at your command… he owed you. He owed you this. When Will fell asleep, you were still wide awake, unable to get the giddiness out of your system… So you slip a nightie over your body, pulling panties on and sneak out of the room. Jonah had said he’d make you more pancakes tonight if you were hungry and boy, baby was hungry. Rey, as predicted, was snoring in his chair and you have to stifle a giggle as you creepy past him, bare feet light on the wood flooring. 

The kitchen was dark, no Jonah… maybe you should go get him. Turning on the kitchen lights you go to exit out the other door, the servants entrance leading to the rooms of Jonah, Iris, and the other guards, but when you did, Jonah was there.

Right away, you knew something was wrong. He wreaked of alcohol, looked like he hadn't slept in days and was piss drunk, stumbling into the kitchen so hard he crashed into you. 

“Jonah-oh- I… was gonna take you up on the pancakes…” You mutter, backing away. “But maybe I can make some for you, you seem-”

He catches your wrist.

“I don’t want pancakes.” His voice is gruffer than you ever have known it. Pressing you against the counter, he crowds you in. 

Your heart beat picks up, instincts telling you to run, run, run…. But you can’t.

“What… what are you…”

His lips brush your neck before you can blink, his movements clunky and strange. “I want you.”

You try to push him away, but he’s much stronger. “Jonah stop! You’re talking crazy, you haven't been well, please, just-” Again, you try to wiggle away but his hand grabs your waist. “Just go to bed.”

Jonah scoffs, laughing sardonically. “Just like that? I tell you I want to fuck you and you say to sleep it off? Jesus christ, do you have no survival instincts? At all?”

“Please… please stop touching me Jonah…” You want to stop feeling his breath on your skin. “I won’t tell anyone. Just stop!” The tears come, crying and scared and trying to smack his hands away desperately and still trying to push out of his grasp.

“You should be screaming, honey, what is wrong with you?” His hand grips your hip, and you need him away from your baby, now.

With a closed mouth scream, you kick his shin and the shock is enough for him to let go so you take off, but he gives chase. Once again, you are pinned to the door. You knew you could scream. You start screaming, and Rey, or Will, or any of the others will be on their way in seconds and you’d be safe… ‘’

“Why are you doing this?” You sob in his arms, his fingers entangling in your hair. He pulls on it, and you close your mouth intime to not yell.

His hand caresses down your arm, making you shiver and feel so, so sick to your stomach. “God dammit, have the broken every fucking piece of you? Is that it?” Why was he so angry at you? What did you do wrong? Did you tempt him? He hand on your waste again, he keeps almost moving it up towards your breasts or down to your ass but never going far. Jonah rests his forehead on yours. “Why won’t you SCREAM!” He shouts his last word so loud in your face, the strong smell of alcohol bursting on your skin and you shout out loud.

“BECAUSE THEY’LL KILL YOU!” Your whole body heaves, panicing and you feel you might throw up. “ThEY’LL KILL YOU AND I’LL LOSE MY DAD AGAIN!”

His face turns into something pained, and while his hand reminds gripped in your hair to keep you there, he pulls back just enough for you to see him run a hand over his wet face. Right before he slammed it through the wall. You couldn’t help it, your body forced you to scream before your mouth stopped the voice, Jonah’s fist curling tightening and pulling your hair against your scalp as you continued to shout. He continued to punch the wall next to your head.

When Will burst through the door, everything went blank. As soon as Jonah was pulled off you, your body slid down the wall where you watched Will pummel Jonah. At some point, arms were wrapped around you, but you couldn’t tell if it was Rey or Frankie. Only the smell of weed narrowed it down.

You didn’t hear much, your ears ringing as you watched blood fly out of Jonah's mouth. Muffles words weren't as loud as the beats to Jonah's body. You were sure other people were in the room... there was shouting... but you couldn't see anything except Jonah going limp, only jolting weakly at each slam of Will's fists.

You aren’t even sure how you made it back to bed.

Shout out to @hornystan for editing, our beloved Frankie in his formal wear

Okay. So that happened.

JONAH what are you DOING BESTIE??????

PLEASE leave your THOOOTTSS and THOUGHTS!!! Frankie kneelings? Madonna chaneling hr anger??? Jonah doing... ALL THAT!!!!!!!

What are we thinking?

love you all so much! I know theres a lot of bullshit happening in the fandom but just know, dont trust everything you hear. I know at the very least one person the stupid confessions page is attacking is genuinely a kind, amazing person who was in the right <3 If there is a writer you dont think is nice or friendly enough... just keep it to yourself or talk to a few friends. You dont need to air it out publically.

Lets keep it chill, I say to me and my uuhhhh 30 readers B)

ANYWAY

Im like 60 followers away from 1000 followers on this account and i have a fun event planned!!!

I did this poll befoe, but its been like 10 chapters soooooooo

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LOVE YOU ALL!

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[hplovecraftmuseum]

Lovecraft in overview, part 1: H. P. Lovecraft was a unique, tragic, and highly intelligent individual who died in 1937 at the relatively young age of 46. He showed remarkable ability for reading, speaking, and writing long before he was old enough to attend any formal schooling. He was said to have had a remarkable memory and developed a strong sense of honor, personal dignity, and a strict moral code that would remain constant throughout his life. Though he toyed with smoking as a teen he quit the habit early. He claimed that he never tasted alcohol in his entire life. Though several characters in his stories were depicted as drug users, he himself was adament that he had never used drugs of any kind. Though Lovecraft was highly interested in the explorations of the poles made famous by men of his own time, he himself was highly allergic to cold temperatures. On at least one occasion he literally fell into a coma when he was caught outside in a cold snap. Lovecraft was a lifelong aficionado of the Classical World -Ancient Rome particularly. He taught himself Latin early in life and probably was fluent in the language by his twenties. Though a handsome and utterly normal looking boy at least until his teen years, Lovecraft developed some particularly odd facial features by adulthood. He considered himself to be particularly unattractive though he made every effort to present a look of neat and well groomed appearence at all times. He almost always wore a suit and tie wherever he went. Lovecraft had a great disfavor of facial hair and was always scrupulously clean shaven with hair cut short and neatly combed. At 5'11" HPL was tall for his day and the slender frame he maintained for most of his life (averaging 145 pounds) probably made him appear even taller. Lovecraft had a lifelong love of cats. He wrote of the with admiration often and saw in the species the values of a 'gentleperson' that he himself always aspired to. HPL was particularly fond of architecture and considered any type that reflected the Classical ideals of Ancient Greece and Rome to be the most perfect expression of the art. Bookish since childhood Lovecraft was a frequent visitor to libraries and maintained a considerable book collection of his own (at least 1400 volumes). Though his friend Robert Barlow once wrote of Lovecraft that he was the least sexual individual that he had ever known, Lovecraft was married to a highly intelligent and beautiful woman for a brief period. Still, his wife claimed that he never told her that he loved her and that she was always the one who instigated any physical relations. Despite the sometimes harsh and occasionally aggressive and generally 'manly' attitude Lovecraft projected in his letters, many who met him in person were surprised by his unguarded, boyish charm and enthusiasm when in compatible company. Dispite his odd looks, high pitched speaking voice, and the strict rules of conduct he had set for himself, HPL was reportedly the "life of the party", especially when in the company of fellow writers, poets, artists, or creative people generally. On some occasions he was actually known to sing at public gatherings! (Exhibit 574)

[be-gay-find-cryptids]

(Part 1) Underrated Recommendations for Film & TV

1. Wolfwalkers (Film, 2020)

Wolfwalkers follows the story of Robyn Goodfellowe, a young apprentice hunter who arrives in Ireland with her father during a time of superstition and magic to wipe out the last wolf pack. While exploring the forbidden lands outside the city walls, Robyn befriends a free-spirited girl, Mebh, a member of a mysterious tribe rumored to have the ability to turn into wolves by night. As they search for Mebh's missing mother, Robyn uncovers a secret that draws her further into the enchanted world of the Wolfwalkers and risks turning into the very thing her father is tasked to destroy.

2. Reservation Dogs (TV, 2021)

Reservation Dogs follows the exploits of four Indigenous teenagers in rural Oklahoma who steal, rob, and save in order to get to the exotic, mysterious, and faraway land of California. To succeed, they will have to save enough money, outmaneuver the methheads at the junkyard on the edge of town, and survive a turf war against a much tougher rival gang.

3. The Breadwinner (Film, 2017)

Parvana is an 11-year-old girl who lives under Taliban rule in Afghanistan in 2001. After the wrongful arrest of her father, Parvana cuts off her hair and dresses like a boy to support her family. Working alongside a friend, she soon discovers a new world of freedom and danger. Drawing strength from the fantastical stories she invents, Parvana embarks on an epic quest to find her father and reunite her family.

4. Carol & the End of the World (TV, 2023)

With a mysterious planet hurtling towards Earth, extinction is imminent for the people of the world. While most feel liberated to pursue their wildest dreams, one quiet and awkward woman, Carol, stands alone—lost among the hedonistic masses.

5. Infinity Train (TV, 2019)

The series is set on a gigantic, mysterious and seemingly endless train traveling through a barren landscape, whose cars contain a variety of bizarre, fantastical, and impossible environments. Passengers on the train proceed from car to car by completing challenges which help them resolve their psychological trauma and emotional issues. Every season of Infinity Train (referred to as a "Book", each with its own separate subtitle) follows its own storyline and set of characters, although some characters appear across multiple seasons.

6. Moral Orel (TV, 2005)

The series follows the titular Orel Puppington, a young, happy-go-lucky and naïve Protestant who showcases his commitment to God, while dealing with the cynicism of his abusive and alcoholic father, his lethargic mother, and the devoutly Protestant town of Moralton in which he resides.

7. Bee and PuppyCat (TV, 2013)

The series revolves around Bee, an unemployed woman in her early twenties, who encounters a mysterious creature named PuppyCat. She adopts this apparent cat-dog hybrid, and together, they go on a series of temporary jobs to pay off her monthly rent. These bizarre jobs take the duo across strange worlds out in space.

8. Tuca & Bertie (TV, 2019)

This animated comedy series explores the friendship between two 30-year-old bird women who live in the same apartment building. The buddy comedy features cocky, carefree toucan Tuca and anxious, daydreaming songbird Bertie as they live their lives in the metropolis of Bird Town.

9. Wander Over Yonder (TV, 2013)

The series follows Wander, a nomadic, helpful, and overly-optimistic intergalactic traveler and his best friend and steed, Sylvia the Zbornak, as they travel from planet to planet helping people to have fun, play, and live free, despite the continuing encroachment of Lord Hater, one of the most powerful villains in the galaxy, and his army of Watchdogs.

10. The Midnight Gospel (TV, 2020)

The Midnight Gospel revolves around a spacecaster named Clancy Gilroy, who lives on the Chromatic Ribbon, a membranous, tape-like planet situated in the middle of a colorful void where simulation farmers use powerful bio-organic computers to simulate a variety of universes from which they harvest natural resources and new technology. Each episode revolves around Clancy's travels through planets within the simulator, with the beings inhabiting these worlds as the guests he interviews for his spacecast. These interviews are based on actual interviews, with real audio sampled from Trussell's podcast, The Duncan Trussell Family Hour.

[luminouslywriting]

Chapter 4 (Mastermind)—MOTA Fic

A/N: i don't particularly want to post on mother's day, so I'm updating a day early so I can get this out here to you all. Go check out my poll please :) I'm about to write some Abe content and I'm SO excited to get him in the story haha! As always, let me know what you all think and enjoy!

Early June 1943

Ruth glanced between the sweating private, the ticked major, and the way that Colonel Huglin shifted in his seat uncomfortably.  The court martial had continued on through the morning with both the private and the major pleading their cases and defending their decisions.  Currently though, it seemed both she and Huglin were suffering from headaches at the way that the major wanted Private Weston to be punished. 

It was unreasonable punishment to dock a month’s pay in addition to cleaning in the kitchens and assisting the ground crew with some repairs.  It was a gross exaggeration to the crime that had been committed—though Ruth was starting to understand why Weston had first punched Major Monson in the first place.  

Never one to condone violence lightly, as far as Ruth could tell, Monson had been the aggressor in the situation and Weston had responded in kind.  God, these military types were all the same with their egos and the way that they were just asking to get punched in the face . 

There was only one time where Ruth had punched a man, and it had been in her freshman year of law school at Brooklyn Law.  She was one of three girls in her class and upon entry into the class shared with Robby Rosenthal, one of the other students began to make some demeaning comments about the way that the girls should have been at home and trying to take care of the kids and the families or something. 

Rosenthal—being the bleeding heart that he was—had verbally defended the girls.  But Ruth didn’t need him defending her and she certainly didn’t want or appreciate his help.  Women had always stood on their own and the best way to get back at jackasses like this guy was to simply prove him wrong. 

Her moral high ground had gone out the door the minute that he had mentioned how he wanted to sink himself in her breasts.  That had been when Ruth had punched him square in the nose and broken it .  And considering it was all before the professor had entered the classroom and her warning him that no one would ever believe him, Ruth had spent the rest of the year in quiet infamy for her deed.  

Rising to her feet and contemplating further punching Monson, Ruth knew that an act like that would only end in disaster.  And her nails were perfectly painted in Victory Red at the moment, so chipping them over someone like him wasn’t really worth her time. 

“Weston will take kitchen duty and assist the ground crews for a month.  But docking a man a month’s pay when he’s got a wife back home seems especially cruel for something that didn’t end in any permanent damage,” Ruth said coolly.  “A more serious infraction such as destruction of United States Military property might warrant such an act, but I don’t believe this does.  Colonel?” 

Colonel Huglin seemed pleased with the way she had weaved her words, leaving Monson stuttering and jaw nearly dropped.  “I agree.  Case dismissed.” 

Ruth gave a cold smirk in Monson’s direction.  “And I’d be a bit more careful about your alcohol intake, Major.  All sorts of mistakes and infractions can happen when one is inebriated.” With that, she gave a salute and waited for Huglin’s dismissal of the other men. 

Once Monson and a grateful Weston were gone, Huglin just leaned back in his chair, giving a deep sigh.  “I wish all of our cases were as quick as that.” 

“Oh give it a week, sir,” Ruth insisted.  “Once they’re more familiar with my breed of court martialing, I doubt they’ll want to spend long with me.” 

A dry smile quirked at Huglin’s lips.  “I’m sure.  I heard you already made an impression at the pubs concerning the fraternization rule?” 

“I’m working on it, sir,” Ruth assured him.  “Things like that tend to be a little more under the rug than other infractions.” 

“I’m assuming you have experience?” 

“Too much, given my time in Aldbourne, sir.” From her bag, Ruth withdrew a packet and handed it over to him.  “And these are my disciplinary recommendations for the other men who are undergoing court martials.” 

“All of them?” 

“There were only seven cases and I’m a quick reader.”��

Huglin stared at her for a moment, taking in the efficiency and zeal with which she exacted justice.  Lieutenant Sharpe was nothing if not a credit to her profession and clearly someone who he could use to whip this base into the best shape it could be.  He had half a mind to have her infiltrate the ranks of those instigators and those who faithfully kept on gaining infractions.  

If only to see their faces when they realized that she was catching them in the act of infractions and had the authority to order them to court martials herself. 

“I’m sure we’ll find more for you to do once the new recruits arrive,” Huglin finally stated. “You’re dismissed.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“And Sharpe?” 

“Yes?” 

“Good work today.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Ruth made her way into the mess hall for a late breakfast, she found that there were a scattering of people around the room, only a few of which she knew the names of.  Ruth hadn’t gotten very far with her tray of toast and oatmeal—finding her way to an empty table, she was quiet as she sat down, hoping for some peace and quiet after her eventful court case this morning. 

Before she could so much as pray over her food, Bucky Egan had slid up onto the bench across from her.  “You’re up late,” he remarked pointedly. 

Ruth just placed her napkin in her lap and gave him a stare of annoyance.  “I’ve been up since everyone else has.  Huglin and I had a case.” 

“Wow, you’re really great at making friends,” Bucky said dryly.  

“I’m not here to make friends, Egan,” Ruth retorted, stabbing her spoon into the oatmeal.  “If I wanted to make friends, I would have stayed back in New York and joined a sewing circle.  Is there a reason why you’re here to bother me?” 

“Actually yes,” Bucky said, tearing off a piece of her toast before she could swat his hand away.  He grinned triumphantly at her, an almost smug expression on his face.  “I’m here because my boys are flying in this morning and I’m hoping you’ll cut them some slack on their first day.” 

“And you thought that stealing my toast was a good winning point?” Ruth raised a brow. 

He abruptly dropped the piece he had been in the process of stealing, a slight show of guilt crossing his features.  “I hadn’t considered that portion, no.” 

“Well unfortunately for you, Egan,” Ruth said pointedly.  “It’s not up to me.  But I will give you a slight warning.  Huglin wants to do surprise inspections upon their arrival so I hope that your boys are as up to shape as you think that they are.” 

“They will be,” Bucky replied evenly.  “They’re the best of the best and that’s just a fact.” 

“Is it?” 

“It is,” Bucky said proudly, leaning back in his chair.  “They’re the best damn pilots and men that I’ve ever known. You’ll see.” 

She nearly rolled her eyes.  “If only every leader had that kind of faith in their men, maybe this war would actually be over.” 

“Was that a compliment?” 

“No.  Your faith is accompanied by ego and it’s off-putting.” 

“You’re a cold woman, Sharpe.” 

“That’s Lieutenant to you,” Ruth retorted.  “Good day, Air Executive Egan.” With that, Ruth rose from her spot and made a beeline towards the garbage cans.   

“I’m gonna wear you down!” Bucky called in an insistent tone.  “We’ll be friends in no time!” 

Ruth just shook her head as she walked away.  She’d sooner be framed for murder than spend time actually making unnecessary friends. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unwilling to part with his drink of the morning and trying to put on a good impression, Bucky exited his chair, pushing it back in lazily and whistling Blue Skies under his breath. He lazily made his way out of the office and to the jeep, that seemed like it was just waiting for him anyway.

He was still burping up some of the alcohol from the night before— it was too early for shit like writing letters to families anyway. He could push that off on the other Air Execs, seeing as how he didn’t intend to be an Air Exec for long anyhow.  

Giving a wave to the men that had given him the bikes, Bucky grinned as his eyes landed on his boys in the skies above. All in a nice and neat line, tucking in from a long day of flying from Greenland. Everyone had gathered for the occasion and he passed dozens of children as he drove on the runway.

Pulling to a stop, Bucky’s eyes landed on Buck’s plane—where DeMarco was depositing a dog. A dog was certainly against regulation—but he couldn’t see even Sharpe being able to say no to a dog like this.  He couldn’t help the grin on his face as he climbed out of the car. “DeMarco!” He called, an energetic pep filling his tone.

“Hey, Major!” DeMarco grinned, dog-leash in hand.

“Where’d you get that dog, Benny?”

“I won him in a game of Craps!” DeMarco explained.

Bucky had always wanted a dog growing up. Somethin’ about it being man’s best friend or whatever had always struck him as endearing. His ma had always told him no, he was the family dog. So at the sight of the dog, he leaned down and gave him a good pat behind the ears. 

“You took this baby above 10000 feet?” Bucky questioned.

“He’s got a mask!” DeMarco promised, patting at his jacket. “Cost me $3 but boy, he loved to fly!”

“He wouldn’t stop howling!” Buck chimed in, appearing in their vision.

“That’s because he’s part wolf!”

“That wolf is part dog,” Buck corrected.

“Well, does he have a name?” Bucky demanded.

“Meatball!” DeMarco answered, a grin on his face.

“Welcome to the Hundredth, Meatball!” With that done, DeMarco took off towards the barracks to get Meatball and himself settled.  He had only been walking for a little bit before Meatball decided to take a turn of his own, going straight over to the woman sitting and writing in a bound leather journal. 

“Meatball, no—” 

Ruth’s head perked up as the dog, presumably known as Meatball, decided to nuzzle into her leg.  Stopping her notations, Ruth took a moment to pet the dog.  “I wasn’t aware the air base had a mascot,” Ruth said, glancing towards the probable owner—a man in shades and looking a little embarrassed about the entire thing. 

“He’s new!  Meatball’s his name.” 

Ruth had a small soft spot when it came to animals.  And though it certainly wasn’t regulation, she had no problem with them .  A small smile spread across her face as she ran her fingers through Meatball’s mane.  “Well if I get you the paperwork for this sweet dog, do you think you can fill it out and get it back to me before the end of the day?” 

“I-uh—” 

“Meatball’s against regulation and while I don’t have a problem with dogs, I have a feeling Huglin will,” Ruth explained.  

“I can do that.  Uh—Ma’am—” 

“Lieutenant Ruth Sharpe of the JAG-Corp,” Ruth extended a hand, a genuine smile on her face.  

“Captain Benny DeMarco,” Benny said, shaking her hand with a small smile of his own. “You’re the one that terrorized Egan a few weeks back?”

“Oh, I’ve made it into the letters.  My sole goal in life,” Ruth retorted dryly. 

“Ah no, we all thought it was pretty funny,” Benny admitted.  “Sometimes, he could use a good knock on the head.” 

“Noted.  Well I’ll do my best to not disappoint and continue to knock him on the head when occasion calls for it. And you didn’t hear it from me,” Ruth continued. “But Huglin’s allergic to dogs.  I’d hide him in the nurses barracks for now.” 

“Noted,” Benny replied, a grin spreading across his features.  “Let me know if you ever need someone’s help with Egan’s ego!  I’m in!”

[vidavalor]

Hello! Would you like a chocolate chip cookie? And if you have an opinion on it can you share why you think that Aziraphale never calls Crowley by his first name when it's really romantic? Thank you!

Thank you for the cookie and the ask. *noms* They're both delicious.

Aziraphale explained in 1941 in what situations he'd be willing to deviate from his normal, fond use of "Crowley" and give Crowley's (very romantic-- Aziraphale loved it) first name a go:

To get used to something is to grow accustomed to it. That's the surface layer of Aziraphale's response to Crowley in 1941 but the innuendo is that he's telling Crowley he's willing to "get used to" Crowley's new first name-- meaning, that Aziraphale is willing to call Crowley "Anthony" in bed.

It's also a bit more romantic a line if you factor in some of the etymology of 'use'/'used' as well as look at how Aziraphale's use of it also connects to wordplay with several other words (brook and bad) and in other scenes in the series (1827 and 2008) as well. More on that under the cut.

Used: from the Latin usus (yes, 2x us-- cute, huh? ) and the Old French us (the French just kinda decided one 'us' was enough to describe what 'us' is, apparently.) It developed from there, predominantly through Old French, into user and the concept of to use. So, long story short, the idea of using something is derived from the concept of 'us' as being a group of more than one person, which adds a bit more of a sense of romance to using the word 'use' in a sexually euphemistic sort of way (at least it does in the context of 'use' being used by two word nerds lol).

To use: original meanings, many of which are still, well, used... to frequent, to practice, to make use of, to enjoy, to apply, to consume. The word replaced the Old English verb brucan in this way. Brucan meant to brook something, which is an old-fashioned way of meaning all of these: to eat with someone; to use; to possess; to endure (to last); to cohabit with; to need; to enjoy.

We heard Aziraphale throw 'brook' into a sentence to Crowley in S2 in 1827, still thinking he had enough time to be flirting with Crowley while discussing the morally right position to take but Crowley felt Wee Morag dying in the process. Maybe not the most cheery example of Ineffable Husbands flirt but it ties linguistically to 'used' and shows a history of Aziraphale using the two words as innuendo:

Used might seem on the surface to be a slightly vulgar way to refer to sex but its etymology, as we can see here, is more romantic and also ties to the food theme of Crowley and Aziraphale's language as well.

The words-within-words of Ineffable Husbands Speak is the first rule of it-- and also the (pardon the bird pun) cardinal rule of language in the show, in general. This is off of the first shot of the show being the word 'war' being shown to us as within the word 'warning'. The word that lives inside used is us.

Crowley is using (ha, unintentional pun, sorry) us/used as recently as in 2.06, even if Muriel has no idea what it means. Crowley doesn't trust that the Inspector Constable isn't going to report to Heaven what they see in the bookshop once they leave so he is actually speaking aloud an intention to take Aziraphale to boozy breakfast in an effort to hide the fact that he's actually thinks they're in massive trouble and need to work out a plan. Everything he's saying, though, as with a lot of what he says to Muriel in general, is in his and Aziraphale's language, mostly for Crowley's own amusement, so this bit below is as much Ineffable Husbands Speak as "extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz" is:

"When Aziraphale does come back, I think we need a little us time."

Us Time = Muriel, that's when all house guests need to get gone because Antony and Cleopatra need to use the fuck out of each other...

...but going back to brook for a second?

We looked at brook as a verb, right? What it means to brook? But the common way we use the word brook now is in its other meaning as a noun-- a brook is a stream. It's a body of water and it houses fish. If you've seen any other post I've made about Ineffable Husbands Speak, you've probably seen that we can see that fish and everything nautical/the sea/ships/etc. is rooted in Aziraphale's oysters innuendo in Rome when they started sleeping together. They use references to fish as euphemistic for the sexual experience and, in particular, orgasm. The sea as sexual metaphor isn't exactly new (those "crashing waves" are in many a book lol) but Crowley & Aziraphale have turned basically anything related to the sea into sexual innuendo across several scenes.

If there's a pun to be had, Crowley & Aziraphale have found it, and one of the more amusing ones is a word where fish/the sea crosses into Heaven/Hell-related words-- and that's in damned. To be damned is to have been cast to Hell but within damned is the word dam. A dam is a natural or manmade barrier that exists to stop or redirect the movement of a body of water. As Ineffable Husbands Speak innuendo, being damned would then seem to be at least one of, if not both of the following: to be to be restrained in bed (something which several different scenes suggest Crowley periodically enjoys) and/or a reference to repeatedly stopping prior to an orgasm aka edging (also something which the language in several scenes suggest is an Ineffable Husbands favorite past time.) More than likely, it's probably the two combined.

From here, go to the innuendo that ends the 2008 minisode in 1.01, when Aziraphale says: "Well, I'll be damned" and Crowley replies, with a wink:

😂😉 Bonus etymology because it adds something to Crowley's above flirt:

Bad: From the Old German baeddel, which meant hermaphroditic, a word that's a bit outdated in our modern use of language but which is of historical relevance to being intersex and is rooted in the Greek god Hermaphroditus-- the intersex child of Hermes and Aphrodite, the goddess of erotic love. (It's Aphrodite who is the root of the word aphrodisiac and who was frequently depicted in art on the shell of a scallop or an oyster.)

Hermaphroditus was one of the Erotes, which were the ancient Greek gods of love and sex. When they're referred to in Roman art and literature, the Erotes are called "Cupids." In the 18th century, a French novelist popularized a rebranding of sort of Asmodeus as a Cupid-like figure and Crowley didn't exactly deny that he's Asmodeus when Aziraphale suggested so in the Golgotha scene. There is also the Cupid statue in the bookshop-- seen in the same scene in S1 where Crowley flirts with Aziraphale by using "bad" and "used." (It's visible in the earlier part of the scene, when Crowley is still drunk and walking around.) The Cupid sculpture is angled so that it is aiming its arrow at Aziraphale's desk. 💘

There is also that, in 'Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings Who Walk the Earth' (the book Furfur has in 1941), Furfur has written a note to remind himself not to trust Crowley because, among other reasons: "his hair is bad!" The joke is that Furfur doesn't know just how true that is (or see the irony because Furfur's hair is also a pompadour of sorts lol.) Crowley's hair is always in a variation on the pompadour-- a hairstyle throughout history, worn by everyone from society ladies to Elvis. Crowley is bad, indeed, and it adds a bit of self-referential-ness to the "it's not so bad when you get used to it" wordplay that suggests Aziraphale's own history with being damned-- even though he's still an angel in 2008. 😉

[sentimentsoforigins]

Sentiments of Origins-if

This story is rated 18+ as it is going to explore mental problems, suicide, alcohol use, violence, horror, blood thirsty and morally questionable scenes.

Death had taken you in your previous world, though the details of how it happened remained hazy in your mind. When you finally opened your eyes, you found yourself in a vaguely familiar place, face to face with the entity known as "God". But this was no peaceful afterlife - God presented you with an ultimatum: participate in their experiment or face eternal suffering. It wasn't much of a choice at all.

Reluctantly, you agreed to possess a mortal body and become the Origin of Magic, tasked with bringing stability to the chaotic world. As you delved deeper into your role, you discovered some unsettling truths about your purpose. Yet despite these revelations, you found yourself grateful for the path you chose as it led you to two younger twin brothers who became your whole world. Alongside them were two other individuals who would also become dear family members - Ginger, the Origin of Humanity, and Nil, the Origin of Demons.

But one day, when you awoke in your bed in a secluded forest where your home stood, you were greeted with the shocking realization that 500 years had passed. Your brothers and chosen family were nowhere to be found. What could have possibly happened during your long slumber? The weight of uncertainty and fear settled heavily onto your shoulders as you searched for answers.

❀ Play as male, female or non-binary Origin of Magic.

❀ Play as an overpowered wizard but use Magic within the range of what a normal wizard can use as not to break the rules.

❀ Explore the world of Aether, magic, the circumstances and the rules that you had to abide as the Origin of Magic.

❀ Discover about your past, your life before you came to this world and your relationships with the people around you.

❀ Just how much the world has changed in the past 500 years and are your adorable twin brothers even alive? And also, why can’t you seem to sense Nil and Ginger’s presence?

❀ This is a story of healing, discovery and self-journey with a focus on family and other mental problems.

❀ Above all, don’t break by the weight of decisions that you had to make in your past. You have already been broken after all. There is no second chance.

ROs and other characters

DEMO + Chapter 1 (11.8.2023)

New Demo

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

@juiceboxxjamie @rhyme-draws-stuff

Rhyme wanted to see these too, so I'm making this a separate post.

Based entirely on the fanarts I've seen on my dash, or what Rhyme has told me of plot points — my current impressions and speculations on the Homestuck characters:

Karkat is angry and insecure and a little tsundere. He really wants to be cool and awesome and have people look up to him, but instead he just thinks everyone else is cooler than him so he gets very loud about it

Nepeta is maybe your typical catgirl/fangirl type character? Cute and feisty, maybe kinda nosy and pushy. I could probably draw her with some level of accuracy from memory, but I don't have a very deep impression on her personality or story

Either Eridan or Equis (I think it's actually Eridan but I had him crossed with Equius as Nepeta's moirail(?)), going almost entirely off of his design and nothing else I have the mental image of his as the sort of stern, thinks their so smart, often kinda suave and hot character archetype, except he'd come off as more full of himself than hot

Gamzee? I think? Is the purple clown guy? And I have been imagining him as like. Off-putting. In a hard to describe way. Maybe like a middle aged alcoholic sort of vibe. His clown make up makes it look like he has a five o'clock shadow. I think everyone's thirteen in canon tho so like.

Vriska is manipulative (and violent maybe? I've heard all trolls are kinda violent tho) and needs to be the center of attention. Maybe kind of an evil mastermind type character, but like, in a misunderstood maladjusted thirteen year old girl way. Maybe more just a toxic friend or bully. Unsure. She's definitely got something complicated going on with the whole morality thing given her reputation. Is she Terezi's girlfriend? Who also blinded her? Oh and she's also a pirate. And maybe obsessed with legacy and family?

I don't think I know any of the other trolls well enough to have impressions of them. I just looked at an image of all the trolls and I had so many of their names and faces crossed. Apparently Aradia and Terezi are different characters. And so are Kanaya and Vriska. And Equius and Eridan, but that already came up.

Actually I did kinda know Kanaya and Vriska were different I just assigned them both the same face/hair. Kanaya is Rose's girlfriend? She's the most human-typical-feminine of the trolls, and also a lesbian, and that's just about my entire impression of her.

One of either Kanaya, Vriska, or Terezi used lipstick as blood one time. And another one of them thought it was super hot

Looking at their sprites, Sollux and Equius both look like the kind of gamer guys who get told to use more deodorant. I think Sollux has more card gamer who is constantly explaining the rules and niche plays to people who don't really care but are to polite to tell him to shut up vibes. Partially because the last name "Captor" sounds like an on the nose name for a pokemon card game player

Jane is like. Nice? But also cool. And nerdy. And lonely. Very lonely. She's like, even more homeschooled and an orphan than the rest of them. I kind of think of her as a fairly typical nice kinda nerdy girl character, but also very much able and willing to kick you if needed. She's another one I could draw better than I could explain her personality

Dave is cool. Theoretically probably not legit-cool, because everyone here is thirteen. But he wears fancy sunglasses and I think he's also the guy from that one backflipping-off-the-sword post ("motherfucking pirouette of the handle" I think is what rhymes said). Also his brother sucks so bad and he doesn't realize this until super far into the story. I kinda think of him as everything Karkat wishes he was, given what little I know about the two having something going on with them. But he's also still thirteen. So like. He's still not actually that cool he's just good at faking it. He's also the edgy teen kind of cool so he's maybe kinda offensive sometimes

Rose and John I have actually met and remember from the not even two hundred pages of Homestuck I've actually read. Rose is a lot more faux psychologist than I expected I think I expected her to be more of a legit put together big sister friend sort of character. John has actually been pretty much exactly how I expected him to be so far. He's kinda cute tbh, his smiley faces are adorable

There's also like, the whole alpha/beta versions of the cast? But I only know Roxy from that so I'm not gonna do any of them