#the whole story arch is so good

[juliamccartney]

i really wanna listen to the bloody laws, bloody claws podcast now :(

[etchif]

Don't know how controversial of a take this is (not very I assume) but I don't really like I Am Me it's painfully generic lyric and sound-wise and it also doesn't really fit into the show that well

[youngerfrankenstein]

Sometimes it feels like this blog is being actively hostile to other Transformers fans and know that I don't intend it to be.

It's just *1000 yard stare* if you'd seen some of the things I've seen. My fight or flight response is activated really quickly by certain things. I am putting up a shield.

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for @lavender-constellation

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for commissioning, means a whole lot <3 This is a part 2 of this post, and we have this other post as a continuation. This piece is a longer version of the second one with two sex-scenes. Hope y’all like it!

Request: I’d love a part two to the monster kissing booth story, upgrading to a sex booth (but like not officially if that makes sense? Like it’s still a kissing booth but in the middle of the market, fem!reader just can’t take it anymore and it becomes a sex booth) with maybe a little bit of emphasis on a tentacle monster and orc coming to the booth 👀 Just no vampires pls!

Naughty booth

Orc x fem!reader + Tentacle monster x fem!reader || tentacle sex, size difference, oral sex, cum play (lowkey), free use, double penetration, squirting

You are coming down from an orgasm when someone screams: “Dude, come on! There’s more of us waiting!” You giggle, the werewolf (who woks two booths down, at the art booth) between your legs sighs as he grabs some tissues to help clean you the best he can so the next monster can have his turn with your soft human flesh.

“Don’t be impatient, you’ll want your sweet time when you get there,” someone else retorts. The line is so long you can’t really see how many monsters are still waiting.

You are way too fucked out already. Your pussy feels stretched even though there’s only been like three monsters so far. You are in heaven, everything feels great. A succubus gave you some of her special magic, and made sure you were extra sensitive and you could fit every size of monster. You will have to find her later and thank her. Maybe even ask her on a date… But that’s something for later.

“Leave it, come on! I don’t care about your jizz, I’ll use it as lube,” a rough voice says behind you.

The werewolf leans down and pecks your lips, promising to come later with some food. You smile softly at him, and see him go as you wait on the table he set you onto. He fucked you so good you still can’t feel your legs. But the next patron doesn’t care about it.

A big orc with a grumpy face appears over you, his erection already out and making your mouth water. “Can you take an orc, little human?” He’s so big… You pray to the goddess that he’d fit inside of you, but the succubus said every size of monster would fit, and you believe her. You really should thank her later.

“Ye- yes. I can,” you tell him. You can’t move much, too tired to participate much, but eager to get fucked all over again.

You can still feel some of the werewolf cum dripping out of your pussy, but when the orc’s fingers tease your entrance, you groan all over again. He pushes some of the cum back inside, scissoring his fingers to make sure you are prepped enough for him. He sits down on a chair and grabs your body, manhandling you until you are on his lap, your body little in comparison to his big physique.

“Prove it,” he tells you holding your body with one hand and his dick with the other. You try to fit him inside, but you can’t get the correct angle. “Come here,” he says. He moves you until your pussy is right over his dick, and you start to descend. He doesn’t wait, though. He puts his big hands against your hips and lowers you completely, making you arch your back and cry out as you hear cheering behind you.

The fact that everyone is looking and enjoying themselves with the spectacle only adds a new layer of heat to your growing arousal. You can’t believe you are still horny after all the orgasms you had, but the movement of the orc inside of you is driving you to the sky once again. He fucks you like a fleshlight, moving your body up and down like a toy and making you groan and moan in a symphony of depravity.

“Come on, little human, your pussy is perfection, let me feel you flutter around my big dick.” His words should be cringy, but at that moment, you can just groan as he keeps using your body and you get closer and closer to the edge. With precision that shouldn’t be legal, he moves your hips until his dick is rubbing against your perfect spot, making you come apart instantly. “That’s it, good goddess, I love your pussy.”

He keeps going, fucking you restlessly as your body gives up and your skin gets tingly. He pinches your nipple as he comes, the combination of the amount of cum he’s shooting inside of you and the pain-pleasure sending you into another orgasm that has your eyesight blacking out for a few seconds.

You come back to a tongue between your legs and your thighs pressing the sides of the orc’s head. He’s kneeling between your legs, at some point he manhandled you into a sitting position in the chair. He hums happily against your clit. You think you can’t take anymore, but the thing the succubus gave you is potent, so a new wave of heat fills your insides as you sigh happily as the orc cleans you out with his tongue. He makes you come around his fingers and tongue one more time before the next in line starts complaining.

“Dude you made her come three times already, let some other people enjoy!” You chuckle, but it’s lost in a loud groan as the orc sucks on your clit, his tusks framing your pussy in the most amazing way.

“They can’t stop complaining, little human, I guess is time for me to go. I hope this is not a one time thing… I had fun with your pretty pussy.” He kisses said pussy one more time before saluting you with his hand and walking away, fastening his pants as he goes.

Anticipation fills your insides when the next patron appears. You see his tentacles before you see him. Fuck, you never had tentacle sex.

“Look at that, the sex-princess is all fucked out…” The tentacles around him are moving like crazy and you have to hold your breath as one slowly approaches your body. The first contact is cold and a bit slimy, but in a good way. It feels like cooling-lube over your body, and it’s so good you groan. “Yes, like that… You love a good tentacle, don’t you, sex-princess?” You want to answer him, but he waits no longer to latch two suckers to your nipples, making you scream as the next in line laughs.

“Don’t tease her too much, I want her to still be there when my turn comes around,” she says. You can’t see which kind of monster she is, but you silently agree with her. There’s still a lot of monsters that want to try your soft human flesh.

“Okay… Okay.” The tentacle monster’s voice is reluctant, but he moves his tentacles around your body, positioning you spread over the table again.

You lay there, looking at the ceiling as you feel more tentacles join the fun. The two on your nipples start sucking harder, enticing more groans out of your mouth. Another tentacle finds your pussy and goes in without preamble. You cry out again and the crowd cheers. You think he’s going to fuck you like everyone else did, but instead, he latches another sucker inside of you, right over your G-spot. You scream at the feeling. Too good, too much.

You feel tears rolling down your cheeks as he adds another sucker to your clit, making you see stars. The combination of sensations is so good you feel something inside of you building. Something unknown, like you are going to break if he keeps going like that. When you think you can’t take anymore, he adds another tentacle to your pussy, stretching you impossibly wide as he starts fucking you with the second one.

The combination of suckers and fucking is too much and you feel something explode inside of you, a gush of liquid leaving your body and making him gasp in surprise.

“Did she just squirt?” Some monster asks, amazement filling their voice.

“Yes, she did.” The tentacle monster looks so smug you feel a bit embarrassed, but too fucked to complain. He keeps going, making you come two more times around his tentacles. “Good job, sex-princess, you did great.” He tells you before disappearing.

The next monster is already waiting, strap on and a big smile on her face.

It’s going to be a long day… and you are going to enjoy every single second of it.

[nereidprinc3ss]

pillow talk

in which spencer reid chooses a very odd time to reveal an anecdote from his past to fem!reader

18+ (fluff, extremely suggestive) warnings/tags: fingering but nothing graphic whatsoever, it's basically fade to black sex, discussions of spencer's gsw from season 5, medical talk (and inaccuracies), spencer is a sarcastic little shit a/n: found this super random little thing in my drafts and it was done and i think it's silly and cute so i'm posting it! 600 words, short n sweet!

“You got shot in the knee?”

It’s perhaps said too loudly for the setting—tucked into Spencer’s bed in the late hours of the night when up until this point the conversation had been nothing but murmured stories and quiet giggles. And before that, well—before that there hadn’t been much conversation at all. 

Still you can’t find it within yourself to apologize as you sit up, holding the top sheet to your chest and looking down at Spencer incredulously. His eyebrows raise like he’s surprised by your reaction. 

“Thigh, technically. And it was years ago. Come back.”

You huff but allow yourself to be pulled back down, head on his shoulder as his hand finds its place stroking your hip once more. 

“How have you never told me that?”

“You never noticed the multiple incision scars on my leg?”

“What? No! Can I look now?”

“You won’t be able to see them. It’s too dark.”

You angle your head toward him, and he does the same, tilting his down until your noses almost brush. 

“So turn the light on.”

“If I turn the light on I’ll get distracted.”

“Distracted by what?” You ask, realizing what he means and voice quickly fading even as you finish the sentence. He chuckles and kisses your head. 

“I’ll show it to you in the morning. Come here.”

“I am here,” you grumble. He hums, leaning down further to try and kiss you. 

“Closer.”

So you scoot up the mattress and roll onto your side, pressed right against him, to meet him halfway in a sweet kiss. 

“You’re kind of spoiled,” you laugh against his lips as he begins pushing the sheet from your body. 

“You have to be nice to me. I got shot, remember?”

“Right. And how long ago was this, approximately?”

“It was 19 days before my 28th birthday.”

So much for approximations. 

“Aw. You got shot for your 28th birthday?”

It’s his turn to laugh into the kiss as he carefully rolls over you but recovers quickly, assuming a deadpan delivery. 

“Yeah. And it was really bad.”

“Sexy,” you murmur as he kisses down your jaw. “Tell me more.”

“Shots to the leg can be life-threatening if the femoral artery is nicked. Thankfully the bullet missed mine. You’re welcome.”

Your heart skips with a split second of true anxiety, but you snort at his cavalier attitude. 

“Yeah? This is really working for me.”

He lowers his voice to the one he uses in more intimate contexts and you giggle as he explains his gunshot wound to you like it’s dirty talk. 

“The bullet went in through my rectus femoris…” now uninhibited by the sheet, he finds the spot on your thigh and pinches lightly, “and came out clean through my semitendinosis muscle.”

“Clean? No bone fragments?”

“Nope. The doctors said I was extremely lucky it didn’t splinter my femur but it completely destroyed my muscles. I had to do physical therapy for a year and a half and I had a cane for months.”

“That’s kind of hot,” you breathe, losing commitment to the bit as his kisses get lower and his hand creeps higher. 

“Wait until you hear about the mid-surgery aortic clamping and ligature complications. You’ll love this��I was awake the whole time.”

A soft moan slips from between your parted lips and your brows pinch. 

“Spencer—”

“What?” He murmurs. “Me getting shot in the leg isn’t sexy anymore?”

You manage something between a breathy laugh and a mewl as your back arches. 

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He hums against your throat. 

“Good luck. You’d be far from the first to try.”

[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.)

[staryuee]

WHAT THEY DO WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE!

꒰warnings꒱ not proofread, dainsleif/pantalone may be ooc (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

⠀꒲ ` synopsis . . . just cute habits, actions etc that they do, whether intentionally or not, after being struck with cupid’s arrow.

⠀꒲ ` characters . . . jean, diluc, zhongli, xiao, nilou, xianyun, dehya, wanderer, arlecchino, pantalone, dainsleif

⠀꒲ ` notes . . . scrolling through the genshin tag makes me wanna die sometimes…i’m trying to do investigative work and i have to quickly scroll past the same smutty language like it’s booktok torture + also i’ve been playing baldurs gate 3 for the past several days and i think i’ve developed a problem…

G. JEAN — 琴

ʚ jean is very subtle in the way she loves someone, she doesn’t want to keep it secret per se, but her love is always almost adjacent to a puppy crush; something that seems fleeting but in the long run returns harder and hits oh so much worse.

ʚ she can’t necessarily abuse her powers, and she wouldn’t dare dream of messing up the order she so carefully has managed to maintain, so the way she tries to convey her feelings across isn’t too brash or loud.

ʚ simple things like letting her hands brush against yours when she passes you documents, allowing you to visit her office whenever you please even if it’s to just sprawl down at a nearby couch and read a book you found in the library while meandering, and even letting you join her on her daily walks across the courtyard.

ʚ during windblume festivals she won’t hesitate to strike up a seemingly harmless and friendly conversation, all the while sneaking a flower into your hair that resembles the feelings you stir up inside her fuzzy heart.

ʚ jean is overall quite an awkward person when it comes to anything related to romantic or plantoic ties, she’s a bit of a people pleaser in that way where she prefers to assume everyone’s a friend before an enemy… or in this case, “interested”.

ʚ with backup and sought guidance from her good friends lisa and kaeya, she’ll try a myriad of tactics to get you to notice her; a little shoulder massage there, a heartfelt sticky note placed on your workstation there, inviting you to classic candlelit dinners etc.

ʚ yes, believe me, she even tried the cartoonish “rose bit between teeth and uncomfortably arched side lean on a wall” approach before deciding it’s much better to listen to herself than the flamboyant duo.

R. DILUC — 迪卢克

ʚ diluc is the actual epitome of a gentleman. his love is so pure and genuine you can’t help but flower press every petal from the various bouquet he personally delivers to you on special occasions (anything from you completing a particularly hard or draining mission to doing something you thought you’d suck at).

ʚ his coat is also yours now. it’s like a six sense at this point to notice when you’re shivering out in the cold winds, and it’s become even more of a routine for him to simply shed that fluffy coat of his and drape it appropriately over your shoulders, trying to maintain a comfortable distance between you two as he adjusts it both to ease your tension and assure the pounding of his heart goes unheard.

ʚ diluc doesn’t enjoy using his riches to woo someone, it’s uncouth and just shows a desperation unbecoming of someone who dates to marry. if he wants to know you’re in it for the long haul, he’ll be much more sensitive and thoughtful when picking out gifts for you, each them have to hold some level of significance in your life.

ʚ the whole fiasco with his poor maids and some sneaky, perverse stalkers and diluc’s flaming great sword certainly applies to you as well; he’ll quietly ensure your safety in the night, helping you walk home with his arm hooked under yours, and in broad daylight he won’t hesitate to swing that polished wolf’s gravestone of his against any onlookers.

ʚ diluc is extremely closed off but deeply sentimental, he can so easily find himself rambling about his childhood stories to you; anything from how he used to collect seashells with kaeya to bring back to their dad, or how him and jean used to let baby barbara braid their hair together while babysitting…to things that are slightly more troublesome and heart wrenching to even mutter.

ʚ he may be less vocal than most in terms of feelings, but that doesn’t mean he won’t commit to it if he’s in love with someone. diluc isn’t the slightest bit dumb, he understand in order to get his feelings across he needs to do more than take random days off to spend time with you, he needs to at least hint it in a way that clearly gets his intentions across.

ʚ believe me, whenever you come by to dawn winery per notice, everyone raises a brow at you with curious smirks and gazes as diluc nearly stumbles on his words to get the phrase: “you look lovely tonight” out.

ZHONGLI — 钟离

ʚ he has up to thousands years of romantic customs under his belt, he understands the vague signs and ways to further communicate how much he adores you.

ʚ … that would be the case in its full if not for the fact for the first thousand couple years of his life he wasn’t busy maiming other gods and shedding blood. safe to say, his memories of mortal “courting” is slightly, if not absolutely, a massive, weaving and overlapping trail of various centuries and cultures he’s been accustomed to; anything ranging from the days when khaenri’ah was still in its prime to nowadays with newfound slang.

ʚ he’ll recite the most beautifully heartfelt and awfully sincere poem all the while you’re fighting your life in a haunted house (he’s heard this activity is helpful to get couples closer to one another, and given the fact you’re clinging on for dear life at the edge of his coat, he assumes he’s on the right track!)

ʚ he wants to impress you while also maintaining an air of genuineness to his actions, and while that does sometimes end in awkward situations where he ends up wearing regal attire to what’s supposed to be a casual dinner at wangmin, his heart remains completely pure in its endeavours.

ʚ oh, let’s not forget this man is quite literally a dragon too!

ʚ sometimes he can forget you don’t have the same complexion as him and will proudly present you some sort of glimmering relic from his hoard, forgetting that certain materials that existed back in the day were deadly and or toxic for mortals to touch let alone possess.

ʚ with a little nudge in the right direction, he’ll quickly learn everything there is to know for how to properly handle your precious heart. whatever you’d like, you may have — if it’s within his reach, that is. but it doesn’t mean he’ll stop at what’s available, no, just how much he’s willing to risk for you.

XIAO — 魈

ʚ he’s already embarrassed and awkward enough with accepting the fact he likes you, so accepting the fact that he loves you had left him with a lengthy exorcism spree down in some forgotten areas in liyue (it didn’t help).

ʚ in all honestly, not much changes; both because he’s rather emotionally constipated but also because he’s more than sure he’s loved you for longer than he seems to currently acknowledge.

ʚ letters that came only on special occasions like your birthday or his became much more frequent and a lot less poetic, it felt more like he was writing about his thoughts at the time, a little akin to how you’ve made him feel less constricted and much more free; he can finally have the courage to step out of his comfort zone.

ʚ all those small acts of love he used to subtly express (i.e gifting you two crystaflies, personally inviting you to come hang out, etc) he manages to double, he can’t have you thinking his intentions are the same as before. no, they’re much stronger now.

ʚ his guard softens around you regardless, but when you randomly fall asleep on his shoulder on your weekly visits at wangshu inn, instead of taking you to one of the rooms, he’ll sit there and allow you to rest, and if he’s assured you’re not awake to ridicule him, maybe, just maybe…he’ll sneakily loop his arm around your waist.

ʚ even just the thought of you makes him spiral into daydreaming, sitting atop a tree and swinging his leg back and forth carelessly as he stares up at the night to await for a new light, knowing full well the only sun he wants to see is you…just imagining his hands holding your waist like they did so long ago makes him shiver (hopefully this time he’ll get to do it when you’re not falling, and instead are falling for him)

NILOU — 妮露

ʚ nilou is basically a disney princess, if you see her singing to random birds that come watch her performances, everyone in the grand bazaar already knows it’s because you’ll be in the crowd that night.

ʚ each step within her routines are done with the little more passion, if that even is possible given her character, all because she imagines that pride and hopeful heart eyes in your eyes as all the attention is on her.

ʚ sometimes this fixation can lead to dumb mistakes on stage which bring her to sulking away with a hand on her forehead dabbing away at the sweat, but even the mention of your name as you pass by several sumeru streets is enough for her to brighten, do a quick wardrobe switch and run off to tackle you within her embrace.

ʚ nilou is not loud, but definitely not subtle. the exact representation of how she feels when you come to encourage her at her lowest (though those days are few). you’re there for her in ways you don’t imagine, and that alone is enough for her to daze away into the night as she cuddles her pillow, legs wrapped around it and all, and begins thinking about the what ifs of your relationship.

ʚ sometimes it’s a little comedic the way she speaks about you, it almost sounds like she’s reminiscing about a fictional book character with how much she takes pride in whatever little thing you do. no one tires of seeing her footsteps lightly tap against the ground in circles as she gushes about how when you complimented her the other day, you touched her cheek seemingly subconsciously ∩^ω^∩

XIANYUN — 闲云

ʚ she’s a little embarrassed at just how obvious she can be sometimes, it doesn’t help the fact her own children keep using this love of hers to their advantage.

ʚ she keeps nagging them about not taking care of themselves (she’s all too keen about their health and whereabouts now that she dwells alongside liyuean people) and yet just the mention of your name has her slightly stuttering in a ditzy trance as she hooks her glasses back up her nose bridge.

ʚ without hesitance, she’ll show you a photo album she has of all those close to her; would you like to see the drawing little ganyu made when she just barely had her horns? or perhaps the polearm young shenhe broke when she miscalculated her own strength in training?

ʚ her family is her pride and joy, it’s only natural for her to want you to be part of it even if it’s something as silly as raking through photos of a chubby ganyu eating the stem of a flower or teeny shenhe napping on a tree.

ʚ a peaceful life mingling with mortals has left her with ample time to enjoy the trivialities of life, and yet she finds her mind all too quickly wandering to you; had you been taking care of yourself? were you feeling lonely? did you need her to make something for you?

ʚ a secretive worry wart that quickly becomes that ancient adetpus she used to pride herself as soon as your delicate hands accidentally brush against hers; suddenly she’s perked up, chest heaven up high with a confident hand on her shoulder: you wouldn’t even think that flurry of pink hues gushing across her cheeks was real if not for the light providing evidence.

DEHYA — 迪希雅

ʚ oh she’s absolutely ecstatic!!

ʚ there’s genuinely nothing better than love in her eyes, especially just having the ability to love and trust someone fully when you haven’t been able to do so for a plethora of years.

ʚ doesn’t try to hide it, like at all, if anything she makes it rather obvious with the way she constantly pulls you closer as if you were already an item, arms constantly clinging onto you and your sides or her hands messing up your hair as you greet her.

ʚ she’ll take you anywhere you ask, free of charge of course (just promise to smile…and maybe if you’re up for it give her a kiss on the cheek, that’s sure to be enough reimbursement).

ʚ she’s already quite a confident and outwardly friendly person (if the price is right that is) but when in your presence? what’s wrong with just a little bit of showing off…

ʚ dehya needs you to see the best side of her!! maybe then you’ll finally give in and realise that her constantly asking for you to come join her on her travels and commissions isn’t brought out of mere timed coincidence

WANDERER — 流浪者

ʚ i saw that a few people were upset and confused by wanderer’s sudden switch up into being more kind/friendly, but i think we all forget what kind of person he was before his betrayals.

ʚ he loves wholeheartedly, if he adores something it consumes him in a warm pit of mushy domesticity — he doesn’t hate love or being kind, he hates the way it makes him vulnerable and the way it reminds him of the way he used to be.

ʚ that also means he’ll completely ignore you, or, try his best to rather.

ʚ wanderer knows within his heart that he completely years for you, just the accidental slip of his gaze meeting yours makes his brain go haywire, sending volts of electricity down his spine — you make him feel so alive.

ʚ it’s terrifying to return to a person you once were especially now with the knowledge of how being the way you were lead to some sort of tragedy, he’s managed to build up these walls so high and here you were, sneaking in through cracks he didn’t even know he had.

ʚ and he both loves it and hates it; loves the fact he can still feel, but hates how he’s so easily susceptible.

ʚ loving you turns into self-loathing and brooding, his feet pacing up and down every street at night to clear his muddled head. small distractions like taking strolls in meadows or sleeping up in the vines of trees lead to just thoughts of you and you alone.

ʚ wanderer refuses to be overly friendly and buddy-buddy with you even if he’s aware that if you decided to just one day hold him sincerely he’d burst into tears, but he can compromise with being less cutthroat.

ʚ “shut the fuck up” turns into him just rolling his eyes at you as you ramble (he soaks up any piece of information he can and locks it away), items you gift him now are more apparent in their value as he yells at those who dare question the dumb aranara pin you bought him and placed sneakily on his hat…oh and he gives you hat privileges.

ʚ it’s raining? …get close to him so you don’t begin complaining about the way the rain feels on your skin.

ARLECCHINO — 阿蕾奇诺

ʚ she starts treating you less like an asset in her “contact if in need of assistance” roster and more like a friend — of course, she maintains that distance between you two, but she lets you wriggle around in her heart to see if you manage to fit.

ʚ chances are, you will — unknowingly she’d grown to love you in ways that may have even gone unnoticed by her given how natural they were; inviting you to random gatherings when the whim arises, pulling your chair out for you when out for brunch, or even tucking away strands of hair and twirling it around playfully.

ʚ arlecchino’s love isn’t something immediate or expected, she’s a woman who keeps every card close to her chest and her children even closer, you have to prove to her that you’re worth it, in a way that doesn’t necessarily mean spilling blood but more so answers the question: do you care, and are you willing to accept her blinding love?

ʚ it’s like a shepherd dog with a lost lamb, but that little sheep is just you, and she’s a wolf in need of a muse.

ʚ cute tea parties aren’t uncommon with the two of you, she’ll happily let you indulge yourself in treats as she leans back with scorching tea in her hands while memorising every curve of your lips as you chew and swallow, she loves watching the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and the little sway from side to side you occasionally do as an expression of joy.

ʚ once arlecchino notices that she’s began treating you as another authority figure in the house of hearth, she’ll reach and collar you gently, intertwining her dark, cursed hand into your flowery one.

PANTALONE — 潘塔罗涅

ʚ one of the most attractive qualities a man can have is knowing when to shut the fuck up and to slide his card over during a dinner — both such things pantalone can do effortlessly, especially when it comes to you.

ʚ arlecchino claims that: “he allows his actions to be governed by the vengeance and hatred locked in the depths of his heart.” something that definitely translates into his love affairs in more than obsessive manners.

ʚ don’t be afraid of the massive hauls of clothing and sparkling jewellery galore that are being trudged in by multiple men, darling, it’s just a menial souvenir from his latest travels and newfound connections that he thought you might enjoy ^^

ʚ while his grandeur usually stems from his deep hearted desire to overthrow the imbalance between immortals and mortals, rest assured the luxury he provides you purely stems from his desire to make you his.

ʚ whether that entails you being his pet for him to seek comfort from on the occasion or a genuine connection where he can comfortably hold you at night purely depends on you.

ʚ oh, you’ll let him chew your ear off about his recent expedition and extravagant plan? consider your rent payed for the next few months and a few kisses on your cheek that certainly aren’t actually part of the snezhnayan custom (let him indulge in those little cravings or else he’ll undoubtedly be petty).

DAINSLEIF — 戴因斯雷布

ʚ has a breakdown.

ʚ a little dramatic, but honestly if his entire life wasn’t a disgusting mess already, you’ve come to make it worse. fate is deliberately mean to brooding blondes it seems, given the fact he’s now stuck pacing around back and forth on a trail of dead abyss mages as he rereads a letter you’ve sent him weeks ago.

ʚ everything you give to him, everything you say, do, write, whatever, he remembers implicitly. each word you say is engraved into him as if they were important artefacts regardless of how pointless and mundane.

ʚ it can honestly get a little…scary at times? you’ll mention liking something once and all of a sudden you find it within your possession at least a few weeks later.

ʚ dainsleif doesn’t have enough time to wallow in the glory of mushy, all consuming love despite desperately wanting to imagine how your hand would feel caressing down past each of his scars, but what he can do is protect you, and to him that’s a greater blessing than intimacy he knows will end eventually.

ʚ a big tough man who would honestly fold the moment you call him any variation of a pet name, specifically with the word “mine/my” at the beginning — hey, it’s nice knowing you mean something to someone the point they view you as inseparable.

ʚ the timings at which he comes to aid you are all too convenient and believe me he’ll try his best to downplay it as coincidence, all the while he’s breathing heavily both from the face your eyes are scanning his so closely and the fact he used up so much energy to merely make a portal to sneak into your space.

©STARYUEE do not copy, steal or repost ♡ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪʜᴇᴀʀᴛɢᴀɴʏᴜ

[scarlet-star-witch]

The moon and his sun (Part III)

Aemond Targaryen x female reader

Summary: People would remember their story. Even decades after they were gone, Septa’s would tell young children about the one-eyed dragon prince and his sweet wife as if they were a part of a fairytale, too good to be true for the harshness real life possessed.

Aemond meets a young girl who quickly becomes his most cherished friend and changes the course of history.

Word count: 10.1 K

Warnings: Whole lotta smut in the beginning, secret relationship, Aegon being an ass

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

~~

The two of them quickly became insatiable. 

Aemond soon forgot what his life was like before he had tasted her, before he had heard the sweet sounds of her pleasure, before he had felt the velvet perfection of her walls hugging his cock. 

He had thought he had bewitched him as children, but now, he knew he was truly under her spell. 

He spent every waking moment finding excuses to find her in any dark corner he could, spending every spare moment reveling in the bliss her open arms provided. 

Their afternoons together in the library were now spent with her bent over the table, his punishing hips leaving him to cover her mouth with his hand, his head buried in her shoulder to smother his own noises of ecstasy as they succumbed to their pleasure. 

Every feast was cut short as they slithered away from the prying eyes of the crowd, ending up in the secret halls to find solitude, her legs wrapped around his lithe waist as he pressed her against the hard stone wall behind her, her moans flowing freely as he fucked her hard. 

He was completely uninhibited, his own groans of pleasure filling the space, her name tumbling from his lips, his head spinning as he thrust inside her with an urgency unknown to him. He never thought he’d be this unhinged, this crazed, but it was what she did to him. 

He watched eagerly, as her eyes rolled back, her lips parted with each of her beautiful noises of bliss. He couldn’t believe that he was the one to do this to her. He watched, his eye wide with wonder as he brought her to a leg-shaking peak, his name yelled out into the empty halls, like she couldn't get enough.

He couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be with her like this, to hold her and touch her until she cried in the most beautiful way possible. 

He never wanted to stop, he never wanted his time with her to end. 

He was eager to take whatever time with her he could. 

His hours of training were cut short when he spotted her on the balcony, the sight of her playful smirk all he needed to be swayed, practically tossing his sword down as he gave Ser Criston a flimsy excuse before leaving abruptly. 

She’d be waiting for him in his chambers, the laces of her corset already undone. It would take little effort to rip the rest away. 

He learned to savor her, despite the fire that raged through him every time he touched her soft skin, he learned he loved taking his time with her. He loved to bury his face between her thighs, tasting her sweet nectar, feeling her writhe under him, her lovely cries echoing through his room as he brought her to climax over and over again. 

He loved the way her fingers tangled and pulled at his hair, he loved watching her back arch off his sheets, how her breasts heaved with each of her panting breaths and whining cries. 

But most of all, he loved when she moaned his name. 

Whether it was with his fingers, his tongue, or his hard cock that pounded into her relentlessly, he would do whatever it took to make her scream his name. 

But his love was an explorer, it was in her nature. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she flipped the script on him. 

He had just brought her to a third, leg-quivering peak with his tongue, when her moans turned to laughs, the mischief twinkling in her eyes, stirring his desire even further, his cock so hard he was practically throbbing under her gaze. 

She flipped him to his back as if he weighed nothing. He had watched, entranced by the goddess in his bed as she climbed atop him. He let out a loud, keening cry as she sank down on him. 

She wasted no time, not one to deny her darling Aemond his pleasure, as she grinded against him rhythmically, her head falling back to her shoulders, her panting breaths growing louder as she rode him with fervor.

Though it was no match for the noises coming from her lover below her. 

She had never taken control like this and it was driving him insane. His hands clutched to her hips desperately, his eye glassy as he watched her divine body atop him, her hips moving with a fierceness that left him breathless.

Each slam of her hips against his choked a cry out of him, sounding more desperate with each brutal thrust of her punishing yet perfect hips. 

He had never experienced anything like it before. 

It was easy to lose control with her. Only a few moments later, his body stiffened, his head thrown back onto the pillow below him, a loud cry of ecstasy escaping him as his back arched, his body writhing beneath her. 

She laughed in delight, pride coursing through her at the pleasure she was able to pull from a dragon, a god amongst men. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- fuck.” He panted, throwing his arm over his eyes as he fought to catch his breath, his pulse pounding in his ears, stars bursting behind his closed eye. 

She giggled and leaned down, beginning to plant kisses across his heaving chest. 

“We’re doing that again.” She crooned, making him groan, both in delight and agony.

“I’ll need a minute before I can feel my legs.” He laughed. 

Neither one of them could fathom the bliss they found together. 

They couldn’t get enough.

A loud rumble of thunder woke her one morning, a soft moan sounding as she stretched, a smile coming to her lips as she felt a blissful ache between her legs. Her face twisted with sleepy confusion as her foot nudged against something solid under her sheets and she soon became aware of the arm that lay over her waist. 

She looked over her shoulder, both delight and fear coming to her in an instant.

While she was beyond happy to wake up beside her love, to have been wrapped in his arms the entire night, they were playing a dangerous game and they couldn’t give the maids any reason to spread gossip.

“Aemond.” She groaned tiredly, pushing at his shoulder to wake him. 

He let out a low noise of discontent as he was woken from his sleep. His arm tightened around her and he nuzzled in closer to her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, placing sweet kisses that made her insides flutter.

“You weren’t supposed to stay the night.” 

He would hold her as she fell into her slumber, but was always cautious enough to leave while it was still dark, ending up in his own bed before the sun rose and the members of the Keep woke. 

“I couldn’t help it.” He spoke, his voice raspy with sleep, stirring desire within her. “You looked so beautiful while you slept, I couldn’t bear to leave your side.”

She rolled her eyes as a soft laugh escaped her. 

“You’re still such a charmer.” 

“Only for you, my love.” He crooned and titled her chin towards him so he could kiss her properly. 

They both quickly lost themselves to their desires. No care was given to the fact that others would be awakening, that an entire world existed outside the bed, an outside world that could destroy them.

None of it seemed to matter to them.

Aemond had kissed her until they were breathless then turned her onto her stomach and hauled her to her hands and knees. Their shared moans as he sank into her were loud, much louder than he would’ve been comfortable with this time of day if had any sense left to give.

His hips moved with precision, thrusting his cock inside her with growing need, as if it wasn’t enough, as if he needed to be closer to her still. Even inside her, it wasn’t enough. 

He gripped her hips tightly, his eyes shut tightly as the pleasure overtook him. His panting breaths grew louder, his desire growing with each passing second, every one of her whining moans and pleas lighting his body with a fire that was becoming all too familiar with her. 

He growled as she bounced her hips back onto him, his blunt nails scratching at her skin, his jaw falling slack with a loud moan, their morning love making quickly turning into something much more animalistic and desperate than either had intended. 

It was so unlike what their usual early morning rendezvous were. There were no quiet, shared kisses or gentle wandering hands that carressed and worshiped every inch of each other. 

“Aemond!” She cried out, her head dropping between her arms, her voice growing raspy as her cries became louder, only encouraging his flaming lust. 

He grunted and quickened his pace, the headboard beginning to slam against the wall behind the bed, his moans becoming louder, suddenly thankful for the raging storm outside that provided cover for their noise. 

“That’s it, love, just like that.” He growled, his resolve slipping from him faster than he could recognize. 

Her moans became louder, sending goosebumps across his skin.

“Come for me, my love.” 

His growled words were all she needed to bring her close to her end. With only a few swipes of his fingers against his clit, his expert hands knowing exactly how to play her, like a musician with their treasured instrument, she was helpless against his touch.

She shuddered under him, a cry of his name ripped from her throat as he brought her to her peak. Her sweet sounding whines echoed throughout the room. 

Aemond grit his teeth, the tightening around his cock forcing him to lose all sense of control. He pounded into her relentlessly, cursing and grunting as he fucked her like an animal, as if she wasn’t the most precious thing to him. 

A string of Valyrian left him, cursing the power her body held over his own and praying to never lose her devotion all at once. A loud shout left him as he came, his body tingling with ecstasy as he practically collapsed against her, his limbs left feeling weak, his entire body spent, his mind spinning. 

“Fuck.” He whispered breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. “You are perfection, issa prūmia.”

They were both trembling and aching, reeling with bliss, pleasure ringing in their ears.

“You should go before my maids come.” She said, her voice still breathless and raspy from the cries he had pulled from her.

“One more minute.” He mumbled, moving with a groan to lay beside her and quickly gathering her into his arms. 

He kissed the top of her head, letting his eye fall closed, taking in the peaceful final moments he would get with her until the cover of night. 

They both found it difficult to hide what was between them. The smiles they shared as they passed each other would be subject to scrutiny now that they were no longer children. The time they spent together, while not unusual, was looked at with a cautious lens, the Lords and Ladies of the court whispering about their closeness.

It was hell to pretend they were still nothing more than childhood friends. 

The days spent in the garden, surrounded by curious eyes looking for gossip were torture for them both. Aemond longed to reach out to her, to brush the hair from her face the wind would carry. He longed to take her hand in his, he longed to sit closer, to feel her body against his. He longed to kiss her after each sweet nothing she cheekily dared to whisper in the broad daylight. 

But they would never risk what they had. 

Though there was nothing they could do about the rumors that spread about the way they looked at each other.

There was nothing they could do about the love that lingered in their gazes towards each other. 

Whispers of an impending betrothal were all the court could talk about. Even with the fierce scowls Aemond sent to the groups of whispering Ladies, it did little to stop the incessant gossiping.

It soon reached the ears of the Master of Coin. The Lord of Ixtal hadn’t exactly been shocked when he heard the rumors, he was only confused as to why his own daughter hadn’t disclosed anything to him. 

He knew about her friendship with Aemond, but she had never told him of any deeper feelings. He sought her out one night after dinner with the King. 

He was making his way to his daughter’s chambers when he caught sight of her roaming the halls just a few turns from her room. 

“Darling?” He called out to her, causing her to stop in her tracks, a brief look of horrified shock crossing her features before she quickly schooled her expression. “Where are you headed to at this hour?”

She panicked internally for a brief moment, as if her father could know with one mere look at her that she was headed to find her secret lover to do things their Septa’s from years past would have lashed them for. 

“I was going to say goodnight to Helaena’s twins. I promised I would read them a bedtime story.” The lie fell from her tongue too easily, her stomach twisting with nerves as her father eyed her carefully, as if catching onto her lie. 

He nodded slowly and she had to force herself not to breathe out dramatically in relief that her cover story had been solid enough.

“Why don’t we break our fast together tomorrow? I feel as though I’ve scarcely seen you as of late.” 

She nodded eagerly, desperate to be out from under his gaze, no matter how innocent it was. The guilt she felt along with the enormous secret she harbored was enough to drive her to insanity. 

“I’ll see tomorrow, Darling.”

“Goodnight.” She spoke swiftly, pressing a quick kiss to her father’s cheek and sidestepping him, continuing on her path down the hall, taking a sharp left towards Helaena’s chambers instead of the right turn that would’ve taken her to the library where Aemond was waiting for her. 

She entered the Princess’ chambers, giving her friend a warm smile.

“Hello.” Helaena greeted her happily. “I wasn’t expecting you here tonight.”

She shrugged, attempting to not let her anxieties show. 

“I haven’t seen you much today. I thought I should stop in to say goodnight.” She took a seat next to her friend, smiling softly at the children at her feet playing with their toys. 

“Was Aemond not available?”

She blanched, Helaena’s blunt words striking fear within her like an arrow. Her wide eyed stare met her friend’s unwaveringly calm smile. 

“We- Aemond and I-”

“You make him happy.” Helaena spoke warmly, her attention moving back to the embroidery in her hands, as if she hadn’t just shaken her friend to her core. “I’m glad he found you before it was too late.”

She gaped at the Princess. It wasn’t unusual for Helaena to speak things that made little sense to others or things so mysterious it left a chill down your spine, but this was something else entirely. 

She cleared her throat and turned her attention to the twins, asking if they would like to hear a bedtime story. She could at least follow through with her lie to her father. She spent the next twenty minutes corralling the quiet children to their beds, her heart bursting with love as they watched her eagerly, hanging onto her every word as she told them tales of her home, of the beautiful animals that lived in the jungles of Ixtal. 

She pictured herself, sometime in the future, telling tales to her own children who had heads of silver hair just as their father did. The thought made her heart leap excitedly. 

Once the children were tucked into bed, fully satisfied with her many stories, she felt Helaena’s hand on her shoulder, a touched twinkle in her eyes. 

“He’ll be waiting for you.” 

The Princess�� whispered words said much more than anyone else could comprehend. Her insinuated approval, that she knew just how much her brother meant to her, had a weight leaving her shoulders she didn’t even know had been holding her down. 

No matter what Helaena knew of what she had with Aemond, she approved and that was all that mattered. 

With a parting kiss to Helaena’s cheek, she left her chambers, heading back to her own, wondering what she’d tell Aemond of his sister’s strange words. 

She stepped into her chambers, her heart jumping at the sight of a figure by her window. She placed a hand over her chest, whispering a quiet curse as she quickly recognized the silver hair that gleamed in the moonlight.

“Gods, don’t do that. You scared me.” She spoke quietly, looking behind her to ensure the door was closed behind her. 

Aemond was stepping towards her in an instant, his face hardened slightly.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

She let out a long breath, holding onto his arms that wound around her waist. 

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t show, I thought…” He trailed off, his eye alight with uncertainty that made her chest ache. 

She reached out, her hand resting at his cheek, the affectionate gesture making his tense body relax. She didn’t understand how after so many years of friendship and weeks of making love he still could have doubts for what her heart longed for. 

“I ran into my father.” She explained to him. “I thought he might be suspicious, so I went to Helaena’s room. I didn’t want him to follow me straight to you. God’s if he had caught us-” She stopped abruptly, shivering at the thought. 

Aemond blew out a breath, a guise of laughter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting or to make you worry.” 

He just shook his head, looking back at her with reverence, as if he could finally be at ease now he was gazing upon her. 

His arms tightened around her, his closeness making her smile, though it was strained. She thought of her father, the awkwardness their interaction held, something that had never existed with him. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Aemond asked, sensing the turmoil within her, looking at her with concern.

“I hate lying to him.” 

Aemond sighed, he didn’t exactly have the same reservations about lying to his family like she had, he certainly didn’t have the love and affection for his father that she had with her own, but he saw how it ate away at her. 

“I know, my love.” 

They both knew they couldn’t risk what they had getting ripped away from them. On a good day, the only thing the King seemed to remember was his first daughter. They couldn’t take a request to him, not while Otto pulled the strings. 

Aemond gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly as they both longed for a day where they didn’t have to hide.

~~

In an effort to keep up appearances, they decided to put some distance between them, at least while in public. At the feast for the Queen’s nameday, she didn’t sit next to him or his family, she didn’t dance with him, though that was not a common event now that they were no longer children. 

Aemond sat at the head table, a permanent scowl etched on his face. 

He watched with barely contained resentment the crowd that had gathered around her and her father. The Lord of Ixtal was too charismatic for his own good. Any Lord and their son that greeted the revered Master of coin soon turned their attention to his beloved daughter, offering well wishes and not so subtle inquiries into her eligibility for marriage.

Aemond couldn’t stand it. 

He was powerless to do anything but watch. He noticed the way she would shift uncomfortably in her seat under the compliments bestowed upon her. He wanted nothing more than to march straight to her, take her hand and whisk her away from it all. 

Proprietary be damned, he couldn’t take it anymore. 

His leg bounced beneath the table, every inch of him portraying how much he hated every part of the celebration. He took a long swig of his wine, wincing slightly at the taste. He thanked the Gods every day that he never achieved his brother’s proclivities for the drink, but he didn’t think he could endure the rest of the night without something to dull his senses. 

His eyes fell to her table once more and suddenly sat up straighter when his gaze locked onto hers. The small smile she sent him, the noticeable annoyance on her face that conveyed she hated this just as much as he did, made his lips twitch upwards. 

His entire demeanor changed. With just one look at her, the scowl on his face eased, no longer the look of pure dread and contempt. 

Though it did not last long. 

He surveyed the crowd of dancing couples, an inkling of shame creeping upon him as he thought of how long it had been since he had danced with his love. It had been years, surely. He had outgrown the childish act, but he couldn’t help but long for those nights of innocent twirling, remembering how he had never laughed as hard as when they were hand in hand, spinning around the room like the two care-free children they had been.

The good feeling in his heart crumbled instantly as he noticed her familiar head of hair among the crowd. A strange, clenching feeling unfurled in his stomach as he leaned forward, internally cursing the other couples that were in his line of sight.

As the couples twirled in their practiced steps, she was revealed, hand in hand with Jasper Wylde’s son, locked in an embrace as they danced. 

Something within Aemond sparked, a certain kind of rage he hadn’t felt in a long time. His fists clenched, his jaw tightening as his teeth grinded, growing angrier with each second he watched her dance with that fool. 

It didn’t matter that she had no beaming smile to give, that there was no affection within her eyes, that she moved stiffly and mechanically. Aemond didn’t seem to notice any of it, all he could comprehend was that his love was in another man’s arms, dancing with him the way he refused to, the way he couldn’t under the prying eyes of the court. 

It was the moment the Wylde son leaned in, whispering something in her ear, his lips so close to hers, that he knew he had reached his limit. He had to leave before he made an enemy of the Master of Law by murdering his son.

He stood from his chair and made his way out of the room with a determination that left many to give the feared Prince a wide berth. It wasn’t uncommon to see the one-eyed Prince stomp away in a fury, but it still struck fear into the hearts of those who were in his path. 

He made his way into his chambers, his body thrumming with an energy so volatile, so uncomfortable, he contemplated dragging Ser Criston out to the training yard so he could take a few whacks at him to unleash his anger.

He breathed deeply, his hands clenching onto the back of a chair, his head hanging as the blood in his veins sung with the desire to enact violence, to prove to everyone that they couldn’t take what was his, that they shouldn’t dare to try to take his love away from him. 

The sound of his door opening had him flinching, quickly turning on his heel, ready to strike at anyone who would be daft enough to disturb him. His shoulders slumped at the sight of her, the knowing look on her face forcing him to release a long breath, his fury brimming to a petty anger he wouldn’t be quick to part ways with.

“What are you doing here?”

She wanted to roll her eyes at his tone. “I saw you storm out.”

“I’m surprised you noticed. You looked rather busy with that Lord leeching off you.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised her night would turn to this. She knew what she was in for the second the man asked her for a dance. 

“He asked me to dance in front of his father and mine. I couldn’t very well say no.”

“No?”

“Aemond.” She admonished impatiently. “The entire reason we stayed apart tonight was to quiet the rumors. You know what would happen if I refused to dance with him, what everyone would say.”

“I think you’re giving the court too much credit.”

The words, one she had said to him all those weeks ago, when he was the one worried about appearances, now thrown back at her made her want to grab his arms and shake him until that complicated brain of his rattled around enough to find some sense. 

She breathed deeply, forcing herself to stay calm because it was clear the man before her would not be exercising the same caution. 

Stepping towards him, she took her hands in his, speaking his name softly when he refused to look at her. 

“After all this time, do you truly still not see it?” 

His eyes drifted to hers slowly, the gesture almost meek, so unlike the fierce dragon rider she knew him to be. She reached out, taking his face in her hands and leaned forward, placing a kiss to the patch that covered his sapphire eye. 

The gesture disarmed him completely, the anger pulled out of him as swiftly as a sword exits the body in a fateful final move. 

He let out a shuddering breath, his hands finding their home on her waist. He looked at her, his gaze now sheepish, embarrassed that he had directed his anger towards her, the only one who never deserved it. 

“You are the only man I want.” She assured him. “No matter who I dance with, no matter who engages me with petty conversations, they will never be the one who has my heart. I only think of you.”

“There are others you’ve danced with?”

The smirk on his face, the assurance the comment was made without anger and purely to poke at her in a way only he could, made her laugh, the sound making him smile. She pushed at his chest.

“You are insufferable.”

He wrapped his arms around her tighter, keeping her pressed against him as she weakly struggled against his embrace, her laughter constant. Her giggles soon turned to shrieks of delight as he began to press playful kisses down the length of her neck. 

He felt healed by the sound, with the feel of her in his arms, right where she should be. She was the only one he could be this way with, she was the only who accepted him as he was. 

He leaned into her, ceasing his teasing kisses, the look in his eye more serious as he gazed at her lovingly.

“I don’t think there are enough words in any language to tell you how much I love you.” He told her. 

“I know the feeling.” 

The admiration, the pure love in her eyes melted him from the inside out. He couldn’t waste another second and crashed his lips to hers, content to never leave the haven that was her kiss for the rest of the night.

He was still amazed by her ability to calm him, to soothe every negative feeling within him, even after all these years. 

His time spent with her was his only reprieve from the things in his life he despised. 

He had come to her chambers one afternoon, particularly eager, his emotions running high after a gathering with his family. She wasn’t sure if it had been his mother’s incessant ramblings of Rhaenyra’s negligence, his grandsire’s continued lectures about his duty and his need to marry soon, his father’s dismissiveness, or if it were Aegon’s general presence that put him in such a mood, she didn’t have time to ask before he was ravishing her thoroughly. 

It was only until their sweat-slicked bodies cooled, their limbs tangled together beneath her disarrayed sheets, her head rested on his chest as his hand ran gently through her hair, did she finally see him relaxed once more. 

“Do you ever think about leaving?” She asked suddenly, prompting Aemond to chuckle. 

“Was my performance not satisfactory, love? You wish to exile me?”

She laughed and looked up at him pointedly. 

“I think it was quite obvious what I thought of your performance.” 

The scratches down his back would certainly be proof of her enjoyment. 

“I meant leaving King’s Landing, exploring a new part of the world.”

Aemond remained quiet for a moment, contemplating her words. He didn’t know how to respond so he settled for a half-hearted shrug.

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem restrained here.” She answered quietly, worrying she was tiptoeing into dangerous territory. She didn’t want to push him but it killed her to see his light dim in the presence of his family.

Whenever they would pass each other in the halls of the Keep they had loving smiles to share, delighted by the secret they kept from the rest of the them, but whenever she crossed his path while he was with him mother or his grandsire, he didn’t spare her a look, his face drawn tightly with a coldness that, while characteristic around others, was so unfamiliar to her. 

Aemond didn’t like to talk about his family, he seemed to always steer the conversation in a different direction whenever she probed and tensed whenever they were brought up, changing the easy nature between them into something more complicated. 

He stayed quiet, taking in her words contemplatively, his mind swirling with waves of thoughts he couldn’t quite make sense of.

His feelings for his family were complicated. He was devoted to them, he would protect them when it came down to it, but he couldn’t exactly say he was happy with them or felt very loved by them.

“We should live in Ixtal.” 

She looked up at him curiously, not having expected those words. He looked down at her, a small smile growing, his arm around her tightening. 

“Once we’re married, we’ll abandon the delirious politics here and we’ll move to Ixtal where we’ll grow old and raise our children.”

She smiled, the fantasy he had created sounding more like a dream than any sort of reality they could manage for themselves. 

She couldn’t think that far ahead, not when they couldn’t even hold hands in front of others. 

“That sounds lovely.” She mused quietly, holding tightly to his words, praying they would one day come true. 

~~

“Do not be mad.” 

Her first words in greeting immediately had him on edge, the soft expression that had appeared at the sight of her twisting into one of derision in a swift moment. The moment she stepped into the library, a place that had now become an excuse for him to take her between the shelves, he perked up, but the hesitancy on her face had him pausing, suddenly fearing the worst. 

“Why would I be mad?” 

“I have something to tell you and you have to promise me you will not resort to bloodshed.” 

His look of confusion only grew, his nerves rising as he stood from his seat, walking towards her cautiously.

“Bloodshed?” He questioned, his voice becoming darker at the mere notion of a threat against her. “Has someone done something to you?”

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at his blatant protectiveness and reached out, taking his hand in hers in an effort to calm him.

“You have a tendency to rage before an explanation can be given so you must promise me you won’t draw your sword before I’ve finished my story.”

“My love, you know I can make no promises.”

With a heavy sigh, her hand remaining in his, her fingers gently tracing over his knuckles, as if her soothing touch could sate him while she gave him the news that would undoubtedly spring him into a furious temper. 

“Elric Wylde has requested my presence in the gardens. My father told me he wishes to start a courtship.” 

The scoff that left his lips made her wince. She had never before heard such derision from a simple sound.

“You are jesting, aren’t you?” 

“Aemond-”

“I know there is no possible way you would agree to court someone else.” He continued, his voice laced with jealous disdain. 

“Aemond-” She tried again but he continued to rant, pulling his hand from hers, his face now dark with dangerous intent.

“Where is the Wylde Lord? I’ll be sure to set him straight and tear his limbs from his body before he has the chance to put his hands on you again.”

“Stop.” She spoke sternly, grabbing onto his arm before he could leave her side and murder the poor boy who naively thinks he has a chance with her. “I am not going to let him court me.”

“No, you’ll just string him along so he thinks he had a chance.”

“I will meet with him once and then tell my father I don’t wish to continue, putting the matter to rest for good.”

“Tell your father now that you don’t wish to court him.”

“He’ll get suspicious if I keep refusing to meet with eligible Lords. He’ll begin to think I want to become a Septa if I continue to avoid any notion of marriage.”

Aemond’s grave expression didn’t waver. His eyes moved back to the door, as if conjuring ways he could butcher the clueless Wylde son. 

“Aemond…” She warned, the look on his face igniting her worry. She knew he would be thinking of anything but helpful suggestions.

“I’ll tell the prick myself. He’ll be sure to understand then.”

She gripped onto his arm tighter, stopping him from taking another step. 

“Don’t be daft.” She scolded. “You know the gossip that would ensue if you got involved.”

“You are not meeting with him.” Aemond said sternly to which she just rolled her eyes. 

“It will only be for a few minutes. I’ll immediately go to my father to refuse any further advances and we’ll be done with it.”

“Until the next one comes along to vie for your hand.”

“We’ll deal with it when it comes to that, if you haven’t already murdered the entire pool of eligible bachelors.”

Aemond’s brow perked up at the notion. It wasn’t a bad suggestion. She playfully smacked his chest.

“Stop that.”

His jaw clenched, his anger simmering within him. The thought of her arm in arm with another man, the poor fool that would be drooling over her, thinking he had a chance, made him furious. 

“When are you meeting with this imbecile?”

She gave him a pointed look at his insult. “In twenty minutes.”

Aemond smirked, the look in his eye darkening, though in a much different way than it had before. The lust that overtook his gaze made her shiver.

“He can wait.” 

With that, he crashed his lips to hers and dragged her to the back of the library, their hidden alcove they had desecrated many a time before. 

No less than forty minutes later, after Aemond had thoroughly fucked her like an animal and her desperate attempts to straighten her appearance, did she finally meet Lord Elric Wylde in the gardens. 

She hoped she wasn’t walking funny as a result of Aemond’s brutal thrusts that had rendered her a moaning, mindless fool.

“My Lady.” He greeted her politely, offering his arm to her, which she accepted, no matter how wrong it felt. 

As they began to walk, she steadily ignored the feeling of her lover’s seed that dripped down her thigh. 

She forced her mind to move on from the memory of his debauched touches and greedy lips that traveled across every inch of her body and looked to the man beside her, suddenly realizing he was looking at her questioningly.

Her eyes widened as she realized she hadn’t been listening to a word he had said.

“What?”

He laughed slightly. “I asked how your day was.”

“Oh.” She giggled, hoping he couldn’t tell how embarrassed she was. “It’s been fine.”

“I admit, my day is much brighter now that I am in your company.” 

She smiled stiffly. She couldn’t find it in herself to force anything more genuine. 

They continued to walk throughout the gardens and she was thankfully able to remain half-listening as the eager Lord mostly spoke about himself and didn’t bother to ask her any further questions. 

She settled for mindless hums in agreement to whatever he had been spouting on about. 

As they turned the corner, she suddenly stopped in her tracks as she met Aemond’s cool eye from across the path. 

He smirked at her, the sight causing a blooming heat to burn inside her. She was suddenly more aware of the seed that dripped down her leg. 

By the look in his eye and the devilish smirk across his lips it was obvious he was thinking about the same thing. 

“Is everything ok?”

She cleared her throat and forced herself to keep walking. 

“Yes, everything's fine.” She spoke slightly tersely, completely thrown off by Aemond’s presence. They continued on their way and she silently prayed her lover’s fierce jealousy wouldn’t rear its ugly head.

“My Lord.” 

She winced, silently cursing the man she loved and his petty nature. 

“Prince Aemond.” Elric greeted, his tone sounding slightly cautious as he came face to face with the feared Prince.

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but I heard your father had something urgent to discuss with you.” 

“My father?” Elric questioned.

“Yes, he needs to see you in the council room.”

The young Lord looked confused, only inciting Aemond’s frustration further.

“Quickly, my Lord. You mustn't keep your father waiting.” He added forcefully. 

The Lord swallowed, his face blanching at the abrupt tone and looked to the Lady beside him, too flustered to notice the scowl she was sending the Prince. 

“Of course.” He bowed to both of them respectfully and grabbed her hand, thankfully not noticing how Aemond twitched, having to stop himself from lunging forward and ripping his hand from her.

“I will find you again, my Lady, so we can continue.” 

“Of course.” She said stiffly, her smile terse. 

As the Lord scurried away, she moved her gaze to Aemond, the smug smirk on his face made her want to rage yet laugh all at once. 

“You have some nerve.” She muttered and turned on her heel, though Aemond was quick to follow, falling into step beside her. “You said you would leave it be.”

“I agreed to let you meet with him, I made no such promise about what I would do after.”

“Aemond, people will talk about us and your attempts at derailing a courtship.”

“Let them talk. I’ll gladly have them answer to Vhagar.” 

She rolled her eyes and subtly elbowed him in his side, delighting in the breathless wheeze that left his lips. 

He reached out, linking his arm through hers before she could leave his side. 

“I had to rescue you from such boredom, my love.” He spoke softly. 

She looked over at him plainly, knowing he would have found any excuse to ruin her time with any man that dared to think they had a chance with her. 

“And what will you do when the poor boy realizes his father did not summon him?”

“If he dares to call me a liar I’ll meet him with my sword.”

She shook her head, though she shouldn’t have been in much disbelief. This was Aemond, he was nothing if not possessive of what he cherished. 

Aemond smirked and leaned in closer so his lips brushed against her ear.

“Do you really think I would let another man touch what is mine?” He practically growled. “Tell me, do you think he could tell from your raspy voice that I just had you screaming for my cock?”

She felt a shiver race down her spine, her thighs clenching together at the memory of his devastating touch on her. She pulled her arm from his and turned to face him, delighting in the way his eye darkened with anticipation.

She smirked and took a step backwards, her gaze remaining on him as if keeping him locked into her trance as she walked away.

“Where are you going?” He asked breathlessly.

“To tell my father I don’t wish to court Elric Wylde.”

Aemond grinned triumphantly, his blood thrumming in his veins with blinding desire. 

“And then?”

“I think I’ll head back to the library. There’s a particular book I'd like to read again.” She crooned, the sultry smile on her lips stirring his lust, quickly feeling himself hardening at the insinuation of another round with her before the day was done. 

“I will see you there.” Aemond called back and tried with all his might not to sprint to the library to wait for her. 

~~

Aegon tripped over his own right foot, forcing himself to lean on the stone wall beside him as he drunkenly made his way through the hidden tunnels, hoping he was on the right path to Aemond’s room. 

He was in the mood for depravity and he wanted to drag his brother down with him. He just hoped he wasn’t with that Island bitch who was always attached at his hip. She ruined their last visit to the Silk Street. 

He smirked to himself triumphantly as he reached the hidden door to Aemond’s chambers. He dropped his wineskin to the ground and pushed it open slowly to avoid making much noise to alert his brother. 

He wanted to scare the little twat. 

He stepped inside, but froze instantly at the sound of a breathless moan. 

Confusion was the first thing he became aware of, but it soon turned to sheer delight as he recognized the sounds of panting and moaning. The sounds were unmistakable. 

“Fuck, don’t stop.” 

Aegon’s eyes widened at the sound of the breathless voice. He didn’t think his brother had it in him. 

He slinked into the room with slow, quiet steps. His eyes widened when he peered around the corner, his jaw falling slack. 

He knew that figure anywhere. 

He knew his brother was in love with the Ixtal girl, he just didn’t think he’d have the balls to do anything about it. But he was dead wrong. He bit his lip as he watched the beauty atop his brother, mesmerized by the movement of her hips. 

He watched, enthralled, feeling his cock twitch to life, as her head fell back, the pleasure on her face stirring something inside him. His eyes fell to her perky breasts that bounced tantalizingly with every one of her movements, forcing himself to bite his lip to stifle his own groan of pleasure. 

“Aemond.” She moaned, making Aegon cringe at the reminder of the beauty in front of him was currently fucking his brother and not him. 

He watched with jealousy as his brother’s hands roamed that perfect body, from her thighs up to her breasts. The sounds of his brother’s groans and pants of pleasure brought anger to bubble to the surface. Aegon’s eyes fell to his brother and he was startled to see the sparkling sapphire gem in place of his eye. 

He had never seen his brother without his eye patch on. 

The interest in his brother’s eye left swiftly as Aemond tightened his grip on the woman’s hips and thrust upwards, the loud moan she let out bringing him back to the present enticing sight. 

Gods, she sounded like a whore from the Silk Street. He wished he could grab her and take her for his own. His brother didn’t deserve that beauty. 

He watched the woman plant her hands on Aemond’s chest, her hips bouncing quicker, making him let out a loud, blissful moan. Her nails dug into his skin and it was the moment Aemond placed his hand atop hers, intertwining their fingers and leaning up to kiss her passionately that took Aegon out of the moment, the romantic gesture turning his delight into disgust.

He audibly scoffed, the noise reaching the couple. The woman looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening in horror as she yelped in fright. The second Aemond noticed his brother he swiftly turned them over, quickly covering her bare body with the sheets of his bed. He quickly stood from the bed, pulling his breeches up hastily, his deadly scowl locked onto his drunken wastrel of a brother.

“I had my suspicions brother, but now I know, you are truly pathetic.” Aegon slurred. 

“What are you doing here?” Aemond seethed, his voice low with deadly intention. 

“Enjoying the show.” He smiled viciously. His eyes moved past Aemond to the girl on the bed, but Aemond moved, blocking his line of sight from her. 

“Don’t look at her.”

Aegon scoffed. “It’s too late. I already saw every inch of that whor-” 

Aegon’s sentence abruptly ended as a gasping breath escaped him as his back hit the wall behind him, Aemond’s arm against his throat. 

“Aemond!” She called out worriedly, wrapping the sheet around her trembling body as she stood from the bed. 

He looked over his shoulder at her, the fury in his eye dimming as he noticed how scared she looked. 

He turned back to his brother, his face growing redder the longer he pressed against his throat. 

“You will never enter my chambers again. You will never speak of this and you will never look at her that way again.” He warned, his voice low, his intention clear. 

He lifted his arm, leaving Aegon to stumble to the ground, gasping coughs escaping him as he took in grateful gulps of air. His heaving breaths soon turned to laughs, the drunken idiot finding the situation hilarious. 

He unsteadily got to his feet, his eyes moving past his brother to land on the girl again, causing Aemond’s eye to darken, rage bubbling within him. 

“You want my silence? You think it comes for free?”

“What do you want?” Aemond seethed through gritted teeth. 

Aegon smirked, the sight making Aemond’s blood boil. He dreaded where this was going. His hand twitched, itching to wipe the smug look off his brother’s face. 

“I won’t tell our precious mother what you’ve been doing, I won’t tell the court how you’ve sullied this poor girl and ruin her reputation… if I can have a turn with her.”

Her face fell, the hungry look Aegon sent her making her want to crawl out of her skin. 

Aemond acted quickly, delivering a swift punch to his brother’s face. Aegon cursed and groaned, losing his footing, but Aemond was quick and wasn’t about to let him off the hook just yet. He grabbed a fistful of Aegon’s greasy hair and yanked him upwards, throwing him against the wall yet again. 

“Love, grab my dagger.” 

Aemond looked over his shoulder at the girl who was practically trembling in place, her hands clutched onto the sheet, her eyes watering. She gulped and reached for the dagger at his bedside, stepping forward on shaking legs to hand it over.

Aemond smirked darkly, feeling powerful as Aegon’s eyes widened in fear as he pressed the blade against his cheek. 

“If you ever look at her in a way that is anything but polite, if you speak any vile comments in her direction, I’ll know and I won’t be giving you a second chance.”

“Brother-” Aegon choked out, a strangled gasp escaping as Aemond pressed harder against his throat, his dagger making a small cut on his cheek. 

“You speak one word about her and I will take your tongue. I will cut off each of your limbs and feed them to Vhagar. You will be nothing but ash by the time I’m done with you.” Aemond spoke darkly, his voice steady and calm, fully honest in his threats. 

After a few long, tense seconds, Aegon subtly nodded and Aemond lifted his hand, taking the dagger away from his face, leaving a small, almost imperceptible cut on his cheek, leaving nothing but a drop of blood that beaded to the surface. 

“Get out.”

Aegon said nothing as he made his leave, not even sparing a glance back at her. 

She let out a heavy exhale, her shaking legs almost giving out beneath her as she slowly sat at the edge of the bed, her hands still clutching fistfulls of the sheet wrapped around her. 

“Are you alright?” Aemond asked, startling her slightly when she realized he was kneeled in front of her, his hands cradling her face gently, looking at her worriedly. 

“He’s going to tell.” She spoke monotonously, her anxious mind conjuring a thousand scenarios of how the next morning will turn out, all ending with her humiliated, flooded with insults and forced to leave the Capitol as nothing more than a ruined whore. 

“He won’t.”

“But if he-”

“He won’t do anything.” Aemond assured her, though he couldn’t deny how his own heart raced with equal parts adrenaline and fear of what Aegon could possibly do to ruin his life. 

He eyed her carefully, moving to sit next to her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her as he hauled her into his lap. He kissed the delicate slope of her neck softly, moving upwards until he captured her lips with his in a kiss so sweet she would have continued where they had left off if she wasn’t so shaken. 

“I will make it right.”

“How?”

He smiled slightly, the light in his eye so different to the fury she had seen just a minute ago. 

“By doing what I should have done a long time ago.” He answered softly, his eye searing into hers with nothing but devotion.

Her heart that had finally slowed began to race yet again, this time for a much different reason. The resolution on Aemond’s face brought tears to her eyes. His love for her had always been clear, but now, as she spiraled and he remained calm, her everlasting rock, her guidance back to herself, solidified everything she already knew. 

“I cannot go another day with you as my secret.” 

“Aemond-”

“You will be my wife.” He spoke seriously. “Even if my grandfather disagrees, we will be married. We’ll leave for Ixtal tomorrow if we have to. I care little for what it would take. All I know is that I will take no wife that is not you.”

Her lips curled upwards, her insides twisting delightfully. She leaned into him, letting her forehead rest against his.

“I love you.” She said, her voice no more than a whisper. 

Aemond’s hands tightened around her waist, wishing nothing existed outside of his room, outside of this moment. 

“I love you.” He whispered, his lips brushing against hers softly. “Issa prūmia.”

My heart. 

His name for her that was only whispered in the safety of his chambers, away from listening ears, could soon be said for all to hear. 

“I won’t ever let him hurt you.” He promised her, the dark edge of his voice returning at the mention of his debauched brother. 

She wound her arms around him and kissed him firmly, her trust completely his. She worried what Aegon could do to them, to her, having some leverage over them. She worried what Aemond’s mother and grandsire would think of their betrothal, if they would allow it. 

She worried about what their future would look like in a mere matter of hours. But she could do nothing about it, so she remained in his arms, letting him hold her as he continuously assured her, promised her nothing but a life of happiness between his sweet kisses. 

By the next morning, neither one of them having slept a wink, Aemond dressed and before he left he cradled her face in his hands, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

“I’ll take care of this, I promise you.”

“What if-”

“Nothing is going to take you away from me. I swear it, my love.” He interrupted her tearful fears. He kissed her once more before leaving his chambers. 

The gentle and caring expression on his face fell the moment the door closed behind him. His body became rigid, his face dark with determination as he walked purposefully to his mother’s chambers. 

He recited the speech in his head yet again, he’d done nothing else all night, trying to find a way to convince his mother of a betrothal. 

Suddenly, as he came to his mother’s door, all words were gone from his head, leaving him standing tensely, his face pale and fear seeping through his veins. 

He prayed he had gotten to her before Aegon.

With a deep breath, he slammed the door open and stomped inside the room as if it were his own, startling his mother who placed a hand over her racing heart at the sudden intrusion. 

“I’d like to propose a marriage.” He spoke frantically and Alicent’s eyes widened in shock. 

“Aemond, now isn’t-”

He interrupted quickly, breathing out the name of the love of his life, effectively shutting up his mother. 

“I wish to marry her. I know it’s sudden and to be truthful, I don’t care if you do not agree, I’d take her across the sea to marry her if I had to. We are a fruitful match and I do not see any good reason to disagree.”

His mother was left to stare in disbelief. 

A chuckle across the room made Aemond stiffen and he looked over to the other person in the room he had failed to notice. He swallowed, his face growing even paler at the sight of the Lord of Ixtal moving to take a seat in the chair across from his mother. 

Embarrassment washed over him as he realized he had interrupted a meeting between his mother and the father of the woman he had just confessed his love for. 

“Well, I couldn’t agree more.”

Aemond’s eye widened and he stared at the man incredulously, as if he were merely jesting at his expense. 

“I think you two are a fine match.” The man continued. “You clearly hold much affection for my daughter, I could not think of a better person to be at her side.”

Alicent floundered, watching the events unfold before her with wide, horrified eyes. This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

“Aemond, we have invited Floris Baratheon to the Capitol. You two are supposed to begin a courtship.” She stuttered out, grasping at straws to stop this in its tracks. 

“There are plenty of suitors to take my place.” Aemond countered quickly. Nothing would derail him, nothing would take him away from his love. 

“He has practically been courting my daughter for years.” The Lord of Ixtal chimed in with a chuckle. He stood and reached his hand out for Aemond to shake. “You’re a fine man, Aemond. I would be happy for you to take my daughter’s hand.”

The praise, which was so seldom among his own family, made his throat tighten in a way he hadn’t expected and he swallowed thickly, clearing his throat as he shook the hand of the man who had just given him everything he could have ever wanted. 

“But-“

“I think we should take this to the King. He’ll be delighted.” The Lord interrupted Alicent before she could voice her displeasure, as if knowing what she was trying to do, prompting a look of resentment from the Queen.

Aemond smiled, overcome with happiness and relief. It clouded his mind enough to not notice how deeply shaken his mother looked. 

He was delirious, this was far from how he expected this morning to go. He always held a soft spot for the Lord of Ixtal, not only for creating the person he loved more than life itself, but for the kindness he always showed him, even as a young, ambitious child. 

He often found himself wishing his own father was more like the father of his love. 

His mind was spinning, barely able to keep track as his father’s dear friend, his soon to be father by law, spoke to his own delirious and decaying father, proposing a unity between their two houses. 

It was the first time in years he saw his father smile. 

Viserys reached a decrepit hand towards him, his smile revealing his missing and rotten teeth as he spoke his praises, most likely for the first time in his short life. Aemond didn’t care, the slight he thought would’ve plagued him was far from his brain. 

All he cared about, all his mind could comprehend, was the fact that his father agreed, that he would soon marry the woman he loved with all his heart. 

Once they left the King’s room, the Lord of Ixtal placed his strong hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m not naive enough to believe the future will be easy, but I expect you to remain at her side.” He spoke lowly, Aemond quickly understanding what he was subtly referring to. The state of his family was murky on a good day, he knew as his father decayed further, the state of their family would become more tenuous. “I trust you to protect her, no matter what happens.”

Aemond nodded, his determination hardening his features.

“You have my word.” He promised swiftly, determination in his voice. “I will protect her with my life.”

The man smiled and cupped Aemond’s face affectionately, the gesture that of a father, causing a lump to well in Aemond’s throat, wondering if his father had ever done the same. 

“You’re a good man, Aemond. You’re everything I could have hoped for my girl.”

Aemond cleared his throat, determined to not let himself become emotional at the affection he had seldom felt in his life, save for the one girl who remained steadily at his side. 

With the heavy lump remaining in his throat, his numb body moved him from his father’s chambers, making his way to Helaena’s room, knowing that was where his love usually spent her mornings. 

He let out a deep breath, his stomach swirling with nerves as if he was nothing more than that lovesick boy again as he thought of what he had just done, what he just accomplished. 

He got to marry the love of his life. They didn’t need to sneak around any longer, they didn’t have to hide just how much they meant to each other. 

He made it to Helaena’s chambers, his eyes immediately falling on her, taking a moment to watch her bright smile, her glorious laugh ringing out in the room, soothing every worry he had felt the night before. 

He stepped into the room, catching Helaena’s attention who perked up and smiled at him warmly.

“Good morning, brother.” 

The woman at her side tensed slightly and turned her head, her wide, inquisitive eyes locking onto him, the question in her gaze clear, her worry seeping out from every inch of her. 

The slight upturn of his lips was all she needed to answer her silent question and no more than a second later did her entire body sag in relief, a breathless exhale leaving her as she grinned, allowing every ounce of worry and doubt to roll off her, leaving nothing but pure delight. 

Helaena watched the two, not needing much context to understand what they shared, their happiness enough of an explanation for what she knew was soon to come. 

She stayed seated as she watched her dear friend stand and wrap her brother in a tight hug. She noticed how tightly Aemond held her, how his lone eye closed in content as he held the girl, his usually tense body sagging against her, as if he no longer had any reservations while he was in her arms. 

She smiled in relief, feeling nothing but happiness that two people she held so dear would soon start their lives together. 

“It is done?” She whispered as she held tightly to the man of her affection.

“It is done. My father agreed to a betrothal.” 

A breathless laugh escaped her, her grip tightening on Aemond, though she no longer had any reason to fear he would be taken from her. 

Behind them, Helaena’s smile slowly fell, her bright eyes becoming glassy as she stared off into space, the embroidery in her hands falling to her lap as her grip became slack. 

“The light of the sun dims under clouds of green and black.” 

The lovers were too caught up in their embrace, they did not hear her mumbled warning.

~~

Tags:

@jacaeryslover @allsouls-emma @lianna75 @emoxio @noneedtosearch @watashiwasun @guacam011y @darlingisntit @trickycarrot89-blog @stcrrjoon @knyam @bettysexile @marysucks-blog @lovelyteenagebeard @anehkael @darktrashsoulbear @violetiss3lfish @hueanhdang @mamawiggers1980

[delilahsturniolo]

bejeweled - m.s

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

summary: y/n just can’t resist matt when he wears rings, and she immediately gets turned on while she’s streaming with the triplets.

this story contains: smut, fingering, unprotected sex and more.

written by: @delilahsturniolo

“best believe i’m still bejeweled, when i walk in the room.”

“i can still make the whole place shimmer.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“What’s the fuck is up chat!” Matt yelled as he started the twitch stream. I sat on Matt’s lap, his arms resting around my waist, my blanket draped over the both of us comfortably.

Nick was sprawled out on Matt’s bed while Chris sat in a chair next to us, gulping down lemonade from the bottle.

“Chat, say hi to Y/n.” Chris smiled warmly. I waved to the camera, the chat was flooded with excitement and people spamming my name. “Hi guys.”

Matt looked up at me, smiling. One of his hands moved from my waist to my thigh, rubbing it soothingly. His fingers had silver rings placed on them, his veiny hands complimenting them.

I couldn’t look away from his hands, something about his rings were so attractive. Matt’s hand moved to type something on the keyboard, the way his fingers moved made me feel a certain way, my heart was racing.

Nick was ranting about something, but I wasn’t listening. I took Matt’s hand and gently fiddled with his rings. Matt looked at me, noticing how quiet I was.

“You okay sweetheart?” Matt asked me, whispering so only I could hear. I was snapped out of my thoughts.

“Y-yeah..” I responded, my voice cracking as I continued sliding Matt’s rings on and off his fingers.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about? Hm?” Matt taunted, he knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what I was thinking about.

I felt a familiar heat between my legs, my underwear immediately dampening from his words. “I like your rings.” I whispered, the stream couldn’t hear what we were saying because of Nick’s yelling. Thank god.

“Yeah?” Matt slid his hand under the blanket, resting his hand on the waistline of my pajama shorts. My breath hitched as I felt the cold metal of his rings against my skin.

He slipped his hand into my underwear, his middle finger grazing my soaked folds, I flinched slightly.

“Alright chat…” Matt spoke, acting as if he wasn’t torturing me right now. “How was everyone’s weekend?” Matt spoke, he suddenly curled his finger, I squeezed his wrist under the blanket tightly, holding back a moan. I felt the metal of his rings inside of me.

“Bleh, boring.” Chris responded, Nick rolled his eyes. “Yeah because you never leave the house.”

“Not true.” Chris teased Nick.

“Y/n? Wanna tell chat about your weekend?” Matt asked me, his thumb stroked my clit in circles.

“Mm—I’d r—rather not..” I stuttered, my voice wavering. “Why? What’s wrong hm?” Matt teased, his ringed fingers beginning to run against my slick folds.

“I think I—I’m just not feeling good.” I said, struggling to keep it together.

“Yeah..you don’t look so good.” Nick replied.

“Okay, we’ll be right back chat. I’m gonna get her some medicine.” Matt quickly pulled his fingers out of my underwear. He grabbed my hand and stood me up, practically dragging me away.

He pulled me through the hallway, and into the bathroom. Matt quickly shut the door, locking it behind him.

He grabbed my waist, lifting me up and making me sit on the bathroom counter.

“Matt..need you so badly..” I desperately spoke, Matt hushed me, gently pulling my shorts and underwear down.

“Shh, if we’re gonna do this you need to be quiet mkay?” Matt insisted, I nodded.

I let out a soft moan as Matt slid a finger into my core, pumping in and out slowly. My back arched against his touch, longing for more.

“Oh—oh my god..” I moaned, Matt’s rings repeatedly hit my clit. The pleasure was overwhelming.

“Yeah? Feel good?” Matt taunted, his fingers slipping out of me. His hand smacked my pussy, I screamed louder than I should’ve as I felt the cold air between my thighs.

Matt shoved his fingers into my mouth, soaked with my own wetness. “Didn’t I say be quiet?” He whispered. His rings rested against my tongue.

Matt used his free hand to fiddle with his belt and jeans, letting his cock spring out. Without warning he immediately slammed into me, my moans muffled.

He popped his fingers out my mouth, his veiny hand moving to hold my chin, forcing me to look at him. His thrusts didn’t bother slowing down. My legs shut, Matt pushed them back open. “Keep em’ open f’me..” Matt whispered into my ear.

“Mmm, matt—so close..” I spoke, my voice hoarse as I felt a knot in my stomach building up.

“Go ahead.” Matt demanded.

I didn’t hesitate to release, immediately feeling relief as Matt pulled out.

His face was sweaty, he ran his ringed fingers over my cheek bone, gently leaning in to give me a quick kiss on the lips.

“You were so amazing baby.” Matt said breathlessly, he ripped off a piece of paper towel from the roll that sat on the counter.

He slowly opened my legs again, cleaning me up lovingly.

My phone was on the floor next to my clothes, it buzzed. Curiously, Matt picked up my phone. He was about to give it to me to look at the text, until he saw who it was from.

2 new messages from: Nick ⭐️

“We’re fucked.” Matt looked up at me nervously, handing me the phone.

“What do you mean?” I asked, furrowing my eyebrows as I opened my texts.

shit.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

join the taglist here!! ✨

author’s note 💌 : not sure why but i feel like i’ve read stuff like this before on here so huge credits to anyone who wrote something like this concept!

© delilahsturniolo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[takiishiluvr]

ᯓ★ shut up pretty boy .ᐟ

𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗸𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. there was only one way to make him stop complaining, and he enjoyed it so much. ౨ৎ wc :: 1.0k ˖ ࣪⊹ face sitting, established relationship, use of pet names

Your boyfriend had started his usual rant, frustrated and annoyed, but you barely listened. You perched yourself on his lap, your knees on either side of him, and your weight was a comforting pressure against his thighs. His words tumbled like he needed you to validate his superiority on the field. 

"Couldn't even get a good pass the whole game and–" 

But then he stopped. Your hands slid from his biceps, giving them a teasing squeeze before you looped your arms around his neck. Playing with his hair, twisting the blue strands between your fingers as your lips found his neck. Kissing him softly at first, then a little harder, letting your tongue trace his skin as you sucked gently. You weren’t about to leave marks—no, you knew better than that, but you wanted him distracted. And you succeeded. 

His breath was hot against your ear, and his chest rose against yours as his hands gripped your thighs, his fingers smoothing your skin slowly. He didn’t hesitate to let his hands wander, sliding under your shorts as if searching for something to hold onto.

“And what?” you asked, your voice a low purr, grinding against him just enough to feel the way his muscles tensed beneath you. His eyes widened slightly before they locked on yours, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but forgot how. 

You paused your movement, leaning back just enough to get a good look at him. That face—flushed, a little stunned, and utterly beautiful—was already yours for the taking. You let a sly smile curl your lips as you tilted your head.

“Go on,” you teased, trailing a finger along his jawline. “Finish your story, love. Or should I find another way to keep your mouth busy?”

He chuckled, low and raspy, his hands squeezing your hips. “You really know how to make a man lose his ability to speak, meine Liebe.”  

He shifted your positions, flipping you both so that he was lying on the bed beneath you, and you were now straddling his abdomen. The way his hands immediately slid under your—well, technically his shirt, made you arch your back a little, his touch firm and warm against your skin.

“Such a tease,” you murmured, but your breath hitched as he shifted you closer to him, his hands guiding you like he couldn’t get enough. Your fingers found his biceps again, squeezing slightly, a silent reminder of how much you loved his strength, his touch. God, you loved everything about him: his face, his lips, his hands. You loved him.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he said, smirking as his thumbs traced slow circles over your bare thighs. “You’re so easy to read…” His voice dropped, teasing, knowing, making your stomach flutter. He knew exactly what you wanted. “You want to sit on my face, don’t you, darling?”  

The way he said it was so cocky, yet so affectionate. It was one of the only ways you could truly silence him, and you both knew it. His smirk only grew wider as he added, “I’m a lucky man, you know. Pretty and smart—you really are too good for me.”  

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you didn’t let him have the last say. “And you’re so easy to silence, my love~” you quipped, standing up and sliding your shorts down, leaving only your underwear on. “The rest is your job.” 

Kaiser’s teasing smirk only grew as he watched you, his hands gliding up your thighs and hooking fingers under your soft, soaked panties, dragging them down, his blue eyes locked on yours, taking in and enjoying every reaction. 

“Legs up, meine Liebe,” he murmured, voice low and commanding. You did as he asked, letting him rest your legs over his shoulders. He gripped your hips firmly and lifted you, holding you just centimeters above his face. The heat of his breath ghosted over your sensitive skin, making you let out a slight moan.

“Dripping, love,” he teased, loving the view you blessed him with “Ah, how cu—”

You didn’t let him finish, cutting him off by lowering yourself onto his face, your thighs trembling as his mouth latched onto you. His tongue moved slowly at first, savoring every inch of you as though you were his last meal. The slow, deliberate strokes quickly had your fingers tangling in his hair, gripping hard for support. 

“Michael—,” you moaned, your voice breaking, “F-faster, oh my—” 

His tongue went deeper, his movements becoming more rapid, as though he needed you to know just how much he loved this—loved you. He groaned against you, the vibration making your legs shake, your hips grinding instinctively against his face as he devoured you. 

He was a gift, one you didn’t deserve but couldn’t live without. No one else could make you feel like this—no one else was like him. He was your everything, your perfect chaos, and with every stroke of his tongue, he reminded you of why.

And you? You were his angel, the one who watched him from above and drove him wild with just a glance, the one who made him crave things he’d never even thought of before. You were the only woman who could make him lose control, make him want to lose control, and he worshiped you for it. 

He was so messy now, your juices mixing with his drool, coating his mouth and chin, but he didn’t care. In fact, he relished it. If drowning in you was his fate, then he would gladly go under, over and over again. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you impossibly closer as if to keep you from ever leaving. 

When he finally pulled back for a breath, his voice was muffled. “If this is what heaven tastes like, I will never leave.” And then, with a wicked grin, he dove back in, determined to bring you to come as many times your body let you, as he knows you will want more.

Oh, how you loved to shut up pretty boys.

©2024 takiishiluvr do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[mariasont]

My Assistant - A.H

a/n: im a little addicted to bimbo reader rn if you can't tell lmao

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you can't reach a book so hotch helps you out

warnings: none? fluff, reader climbing a fucking book shelf and for what

wc: 0.8k

"Oh, biscuits!" 

It was a ridiculous thing to say, but frankly you didn't care. You were on your tiptoes, chest flush against a bookshelf. Spencer had asked for a book for the case they were working, and naturally, it was nestled on the top shelf.

Balancing precariously on your stilettos, you stretched as tall as you possibly could, your fingers skimming the spine that was an inch too far away.

You shifted your weight back onto your heels, planting your hands firmly on your hips as you considered the stubborn object just out of reach. Sure, Spencer would grab the book without hesitation if asked, and he'd do so with a smile, but you really liked feeling useful.

For over a year, you've been the one at Mr. Hotchner's beck and call--fetching coffee, filing papers, and attending to, basically, his every need (not the one you wanted though). To others, it might seem trivial, but you really liked it. Well, you really liked him. 

At first, you were intimidated--how could you not? He had a reputation. You heard the stories--a man who never smiled, his ever-serious nature, and Penelope's not so family friendly description of his sternness was enough to unsettle anyone.

But you considered his reputed severity to just be part of his charm, he was far from the figure others painted him as. He was a good boss, always fair, never once raising his voice at you or demanding too much. In your eyes, he was perfect. You might be biased. 

The idea of climbing the shelf was a gamble, especially in these shoes, and it seemed almost certain to end with a less-than-elegant fall. Still, you couldn't resist the challenge and hoisted yourself up anyway, the shelf wobbling perilously as you did so. 

You pressed on, climbing higher, the wood's groans of protest falling on deaf ears. If this was how you were going down, so be it.

"Almost there," you muttered to yourself, straining every muscle in your arm, you were sure.

And just as you almost had the book, your balance faltered and then found new footing, the sensation of falling dissipating. In its place, you found your ass delicately perched, nearly seated on someone's broad shoulder.

You honestly didn't even need to look to know who it was--embarrassingly enough--you had basically memorized the feeling of Hotch's hands. Though they had never been wrapped around your legs like they were now. His grip was warm and strong, sparking a wave of electricity that rippled through your whole body.

"Got it!" you cried out, your victory fist pump nearly launching you from Hotch's shoulder. But his hold on your thighs clamped tighter, securing you in place. "Thanks, sir."

You angled your head downward, locking gazes with Hotch--his eyes a rich blend of ember and molten chocolate that you really liked looking at.

His eyebrows were arched in a silent question on his well-defined face as if he really couldn't believe what you were doing. 

"Careful," Hotch murmured, his hands lowering you to the ground. There was a fleeting brush against your ass, surely accidental, yet it sparked a flurry of butterflies swirling in the pit of your stomach. "In the future, just ask. I wouldn't want you hurt over something as trivial as a book."

"Oh, don't you worry about me, sir. I'm like, practically a pro at rock climbing when I'm not here." you said, letting out a bubbly giggle.

He regarded you with a look that was equal parts amusement and disbelief, clearly not convinced.

"Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be cool?"

"Well, rock climber or not, let's keep those feet on the ground, please," Hotch remarked, the slightest quirk of his mouth suggesting a suppressed smile. "It's less of a fall from there."

"Sure thing, sir!" you beamed, popping off a silly salute, noting his struggle not to roll his eyes. "But I did get the book, so it all worked out in the end, right?"

With a gentle nudge on your lower back, Hotch directed you towards the conference room.

"Yes, it did, but for future reference, Spencer's height makes him more capable of reaching those books himself."

You couldn't help the blush that colored your face, and you managed a flustered smile.

"Well, I mean, it is what I get paid to do, sir."

"No, you get paid to do my bidding, not Spencer's," he teases, giving a gentle squeeze to your side.

Your laughter rang out, a bit too high, a bit too bright, as his touch sent a delightful vertigo spiraling through you. 

"Well, yeah, okay, that's fair. But it's been pretty light on the to-do list from you today."

"And you're complaining about that?"

With the conference room in sight, you pretended to lock your lips and throw away the key.

A rare laugh rumbled through his chest, and you felt your knees buckle, you were sure you could have melted into a puddle right there and then. It was such a beautiful sound, and you desperately wanted to become familiar with it.

Spencer emerged from the conference room, his eyes landing on the book in your hands. "Is that The Selfish Gene?"

Hotch took the book from you, handing it to Spencer with a firm look. "Reid, I'd appreciate it if you didn't recruit my assistant for your library runs."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[beneathashadytree]

EATEN ALIVE - SYLUS QIN X READER

Warnings : biting, Sylus likes feeling his lover’s weight, neck kisses, BDSM mention, implied scent kink, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : spicy fluff <3

Word count : 0.9K words

Additional notes : This brainrot is a result of that one homescreen interaction where you give him his palm and he bites you, and that one bond story where he’s sitting on the couch reading at some point. The image drove me a lil crazy😵‍💫 Also this was inspired by the song Eaten Alive by Diana Ross 🙏🏽

Tip jar!

Masterlist

“Another book on firearms?” they asked, leaning over him to get a glance at what he was reading.

Sylus didn’t look up from the page, glasses perched on his nose and legs crossed underneath his silk robe in the picture perfect image of regal serenity. The only acknowledgment he gave them was a hum, before simply saying, “Not this time,” and returning to his quiet laser-focus.

Annoyance flashed behind their eyes at his complete ignoring of their presence in front of him. And to make matters worse (or in this case, simply more irritating), from their position they couldn’t even read a single sentence upside down. “Aren’t you gonna tell me, then?”

At that, a smirk touched his lips, knowing that he got the desired reaction from them. “You do know that curiosity killed the cat, right?” The look in his eyes was every bit as fierce as it was taunting. “You seem hell-bent on using up all your nine lives.”

Bastard. He loved to tease them relentlessly, didn’t he?

Snapping the book shut with one hand, he pushed it aside face-down. He was taking all the possible measures to make sure they wouldn’t be able to read the title, it seemed. Would a kick to his shins procure the answer they wanted?

Before they could think of another tactic, he clasped their hand in his, unceremoniously tugging them down onto his lap. Yelping as he caught them off-guard, they barely managed to balance themself over him, hovering a little as they tried not to crush him—something he must’ve noticed, given the way he arched his eyebrow at them.

“Put your whole weight on me. I like that.” Sylus’ grin was wicked as he said that, but it was all parts tempting, luring them in like it always did. Maybe it was a figment of their imagination, but they could’ve sworn that they saw his eyes gleam brighter as they settled down properly in his lap. “That’s it, sweetie,” he purred, his hands quick to seek purchase in the fat of their hips.

His touch leaving a burning ache in its wake, he gently caressed every inch of skin he could reach. The hem of their top raised, nimble fingers dancing over their back and trailing over paths he’d long-memorized, he looked like he was truly enjoying the way their breath hitched in their throat, and how they squirmed against him.

“You’re too much,” they managed to huff out, trying their best to school their expression to one of indignation. “Weren’t you… just acting like I was distracting you?”

“A welcome distraction, if anything.” His free hand came up to remove his glasses, a mischievous look in his eyes. “If you hadn’t come for me, I would’ve gone looking for you in a bit anyways.” As though swearing his honesty, he pulled them closer and began pressing open-mouthed kisses against their neck, softly sucking at the warm skin. With every nip of his teeth, he earned a hiss of pain-pleasure, and a jolt of their hips bringing them closer to his. “You taste divine,” he groaned into their neck. “Smell so good too.”

“Hey.” It was supposed to sound admonishing, but it came out as a half-moan, half-whisper. “Stop trying to keep me off-track.” But were their words convincing, when they were writhing in his lap just at his kisses like that? “You’re… hah… avoiding me.”

“‘M not.”

Another kiss, this time at the junction of their jaw and neck, earning a small cry of his name, and that snapped them out of whatever daze they’d been trapped in. With a push to his chest, they managed to pry him off and cover his sinful mouth with their hand, though it seemed that it only spurred on the desire brewing in his scarlet eyes.

“Answer my question.” Panting and their head swimming, it was a wonder they were able to say anything coherent at all. “What were you reading and so hell-bent on hiding?”

As Sylus chuckled into their palm, he merely reached out a finger to drag the book in, quickly flipping it back up.

‘Screw the Roses, Send Me Thorns.’

Oh.

Pure delight danced in his eyes as he relished in their expression as realization dawned on them. Taking advantage of that split-second of their shock, he caught their hand in his, and bit into it—lightly, but just enough to sting in that way he knew deep down they liked so much.

Jumping, they were quick to snatch their hand away from his mouth, cheeks burning with warmth. Before they could even think of snapping at him, he’d licked his lips, as though savoring the taste of them that lingered.

It was all too hot, all at once and in all the most dangerous places of their body.

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” he coolly said, leaning back against the back of the leather couch and eying them with a practiced sultry-sweet gaze.

A promise lingered there; a promise of a forbidden fruit dangling right before their eyes and practically begging to be stolen and feasted on. Their hands itched to take him for themself, but would they do that without being devoured first? A chilling thought, and yet… the warmth in their core seemed to anticipate the moment either of them would snap and give in wholly.

Sylus quietly laughed at their heavy silence and glazed over eyes. At that moment they knew, that they’d fully played right into his hands where he’d wanted them. “But… judging from your reaction, I guess my worries were all in vain, hmm?”

Taglist: @mrlovesimps @snowyfragrance @lara635kookie @xinnn6 @moonlight-inthe-sea @canyonlouist @number-1-harumi-hater @2angelbaby2 @jinnieats @blobfishbumblebee @aesmstar @klutzycora-san @inkblotgalaxies @mxrissaauuu @rissaaaaaa @lilithmoonlite @wooyoungsfairygf @lemonsupernova @kpop-and-otome @elizabeth916 @cherrikissez @xcalkenf + my old taglist before Sylus was added (since I don’t know who wants to be tagged): @angry-and-yandere @nxx-jordiepord @honestlyjustablog @dawnbreakersgaze @tartartagliaboo @lucis-noctiana @mushriiin @flurrina @reika-desu @randomidk-123 @tikitsune @cofijelli @roll-of-royces @loveyoutodeep @belovedof @obiwanmcprobie @hawtlineblingz @kalatipunan @eurekazz @bifedebruxa @thescribeswife @mysticangel123 @xenasolos @jvnluvr @dann-acalle @rosariymchapter @rin-sv14 @yololesgo @an-ever-angry-bi @semi-orangeapple @lavanderbliss @myturnwhen @winterlvod @carsonology

Sign up for my taglist here!

[velvrei]

i know you’re not taking requests for him… but rob rausch (from love island) smut would actually be amazing 🙏🙏

hehehehe yes this is one of the only exceptions i’ll take for non-requested people bc rob is HOT

you and rob have been coupled up sense the beginning. you chose him and he chose you. rob, being himself, did have moments where he was skeptical, however he was always completely transparent with you and would tell you how he felt.

there were many girls that liked him, including liv, who stole him, and he eventually came back to you. you and rob had won today’s challenge, and been voted america’s favorite couple, so you gained your night in the hideaway.

and that’s how you ended up on top of him, his hands tied behind his back, mask on your face as you rode him, hips moving against his.

“god, that feels amazing,” he whispered under his breath, his head falling back, tugging at the rope that held his hands together.

“yeah?” you spoke, various cuss words slipping from your mouth as he fucked up into you, “feels good when i’m on top, doesn’t it?”

the whole villa knew you were probably the horniest couple on the island, so they knew after your night in the hideaway there would be many stories to tell.

after 2 rounds of you on top of him, he took the mask off your face, throwing it across the room, turning your bodies over.

“missed that pretty face of yours..” he says, tucking some hair behind your ear, before turning your body around, shoving your face into the pillows, knowing you liked it rough.

“that feel good, baby?” he said, pushing into you again and gaining speed. he smiled as your back arched, holding your hip with one hand and your head with the other.

“yes, feels so good!” you shout out, clenching around him as he pounds in and out of you.

“good girl,” he says, sending shivers down your body, “you know i like it when you respond to me,” he said, watching as you scream into the pillows.

“yeah, come on, scream my name, baby,” his words cause your body to tremble and scream his name into the pillows, feeling him twitch inside of you, he enjoyed seeing how much pleasure he gave you.

“good fucking girl, i’m so close baby, you feel so good, fuck,” rob moaned, starting to bottom out as he starts to reach the edge, his hips stuttering as he shoots his cum into you.

once he comes down from his high he doesn’t stop, continuing his thrusts, “come on, love, cum for me,” he moves faster, moaning as he sees his load spilling out of you.

“cum for me, god, you look so pretty with my cum spilling out of you,” his words brought you over to the edge, his hand reaching over and rubbing circles along your clit, watching intently as your body trembled as you came.

“good girl, it’s okay, i’m here,” his words slowly slowed your breathing from quick pants to regular breaths.

rob turns you around after a minute and kisses your forehead. “you okay?” you nod your head, eyes tired and drowsy as you smile up at him.

“i’m okay, robby,” you say, your voice obviously tired, he giggles at the nickname you call him, which you really only use when you’re tired and drowsy or feeling playful.

“good, had to make sure. let’s go to bed baby. 3 rounds is more than enough for us.”

you giggle at his words, “is it?” you say, raising an eyebrow. he laughs at your words.

“for now it is. who knows, maybe we’ll be up again at 2am. tonight’s the night to do whatever we want,” rob says, wiggling his eyebrows as you gently tap his face.

“you’re so stupid,” you say, and you both laugh and you cuddle against his chest, you both finally falling asleep.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 17

Prompt: Threesome/Moresome Pairing: OT8 SKZ x fem!reader WC: 4.4k Summary: Maybe after this the term “comeback” takes on a new meaning.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this.

I feel the need especially with “rougher” prompts like this to put the disclaimer - fanfic should NOT ever be used as a guide to relationships or sex. ESPECIALLY SEX. Again, it’s fiction. Stuff gets glossed over for the sake of a good story. Please PLEASE please again, not fact, not a guide, just a fantasy.

Additional TW/CW below the cut.

TW/CW: Gangbang, lots of cum, light bondage, reader goes nonverbal, all consenting, traffic light system and boundaries discussed, anal, piv, oral (male receiving), titfucking, multiple partners, dirty talk, multiple pet names, cumming prematurely(?), some aftercare/during care. 

 Eight pairs of hands. Eight types of touch to match their eight personalities. Sudden squeezes, languid strokes, hesitant brushes, deep pushes, light tugs, gentle pats, intermittent shy caresses, persistent strong grasps. It was Chan’s idea that you’d heartily agreed to.  “The boys have been seeming sort of down lately,” you’d mentioned over the thundering rush of dishwater. “Should I make a cake or something?”  Nose pressed to the side of your head Chan inhales deeply, squeezing the fronts your thighs. The scent of your scalp and the squish of your quads soothing his anxious mind. “We’ve been working hard. I think it’ll turn out well.”  “So…cake? Can you all eat it? I could make a carrot cake or modify-”  Chan grabs a handful of ass, not one to miss the opportunity for a bad pun. “Wouldn’t mind sharing some of this cake. I’m sure we could all enjoy it.”  “You think?”  “Baby, the reason the boys are always excited to see you…”  “It’s not the novelty of Betty Crocker Funfetti?” Chan giggles, grabbing a handful of bum as he grinds against you, an obvious lump forming in his sweatpants. “We could make you into Funfetti.”  “How do the boys feel about pie,” you ask coyly, pushing your hips back to greet him.

 That was how this whole idea started. And now you were tied to a bench, trussed up like a pretty present, holes exposed and ready. Blindfolded.

 It’s easy to sink into the sensation of each of their hands, unique in their own right. You can only really for sure name Chan’s, calloused and firm.  “...and we can do anything?” Jeongin’s voice twangs, tense at the thought. “She really will let us do anything?”  You’re only half listening, indulging in the peace of mind numbing stimulation. Moaning and nodding as your chin wrests on the bench you’re strapped over.  “She knows how to say no. Color system, if she’s unable to speak, two pinches is slow, three is stop everything.”  A chorus of tenor and baritone voices murmur in agreement. Your stomach tingles, chills passing the inches of exposed skin. You’re so ready. You’re beyond ready.

 There’s almost a ghost of a touch, floating down your side as the room shifts.  “We’re going to pass you around like the cheap whore you were born to be.” A deep bassy voice purrs in your ear, Felix. Your back arches exposing more of your holes like a cat in heat. “You like that? You like the sound of my voice, pretty? Does that turn you on? We’re all watching you.”  “Mhm,” you bite your lips and you wiggle against your confinements.  “Want me to tell you everything we’re gonna do to you? Dirty slut. First we’re all gonna give this cute little cunt a try,” you feel him slide his fingers along your slit, staying shallow enough to tease your entrance before catching the rim of your jeweled plug weighing heavily in your hole. “Chris did say we can use you however we want.” Felix muses as he pushes the end closer to your rim, jostling it just enough to earn a whine.  “Hurry the fuck up,” another voice chimes in, two fingers roughly ramming into your wet hole. Seungmin. Impatiently pressing his tip against the cleft of your ass as he fingers you open. “She’s ready, I��m ready. Keep doing your perv asmr thing but I’m fucking her.”

 With that Seungmin pushes into you, sighing with relief. Your spine curls as much as you can, spread over the bench as you are, fingers scrambling in the air.  “Oh fuck!” Seungmins hands wander over the small of your back, pushing weight down on you as his hips rock back and forth. “You have to try this pussy, god damn. Now i see why the old man is so fucking whipped.” He groans again as he pulls all the way out until only the very tip of his shaft is still sheathed. Glistening with your arousal he uses his thumbs to spread your slit wide, watching your walls stretch to accommodate him.  “Minnie’s right, you’re taking him so well. In fact, you’re going to take all eight of us aren’t you?” Felix purrs. “Now, be a doll and open your mouth for me.”  You drop your jaw, tongue lolling out, blindly accepting whatever Felix was going to give you.  Before Seungmin can build any speed and before Felix has his way with your mouth you hear a commotion at your rear. Then Seunmgin being pulled from you, leaving you jaw agape and whining from the loss of fullness.

 “Asshole, before you fuck her up we all gotta try.” Sharp words with crisp plosives cut through the confusion. Suddenly a thicker intrusion bullies its way between your walls. “Tremendous ass princess,” a hearty smack of a rough hand comes down on your ass cheek. You’re barely breathing with the thick length shoved snugly inside of you, the force of the spank has every muscle flexing to hold you together.  You moan.  Two hands grab each lobe, molding them like putty in his strong grip. Changbin. “Can’t wait to run you through.”  You’d always wondered about the rapper, most closely your type following your own boyfriend. How did his dual persona fit into his bedroom manner, how alike would he be to Chan, was it true what they said about rappers and their tongues? As suddenly as he’d entered you feel the protested drag of your walls, eager to keep him as he exits.  A thinly voiced dragged out “no” escapes your lips.  “Bok-ah, you want next?” Changbin offers, patting your ass.  You’d almost forgot Felix was there.  “I’m okay with just these pretty lips up here,” he says as he thumbs over your lower lip. Dropping your jaw again you remember he’d wanted this to begin with, before the other boys had started tag teaming your cunt.  “I’m okay too,” IN chimes in, “I can wait my turn.” He lowers his voice almost imperceptibly, just enough to sound like a cool mature guy. You could just imagine him standing a bit farther back, eyes transfixed on your glistening lips as they stretched for each of his members.  “Yeah you’re the only impatient one, meathead.” Minho. Of course Minho. His hips roll easily against you, just a taste of what’s to come. His hand runs over your ass, over the other entrance. “Got any toys for her?” He addresses the room, talking as though you couldn’t reply.

 Felix, you assume, finally taps the tip of his length against your tongue. Much to your delight he’s slightly sweeter than you’d assume as you lick against him. Chan’s reply to Minho is inaudible as Felix purrs. “You like that? Been drinking nothing but pineapple juice for you. Chris told me you’d like that.”

 Taking him fully in your mouth you bob enthusiastically focusing fully on him as two more strange new cocks slide into you all too briefly before Seungmin settles back over you, fucking you with a steady and uncomplicated rhythm. Felix is veiny, fun to explore as you run the length of him. He easily guides you the full way down, your nose pressing into his pubic bone as spit runs down your face. “Hey Chris, can we take off the blindfold?”  “Sure man, whatever you want.”  The blindfold flips up to your forehead. Luckily the lights are low enough so your eyes don’t have to adjust much. “Focus on my face sweetheart. Just want to see your pretty teary fucked out face while we ruin you.” Felix smiles as he feeds you his cock all the way to the base once more, watching you splutter and fight back your gag reflex. The tight ring of your throat squeezing him as he grinds into the wet warmth. You battle valiantly to keep your eyes looking up at him as they threaten to flutter shut, tears streaking your cheeks.  Not a second too soon he eases up, beaming down at you, thumbs wiping at your stained face. “Such a good girl for us. Chris is gonna be so proud of you.”  You smile for a second, spit burbling from your lips, before you feel Seungmins hands at your mid back, pushing you into a deeper arch. From one strong stroke you can tell he’s found it, face opening into a groan. “Do that shit again ‘Lix. I wanna see her struggle.”  “You heard the man, you ready?” He watches as you gulp and take a deep breath which is almost immediately punched out of you by Seungmin slamming his hips against you. Your fingers grip the legs of the bench as you are pressed between their bodies as deep as they can go on either end. Groaning around Felix and clasping down on Seungmin the noise in your brain crescendos and violently mutes into a peaceful fuzzy static.  Seungmin laughs as you twitch and spasm.  “Holy fuck, I can’t-” Felix struggles to keep his hips steady, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.  “I’m gonna too-” You can hear the gritting of Seungmins teeth as he speaks.  “Be good and take it all okay, take all I’ve got-” Felix mutters, spilling down the back of your throat. You gag, tears and spit and snot running everywhere as he pulls back from you, still weakly spurting on his thighs.  Barely able to breathe as Seungmin chases his high you mumble his nickname over and over. “Minnie, oh-fucking- ah-” Felix’s hand keeps your head from scraping against the bench as you become boneless, eyelids fluttering shut. Seungmin pulls from you just as you reach your high, whining and writhing in the agony of denial. Hot cum splashes across your ass slowly dripping down your thighs.

 “How’s our girl doing,” a soft melodic voice asks. “What your color darling?”  “Green,” you pant, vision still swimming. “Green green green green.”  He laughs. Hyunjin’s giggle. Good.  Slim and strong, there is always something languid about his movements. His finger tip traces your spine gently. “A beautiful sculpture should be appreciated,” he says slowly. It sends shivers running after his hands. Descending to the curve of your ass he spreads you wider, licking into your puffy oversensitive parts. Tongue lapping at you as you squeal the wet lewd sounds fill the air.  “Fuck, Hyunnie!” You practically rock the bench as you writhe. His tongue ventures to your other hole, teasing the tight bundle until you cry out. All of your fingers and toes curl and twitch as your walls clench around nothing. “Fuck me please,” you beg, voice wrecked with sobs. You’re surprised at your quick rebound but the promise of the lithe dancer is almost too much to bear.  Hyunjin’s lips graze your shoulder blade as he bottoms out in you with a shudder of effort, nearly knocking the bench forward in his attempt to get as much of himself inside of you as possible. Churning in your stomach you feel full again, fuller even. You nearly cum again, world whiting out in front of your eyes.  “That’s right pretty, all for you.” You wish you could see, could watch the man fuck into you more than anything in the world. He feels larger than you’d have ever expected from his slight frame.  Draped over you, the squelching of your two sweaty bodies pervades your mind as he humps quickly and shallowly. Chasing his high more than anything, each thrust punches you in the gut. The sounds that come from your mouth are unladylike wheezes that catch in your throat and turn into grunts. Two long fingers fill your mouth, sticky and salty from the mix of bodily fluids. Hyunjin cums mercifully quickly, spilling inside of you.  “I wanna see the other guys fuck it deeper,” he whispers, sweat dripping from his nose to your cheek. The thought gives you goosebumps.  Strong arms wrap around your back, caging over you as he undoes your buckled down arms to lift you from your post. Your toes barely sweep the floor before he has you on the nearby mattress. Changbin, stronger than your Channie, surprises you with his gentleness. For all the hurrying and jeering he’d done to the other guys, he’s suddenly soft with you.  “Hey,” he smiles all too familiarly, in a way that makes your gut stir. “Tired yet, princess? Told ya we’d run you through.”  You make grabby hands up at him, whining as you try to pull him closer.  “She usually non-verbal?” Changbin actually sounds a little concerned as he turns his head to ask your boyfriend. “Or should we- are you still good? Still green princess?”  You nod.  “If she says go, go.”  Changbin doesn’t waste another second, pushing into you aided by Hyunjin’s cum. The stretch despite the other members best efforts still forces a guttural groan from your lungs. He’s not as long as the others but the change of angle and thickness makes up for it in the best way. You can feel him bullying the plug on the other side of your walls in a way no one else has managed to do. He nuzzles into your neck as he starts fucking into you, only grunts coming from his normally busy mouth. Zoned into the singular thought of filling you.  With your hands finally free you’re able to explore his back as you scramble to hold yourself together. Your fingernails leave little crescents in the otherwise steel frame. Sturdy and unshakable as you tremor below him.  “Bin- I’m- ah-” you start to warn him of your swiftly approaching climax but he’s two steps ahead as your cunt clenches down. Arms wrapping beneath your thighs he pushes your hips just a little bit higher up. You see stars. It’s like he’s fully in your guts as he maintains his pace, fucking right into that spongy spot of yours. Mouth agape you can feel yourself wanting to make noise but your head is so full you can’t tell if its actually happening or not. All of your muscles contract at once as you climax.  “Holy shit did she-” the next thing you hear is a murmur from Jeongin. Release drips down Changbin’s pelvis as you both pant.  “Oh yeah, that’s our princess,” Changbin smiles like a champion as he slides from you, spent. Both of you are soaked in your cum, his cum, and Hyunjins cum. Grabbing the box of baby wipes he starts to clean himself off before he sees Chan start to clean your thighs. You barely notice he’s waddled off and back until you are being propped up between his thighs, a straw passing between your lips. “Drink for a good job.”

 The click of a cap is like fingers snapping, awakening you from your fucked foggy state. You look up and back to see Minho’s upsidedown bemused smirk as he watches the meatheads treat you like the sentient communal fuck doll that needs a tune up. Slowly he strokes himself, appraising you.

 “Jiji, care to join? I think this one has room for two.”  “Huh? Y-yeah,” you hear the taut voice of Han on the opposite side of the room.  “Hey, big boy, move.” Minho is less gentle with him, sliding behind you to take his place behind you, holding you between his thighs as Changbin had. His hands spread you wide open to the room, fingers grazing over the plug still nestled between your cheeks. The nearly icy drip of lube tickles your other hole, sliding around the stem of the plug. A deep breath in helps relax and allow the applier to slowly fuck the metal in and out..  Minho chuckles and smacks your thigh, your hole clenching down suddenly. “Are you tired? Huh? Too many cocks? Be thankful there’s only eight of us.” Thumb positioned on the end of the jeweled plug he slowly teases, swirling in languid circles as you writhe. Each nudge has your stomach tensing, desire growing within you.  Han Jisung is standing in front of you as you look dazed up at him. Blood rushes to his cock so fast he swears he might pass out from the loss to his brain. He watches as Minho finally fully tugs the plug from your fluttering hole and lifts you, slowly spearing you on his cock. Your chest heaves as you slide, mouth open and panting. Minho’s fingers fill your cunt, the sloppy sound of several fluids mixing reverberates in his skull.  “You going to stand there or fuck her?” Minho casually nods down to his fingers. “There’s room. Right, doll?”  You nod mutely, wriggling your ass on him.  Han dives head first into your cunt, eagerly pushing his tongue deep inside of you, lapping at Minho’s soaked fingers. Your legs threaten to snap shut on his head as your oversensitive pussy sends waves of bliss through your body. Minho keeps you locked open as he rocks himself slowly against your ass just barely moving his cock inside of you. It isn’t like he has to do much with Han’s tongue flicking so desperately at your slit.  Groaning, you’re unsure of whose name to call out. Minho or Han?  “Going to cum again? Thought you might be too worn out.”  “H-ha,” you half laugh and moan. You want to boast and brag but the hubris is fucked far from you. Back arching, your hole clenches down on him. You’re so very very close. His hands migrate to your tits, grabbing them, letting the space between his fingers lightly pinch your soft skin. They’d been so neglected and needy that the sudden attention pushes you over the edge, cumming hard on Han’s tongue. He continues to lap at you through it, not stopping until Minho tugs at his hair.  “Jiji, where do you wanna cum, I’m close.” Minho grunts. Sweat travels down his brow.  Han makes a quick appraisal of you, “wannafuckhertits.”  You’re tossed like a ragdoll to the mattress again, Minho easily positioning you on your back with your legs slung around his hips. Han straddles your chest, thighs are warm on your ribcage. His cock is practically drooling precum as he slides it between your mounds, quickly slicking up with your sweat. Squishing the sides together his eyes lock where the head of his cock pops out and disappears. Your tits are so hot around him as his precum slicks the valley between.  “Open,” he commands breathily, waiting for your lips to part. The second they do he drags the pad of his thumb over the wet inner side, pulling them open more. Your tongue naturally hangs out loosely, eyes glazed over. You’ve long given up any pretense of modesty. Of pretending this wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for. His hand goes to the back of your skull to support your head as you crane forward to attempt to kiss his member. Grunting and straining you’re both working so hard for it as Minho pounds away and jostles you just enough to increase the difficulty.  You feel Minho climax, warmth spreading inside of you. He barely misses a beat as his leg clenches, sinking deeply into you, holding your legs aloft. Your eyelids flutter and toes curl. It feels good to be this full. Feels good to be this filthy. You stretch your tongue just the bit longer and feel contact, hot and salty. Ropes of hot cum jet across your chest and chin and lips as Han’s breath hitches. He freezes and gasps, staring as his cock continues to dribble onto your clavicle.  “Shit I-”  “Ssfine -s’good.”  He stares at his handy work.  “Clean it.” Minho says from behind his back. “Clean your mess.”  Han moves quickly without questioning him, licking across all the streams that he’d shot only looking up, ostensibly to Chan to check if he could clean your lips. The only one to dare to do so, tentatively licking your bottom lip before fully taking it between his lips. Not fully locking into a kiss, not quite.  Your stomach churns as you return to emptiness, only your boyfriend and the youngest left. The others preoccupying themselves with clean up and their own after care.  “How do you want ‘er?” Chan lifts your torso up off the bed and into his arms again, plying you with water. A quick kiss to the cheek asuages any fear that he wasn’t also enjoying himself. “C’mon maknae. Top? Side? Back? She’s got just enough left in her. Don’t you, my sweet thing?”  You nod, “how do you want me?”  It’s only a moment of consideration longer as his eyes linger on your pussy, red and raw. Jeongin’s sweet smile looks all the more sinful as he nears. He slides you into his arms with a surprising ease. A look of shock flashes across your face as he lifts you on to his cock, still standing. Chan had fucked you standing occasionally, but you hadn’t expected this of Innie. Your sweet Innie. Squealing as you let gravity bounce you off his hips, driving him deeper and deeper, clit aching as the blunt pressure hits each time. You’re practically grappled to him, arms locked over his shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back.  Curses spill from your mouth like a prayer. Everything burns bright as you hurtle towards your climax. The thrumbing of your pulse rings in your head and your breath catches. But Jeongin falters slightly, his own breath catching suddenly as well, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. His cock slips between your bodies as he fumbles a few thrusts. A sudden spurt of warmth hits your thigh and stomach. Jeongin is swearing.  “You didn’t- I’m sorry I-”  You blink at him bemused.  He sighs into your shoulder, “I came already.”  “Oh? Oh don’t worry about it I-”  “I wanted to make you cum.”

 The puff of air from your short giggle tickles his throat. Your lips are warm where they kiss his cheek. “You’re so cute.”  As your arms start to burn you’re ripped from Jeongin’s arms and tossed unceremoniously to the bed again. A strong grip wraps around your ankle and tugs your ass to the edge of the mattress. This was how you’d assumed Changbin would be. Instead you see Chan’s wide grin looking over you.  “You look so fucking hot babe.” He praises you as he pushes his cock into your ass, watching your eyes roll back into your skull. “Love it when you’re fucked out like this. When all you can do is take cock.”  You shudder. Tired and overwhelmed and needy under him. Sticky. He feels…good. Its the only word your tired mind can center on. You feel good.  “Innie- you wanna make her cum right?” Chan asks over his shoulder. “Grab that er…big white thing with the blue buttons and c’mere.” Momentarily he leans forward to kiss you, letting his hips gently rock into you. You whimper. He nuzzles you. “Doing alright, sweet thing?”  You nod into his shoulder. “Tired.”  “Don’t worry, princess, I’ll do everything,” Chan pushes the sticky strands of hair back from your face and turns to his group mate. Jeongin barely weighs the bed down as he crawls to your side. “She’ll cum quick so make sure that fucker is set low okay? She’s had a long night already.” Jeongin nods. The toy whirrs to life and he starts to lower it. “Check it on yourself first, bro.” Chan knocks the toy back. “Inside of your wrist.”  You hear a few clicks. Chan locks eyes with you, he looks like a god between your legs. He carefully stretches one to kiss your calf. His cock stirs your insides, thick bastard. You moan and close your eyes. You trust him.  Jeongin carefully places the toy over your mound, your back arching away from the bed. Chan instructed him well.  “Talk her through it.”  “Huh?”  “She likes it when you talk to her, she won’t talk back but she’ll sound really pretty.”  You gasp and whine. He’s right.  Jeongin’s voice is smooth above the buzz of the toy, talking just under his breath enough for only the three of you to hear. “Our prettiest girl did so well for us. Making all your boyfriend’s friends cum. You really are made for taking cock, no wonder Channie hyung keeps you all locked up. Just imagine the trouble we’d get in if he let you into the practice room.”  Another gasp. You can see it, you’re there with him and with Chan at the same time.  “Couch broken. Mirror streaked with sweat and cum. We’d ruin it. But you’d like that. Show everyone who’s girl you are. Right? You’re our princess.”  Your legs are shaking as you nod. Chest tightening again your gut coils in anticipation.  “Can our princess cum again? Please?”  Your legs tremble in answer, hand reaching out to wrap around Jeongin’s bicep. He can see the tension in your neck as your muscles clench all the way to the top of your skull. You’re so so so painfully nearly there.  “Tight lil’ hole ‘s likea vice-” Chan manages to slur. “Ah, fuck, baby-” his voice crackles as he sucks in air through his clenched teeth,”-cum with me darling. Be a good girl.”  Everything happens in a flash, your breath hitching, head thrown back. A magnificent groan spills from your gaping mouth, almost loud enough to rattle the vibrator back. Chan slows as your hips stutter and kick, his warmth spreading inside you as your walls milk him. Jeongin stares wide eyed, vibrator dropping off to your side, as he watches you flood his friend’s pelvis and thighs. His own stomach caves as weak spurts of ejaculate dribble down to the bed.  Chan pulls from you and bundles you into a little ball on your side. Kissing your arms and legs as he instructs the rest of the boys in their clean up duties. You’d done enough, you didn’t need to worry about this, you never needed to worry about this part of the night. Chan made sure of that. Your tired limbs are lifted to a warm tub, eyes too weary to open. Many trusted hands hold you as they carefully wash the filth from you. Their touches are less distinct now as you lean into them. All warm, all sure, all caring. One or many, you couldn’t tell. Your boys, all of them.

ngl i blacked out and wrote this. i have not re-read. i’m sorry if its not coherent.

[bibluebutterfly]

Hoo boy. Now I've made it known multiple times on my blog that I LOATHE the whoobiefication of Vox, but lets get into why/how Vox is NOT a good person nor a baby that needs protecting and why he's all the better for it. Buckle up ladies and gentlemen, this will be long.

Now, why isn't Vox a good person? Easy. Because he (along with the other Vees) is supposed to be the bad guy of the story. Shocking, I know. Vox was NEVER intended to be a good person, and some of y'all just need to accept that.

Now for the long part: HOW is he not a good person?

Well, first of all, his literal introduction is an ad selling drones HE DESIGNED specifically for stalking,"peeping on the neighbors has never been more stylish"

Right off the bat, this tells us he doesn't care about people unless he can profit off them.

Which is also backed up by the point that he ADVERTISES Val and Vels "love potions" which are basically just roofies.

Again. This man ONLY cares about profit first and foremost, screw the people who can get hurt/SA'd by his products.

Next, he has a power of hypnosis which he is NOT hesitant to use. He can take away someones free will at a glance and uses that to his full advantage.

He's also very willing to give Val his lowest earners to shoot. Notice that he does so with no hesitance and no regret.

Also, (and most significantly) he's a huge, HUGE enabler. This guy has cameras EVERYWHERE, ESPECIALLY when Valentino is involved. He's got cameras in Val's room, Angels old room, at Vals corner of the club (which moves when Val does), there's NO WAY he DOESN'T know that Val is a r@pist.

And DESPITE that, he still sleeps with the man, is very likely in love with him, and oh yeah, FUNDS HIS WHOLE DEAL. The cameras Val uses are Voxtech cameras.

Val may be the one who does the dirty work but Vox willingly and knowingly makes a profit off of that. He doesn’t just know and do nothing, he actively HELPS Val out and obviously has no second thoughts nor regrets about it.

This is not a look of disgust or discontent, this is fondness. Genuine fondness. For Valentino. As a PERSON. Let that sink in.

There’s also the implications that Vox is jealous of the attention Angel gets from Val. Angel gets abused constantly by Val, Vox KNOWS, and still hates Angel because of the sheer fact that he takes up so much of Vals attention.

Not to mention the HEAVY implications that he gets off on watching people suffer.

“Well Vox can still do better than Val!!”

While I’m at it, I guess I should bring up the fact that BOTH Vox and Val are MASSIVE red flags.

With Val, aside from the obvious, he’s also a huge attention whore for Vox and isn’t afraid to break Vox’s property if Vox doesn’t pay attention to him. Yeah Vox gets frustrated with him, who wouldn’t be when their lover is throwing temper tantrums every other day?

With Vox, again, aside from the obvious, isn’t afraid to handle Val roughly when he’s mad, and literally screams about how watching his arch nemesis/obsession get the crap beat out of him is better than sex. Right in front of Val by the way. In regular circumstances, 9.98/10 that’s gonna get your ass dumped in a second.

Not to mention the mutual condescension ation towards each other.

And as much as fans (including myself admittedly) like to shit on Val for being a man child, Vox is literally no better.

Plus the explosive tempers.

Seriously. Vox LITERALLY cannot do better than Val. Vox is the only one who can put up with Vals BS and vice versa.

OH YEAH and lets not forget one last thing: VOX ALSO ABUSES HIS OWN EMPLOYEES.

This dude is scared of him, and it’s NOT because he’s worried about getting fired.

So yes. Vox is not nor HAS EVER been a good person.

And for me personally, I love that. I love that he’s entertaining yet awful. I love his dynamic with Alastor, and I love his relationship with Val even more.

If you’re wondering why I personally love Staticmoth, it’s because basic couple rules do not apply to them. They’re both toxic narcissistic red flags and therefore they can be as awful as they want to each other, and the other will simply shake it off. Yet there’s still heavy trust between the two (never being scared of each other) and they still have little moments together where they’re genuinely happy. It’s unique, and something I’ve never seen in media before.

Basically, if you liked Vox better when you thought he was a poor little baby being abused by Val, read a fan fiction. There’s a lot of them out there.

But people really just need to accept the fact that he’s an awful person. Always has been. He’s not better than Val by ANY means. He and Val are both evil pricks who deserve each other.

And guess what? LIKING AN EVIL CHARACTER DOES NOT MEAN YOU SUPPORT THEIR CHOICES. IT’S OKAY TO LIKE VOX EVEN IF HE IS EVIL.

But don’t go on saying that Vox was “ruined” as a character when all signs have always pointed to him being terrible.

[loaksbitch]

this time it’s different, imagine neteyam knelt in front of you and begging you not to go after he betrayed you? c’mon now guys i can’t be the one who’ll only suffer with this idea that struck me 😕 — wc is 2.6k !!

warnings - vulgar language, neteyam cries you guys NETEYAM CRIES!! my poor baby. oc gets/feels betrayed, one slap mention, where neteyam who is the mighty future leader of the clan kneels in front of you and begs for forgiveness, he fucked up :(

like and reblogs are appreciated! i love you guys so so much and this is 1.2+ followers celebrating gift <3

“i trusted you.” — neteyam sully (★)

part (two) — (three) — (four) of this series.

the na’vi females are gathered to spend time together and talk teas while their significant others and soon to be mate left for a war party. you on the other hand being one of them, or so you thought as you all laugh and bring the old moments or funny moments you all had

“…and that’s how i met tar’key” one of the female navi blushes as she tells her story of how she met her mate years ago.

“that’s so heartwarming, oh mother eywa!” the other females giggle and awe. you’re silently sat as you try to ignore some of the noisy na’vi’s whispering until they mention the soon to be olo'eyktan and your ears perk up

“have you heard about the first born of the sully family being set up for a mate?”

you’re somehow confused and excited when they mention about mating because you knew it was going to be you. neteyam was going to be mated with you.

“yes! and i’ve heard she’s so pretty as to very similar to her mother’s beauty.” the other whisper

her mother? you never had a mother growing up…

“she’s so lucky, honestly imagine being the future mate of the future olo’eyktan? so dreamy.” the girls sigh imagining it and let a soft giggle out. you’ve frowned as you try to thinking deeply and try to make sense in what just the na’vi girls said

the female clan keeps murmuring and talking as they make friends with huge circle and a wooden fire in the middle of the circle, while you’re trying to put pieces together.

what do they mean “beauty of her mother.” when you didn’t even have one? neteyam and you were soon to be mated, yes you knew that and he told you he only wants you in his future but what the girls talked about was another completely different person

you wanted to run to neteyam and ask what you’ve just heard but he wasn’t near by, he has already left to the war party right after he made love to you as a good bye the whole night, you were crying mess being of how you loved this man as he cradled you to his body and held you tight.

you’re confused and somehow trying everything but decide to eavesdrop to what the two females are talking. “i haven’t seen her here, did she not want to join us?” the one asks before the other scoffs,

“of course she won’t, after all she’s the future leader of the omatikaya clan.” the other states, now you’re feeling way too desperate to know about her but it’s breaking your heart to figure out it’s not you

and this means? neteyam lied to you.

“never mind, let’s just get back to what we were list– oh mother eywa! she’s here! she’s here!”

your heart starts to beat faster as your eyes look around to know which one is the so called future leader of the clan. “which one? i see two girls standing!?” the females arch their neck to see more and the other pointing out makes you know who exactly they’re talking about

your heart doesn’t just entirely break one piece following the other, everything around you was blurry. you needed to leave right now.

“excuse me,” you stood up as you made your way out. the na’vi’s asked if you’re okay but you just shrugged them and told them you’re feeling sick.

once you stumbled your way out and walked far enough from the na’vi’s, you finally find yourself on the trees of sounds. where your lover and you exactly made love. of course you two were gonna be mated and doing the deed didn’t bother you at that time but right now?

right now you’re feeling the burning of your skin where neteyam exactly placed kisses and his skin touched you. your whole body felt dirty right the moment you figured out you’ve been… played.

now everything started to make sense, why neteyam always feared of you both getting caught, why he didn’t want you to meet with his family, why he never… a soft sob leaves your lips as your eyes close.

of course that na’vi was better than competed to you.

beauty? her. body? her. has a family? her. everything? her. your jaw clenched as you feel so foolish for blindly trusting a man… a fucking man.

the pain you’re feeling doesn’t compare to when you felt right after your mother abandoned you. this was making you struggle with breathing, your lung tightening with every try you’re making to let air in.

what did you do wrong to deserve all of this?

you’ve really been fooled, you knew everything was too good to be true. you’re now realizing how stupid you were to think the future olo'eyktan mating with some abandoned and adopted daughter who only served as a professional arrow shooter.

“eyaw, it hurts.” you cry, tears freely rolling down your skin. you cry to your mother nature your heart out as everything of this place reminds you of him.

you want to hate him but no, it only keeps hurting to even think about hating him. neteyam was everything to you while you’re nothing to him, you were ready to throw everything from him but he only used you and backstabbed you

meanwhile you’re crying your heart out to eywa, the clan has returned from the war party with few people hurt and non dead. neteyam was happy and eager to tell you the war went so perfect like it was planned. no death and few people hurt but his eyes keep wandering trying to find you

a tint of disappointment settles in him when he realized you weren’t there, but you promised you would watch him from far so the na’vi won’t be suspicious about you two. at least until he makes it official, and today is the day he will make it official to his parents you’re the one he wants

oh how he was so late for this.

neteyam figures out you weren’t anywhere here so he just shrugs his parents and tells them he needs air for a while. obvious that they’re proud of him today, jake didn’t bother and already shrugged his son off

neteyam tries to hide his excitement when people greet him as he made his way to your hammock.

eyeing the na’vi’s and once he checked no one is watching, he slipped in but was greeted with no warmth or scent of your body. “princess?” he calls for you but nothing talks to him back

frowning, neteyam leaves you hammock and climb down to think where you could possibly be. it doesn’t take him long to figure out where you are and jogs to the destination he thinks you’re found.

and just like he thought your body comes to his sight as you’re stood in front of the tree of sounds, your back facing him.

neteyam chuckles as he walks to you before wrapping his arm on your body and pressing himself to your warmth.

you in other hand feel your body tense with his skin touching yours. “i’ve missed you” he groans to your hair as he place kissed on the back of your head then to your neck. you don’t even try to say it back or turn around to hug him.

neteyam does fail to notice your odd behavior and step back a little giving you space to turn around to him but you’re just frozen. “princess?” he calls for you but you just try your best to compose yourself from falling apart

the man in front of you feels his inside worry before he’s forcing you to turn around and face him.

but what he was met with was what he never expected. you eyes are swollen and puffy like you’ve been crying for hours, “who did this to you?” was the first full sentence neteyam utters and you ironically scoff at his words

it was him, he was the one who did this to you.

he tries to cup your cheeks to his large palm but you step back as if his touch disgusts you. and in fact, it does disgust you right now. you know you’ll run back to him if he touches you and you’re not allowing that

“baby?” his breath hitches when you avoid his touch and his brain instantly start to figure out you’ve already found out but neteyam chooses to ignore it until you say it yourself

he tries again by stepping close to you but you were fast to speak. “is it true neteyam.” it wasn’t a question and the way you called his name darkly makes his heart hurt and tell him you’ve definitely had found out.

but he chooses to play dump.

“what is true, princess?” those pet names makes your stomach irrupt in nausea and you shake your head. “don’t call me that, i’m not your princess, never have been your princess.” the way you say it calmly scares him

sure thing neteyam fell for your calmness and mature self but right now he wishes you could just punch him or yell at him.

you’re trying to stay calm before slowly opening your mouth to speak. “you have a…” you can’t even finish the sentence feeling your throat close in pain. he again tries to play dumb but this time you hiss at him silently.

talk about happiness? it can vanish in a heartbeat.

the atmosphere as changed to a heavy one as neteyam watches your broken self in front of him.

“yes.” those three letters were enough to entirely ruin you. you stumble on your own feet feeling dizzy, neteyam tries to hold you from falling only for you to slap his hands away.

“look at first it was just a rumor but then my parents and her parents set us up, set me up.” neteyam starts to try explaining but it only hurts you more. neteyam watches your tears fall and his heart bleeds out, he really wanted to tell you

“i never loved her, i never want to be with her, i never want äeya.” neteyam steps closer, “i want you and you only” you’ve heard the name before, so many times actually that you grew up wanting to be äeya so bad.

the daughter of the tshaik that’s the perfect daughter from the clan and it didn’t surprise she had to be mated with him. what hurt you was him lying and leading you to his great fucked up game.

“i fall in love with you princess, i love you so much it always hurts.” you’re painfully silent and it eats him alive as he desperately seeks for something in you. “i trusted you..” you back away, his touch bringing nothing but pain

if someone from yesterday came to you and told you that this would happen, you would’ve shot your arrow at them but again look at you desperate for things your lover was saying were to be lie.

“with you— princess please.” neteyam doesn’t know why he’s pleading but he knows he wants to wipe those tears and take your pain away. “don’t touch me.” you warn when his fingertips held your small hands

“DON’T TOUCH ME!!”

neteyam froze at his spot, his tail locked between his legs. this was the first time you yelled at him, the first him he heard your true pain through your voice. “i hate you! i hate you! i. hate. you.” neteyam’s ears flatten at your words that were like daggers to his heart.

“don’t say that, please don’t say that baby, please.” he was begging you now. neteyam always chose death than being despised by you.

“you knew the whole time, neteyam” you’re saying it so clam and softly it’s making him feel like he deserves death and every painful torture to be done to him. “i told you i have no one and you were the only person i trusted with my everything and you were the only one i have.” you’re now crying

“how could you do this to me?”

how could he do this to you?

neteyam licks his lips and sniffles, he nods agreeing with you. “i was gonna make it official, today i was going to tell them you’re mine and i’m yours” your eyes widen but you quickly shake them off, you shake your head disagreeing with him

“i’m not yours.” the way you said it was not with in an anger but pure honesty, hatred and disgust. neteyam’s breath hitches again and his eyes start to whelm. “i was never yours.”

you were his, you promised yourself to him last night as he did, you were his first time and first person in everything. you were his future and his own actions took his future away from him.

neteyam could only watch your broken self in yourself and did nothing, the little abandoned girl you’ve hidden coming out and telling him everything last night before making love completely gone. he was met with your side he never thought he would see

“i’ll never be yours.” you knew your words hurt him and you definitely wanted them to just like he’s hurting you

neteyam suddenly kneels in front of you and pulls you by your hips, wrapping his arm on your waist and pressing his face to your stomach to hide himself from reality. “i never wanted you to find out this way, please let me make it right. let me make everything right, please princess.”

he doesn’t care you warned him not to call you that, no matter how hard you try not to be? you’ll always be his princess. you’re just frozen there with the man you trusted giving your soul to just take everything from you wrapped around you.

“let go of me.” you tell him and silently pray he does or you’ll kneel and hug him back.

neteyam’s body shake as he is now violently crying himself in front of you and you’ve never seen him like this. “neteyam, please let me go.” you try but no answer, only whimpers and sobs from the man knelt and face pressed to your tummy are heard

you purse your lips and place your hands on his hands to pry them from you. “please don’t do this” neteyam was the one begging. “we both are promised to one another last nig–“ you cut him off.

“there was nothing last night, last night was nothing but a mistake i did.” your words not only emotionally but mentally affect neteyam. once you start to leave with no words, neteyam panics and get on his feet quick

“you’re not leaving me…” he didn’t know the damage he caused until he realize he’s losing you. you ignore him and walk away but neteyam was fast to hold you by your hands making you turn and slap him across the face

you hate yourself for doing that but you hate him most for making you do that. “i said don’t touch me.” you say coldly, you’re now the woman he never knew. “and if you dare to try to come close to me again, neteyam,” your soft voice he knew wasn’t there, “i will kill you.”

you’re not just threatening a normal na’vi but the actual future olo'eyktan and you don’t feel a slightest fear when you do. “and trust me when i say that.” your words were familiar just like the first time he met you.

cold and unbothered of anything.

neteyam doesn’t say anything when you turn and leave but once you’re slightly far, your face turns ugly mess as you cry.

neteyam’s ears are still flattened as his tail is locked between his legs. right the moment you were out of sight, neteyam felt his world darken and went grey and gloomy. nothing would be the same with out you every again.

it was his fault this happened, he abandoned you just like your mom and everyone else. you hate him now and nothing’s gonna be the same. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry” he whispers as he’s standing right where you left him. right where you promised yourself to him last night. right where you gave yourself to him.

right where you trusted him.

i might make this a miniseries? i don’t know lmk in the comments though i’ll depend on my creativity and flow of plot,, i love each and everyone of you!! like + reblog are appreciated and not pressured