#the other one i could tell was an absolutely remarkable thing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capslocked · 11 months ago

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PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

#karina smut #irene smut #aespa smut #red velvet smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

3K notes · View notes

heavenbarnes · 7 months ago

Note

Thinking of being Ghost's fiance and making invite the 141 over for dinner to finally meet them and he begrudgingly accepts because anything to make u happy and they're still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that he's engaged

mmm omg your mind 🫶🏼

finally getting older bf!simon to have the 141 around your dinner was the equivalent of pulling teeth.

come to think, pulling teeth would’ve been easier.

“well fuck me for wanting to meet the people the man i’m marrying spends 90% of his time with”

“sweet’art y’know i don’t like bringing work ‘ome”

then you’d gone and put your hands on your hips with just one (1) eyebrow raised-

and the lads were knocking at his fucking door.

“gidday- don’t fuckin’ start w’me”

“some bloody way to greet y’guests, big man”

as he corralled all their snide little remarks about “didnae know ye’ owned a nice shirt” everyone managed to find their best behaviour upon your appearance.

it might’ve had something to do with the stunned silence.

when he’d begrudgingly invited them, they’d all been in a little bit of shock- first of all, ghost had a fiancé? second of all, ghost is letting us into his home?

then it all round off with, third of all-

ghost’s fiancé was a fucking looker, that’s for sure.

sweet, nice, bloody easy on the eyes- how the hell had he managed that?

you were just happy to meet the closest things to friends that simon had.

price took lead by drawing you into a hug, thanking you for your hospitality. followed closely by a sweet talking gaz who was already making your cheeks warm with his manners.

naturally, johnny had to chime in with some stupid little-

“nae wonder L.t disnae want us knowing about ye’, i’d keep ye’ all t’maself too”

he’s too slow to avoid simon’s flat palm coming up the side of his head, but it doesn’t dissuade him much.

he’s peachy fucking keen to meet you.

simon eats his tea with a tense jaw, rolling his eyes every time someone makes you laugh a little too long, tells another ‘embarrassing’ story about him.

he also keeps his palm firmly on your knee, nervous twitch of a thumb running circles over your skin.

when you pop out to the kitchen to fix dessert, they’re on him like starved dogs.

“all this time and not so much as a bloody photo?”

“kinda’ photos i’m gettin’ aren’t f’you lots eyes”

johnny nearly falls out of his seat.

you can hear them whispering all the way from the kitchen, for a bunch of SAS guys- they’re not very subtle.

simon’s got one ear on the shit chatter coming from his team and the other on the kitchen, waiting for the slightest sign that he might be able to join you.

it comes- in the form of a gasp from you followed by “ow fuck”

simon’s out of his seat like a bullet.

“what’s wrong- what ‘ave y’done?”

you know the 141 are watching, doesn’t take a genius to see the way they’re all craning their necks around the kitchen doorframe.

“i’m fine, si- just a little burn from the pan”

“lemme’ see, gimme’ y’hand”

so the 141 see their ghost, unshakeable mountain of a man- a face they never see-

and they see his face, and they see genuine fear on it.

they see simon.

your simon.

“i’m telling you it’s fine, si”

“i’ll make that call, alright”

and they’re all looking at each other across the table, trying to decide whether to be impressed or even a little jealous- they’re leaning towards jealous.

so instead they settle on taking the absolute piss out of him.

not that he minds-

before you could even reach your chair he was pulling you into his lap- having you eat dessert perched on his thigh.

as you settle back into his chest, you could swear you feel him laugh.

that hand settles back on your knee again but there aren’t nervous circles anymore.

more like gentle squeezes.

your simon.

right at home.

#domestic simon save me save me domestic simon #older bf!simon #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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nejiverse · 3 months ago

Text

NOT SO NONCHALANT

Ryomen Sukuna

cw: like two swear words, pregnant reader, mean (ish) sukuna

812 words

Sukuna currently had his elbow against his pillow, his hand propping his head up and he stared up at his lover who sat up cross-legged on the bed, mind you, it was 3am.

"What the hell is your problem?", he inquired. It was a justified question. What sane person sits up in bed in the dead of night and stares into space??

"I'm thinking", she responded, a hand on her chin in deep thought and her eyes narrowing in concentration.

Sukuna let out an exasperated sigh. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten you pregnant 'cause clearly it's turning you into a mad woman", he turned to the other side and opted to go back to sleep. Maybe if he ignored her she would follow suit.

But no. This was a five month pregnant lady who wouldn't rest until she gets what she wants.

"I'm hungry Ryo".

Sukuna scoffed a laugh. "What's new?", he pulled the covers higher. "You can eat whatever you want in your dreams...so sleep", he ordered.

Y/n gasped, crawling over to his side and shaking his shoulder. "What do you mean 'what's new?'".

Sukuna rolled his eyes, unfazed by her actions. He wouldn't be surprised if she started crying any second now.

"That's so mean Ryo!", she wailed, slapping his arm yet doing absolutely no damage whatsoever.

Sukuna's eyebrow twitched involuntarily. "What did I say about calling me that?", he grumbled. It made his heart feel all funny and he didn't like it one bit.

The woman moved to straddle the king of curses, a heavy frown etched on her lips. "I want barbecue".

There it was, those damn eyes. The expression that Sukuna could never say no to which annoyed him. He pursed his lips, averting his eyes as a rough hand lifted her off of him with ease. "You want me to cater your cravings like some servant?", he clicked his tongue. "If that was meant to be a joke, i'm not laughing. Goodnight".

Y/n let out a drawled out whine, hovering over his body so she could see his face. "Pleaseeeeee Ryo!!".

"Fuck no".

She huffed, finally giving up. Sukuna felt the bed rise a bit, signalling that she had gotten up. "Fine. I'll just do it myself".

A smirk grew on Sukuna's lips. Surely she was joking right? She would simply walk out for a few minutes then come back in. It wasn't like she knew how to work the damn thing anyway.

Still, Sukuna couldn't go back to sleep. He could only think about her. What if she hurt herself trying to work the barbecue or something?

He rolled his eyes. It wasn't his problem.

So why did he jolt up immediately when he heard a loud crash? He wasn't sure but his body started moving before his brain could even process what he was doing.

"Damn woman," he muttered, throwing the blanket off himself and storming out of the room. The chill of the night air seeped through the hallway as he moved quickly, his mind racing with scenarios he'd never admit he was worried about. He wasn't the type to care, not really—at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

"What did you do?", he noticed how she was shaking her fingers in the air, clearly looking for some relief for her aching digits.

"I accidentally closed the cover on my fingers..", she said in a small voice.

Sukuna stood for a moment until he went back inside, soaking a cloth in cold water and wringing out the excess before quickly going back out.

"You're an idiot", he grabbed her wrist and wrapped the cold cloth around her index and middle fingers. "And I just know that baby's tired of your ass, you never sit still".

Y/n giggled at his remark, smiling up at the king of curses who raised a brow. "What're you smiling at?".

"You care", she said simply.

"Tch. Whatever", he rolled his eyes for the nth time that night as he opened the barbecue.

Y/n's face lighted up. "Are you actually doing it? You're so sweet Ryomen!", she approached him, arms wrapping around his bicep, making sure the cloth doesn't slip from her grasp.

Sukuna furrowed his brow."Sit", he pointed to the chair to the side.

Y/n pouted. "I wanna watch you!".

"Do you want fat fucking feet again?".

She wasn't gonna tell him that standing up wasn't the main reason her feet swell. She would simply take in the fact that he truly did care for her wellbeing.

But one thing was for sure. That night, Sukuna had lost the idgaf war.

a/n: Help i haven’t written on here since July LOL ive been writing on wattpad, but requests are open!!

masterlist :)

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x yn #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk ryomen #jjk fluff #gojo #toji #nanami

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bunni-v1 · 28 days ago

Note

how do you think lighter would handle the reader after learning it is going to be their first time aka a virgin reader x lighter

Lighter and Virgin!Reader

🍓Yayay! I wanted to really take my time to write this one, so sorry that I didn't get it out super quick. Wrote it while listening to Christmas music btw, probably gonna write smth smutty for Christmas now. I've never written full-on smut outside of an RP setting so... apolocheese if this is cringe. You can throw tomatoes at me, I will eat them like the rodent I am.

Minors DNI

TW: NSFW; First time!; sickeningly sweet lighter; grammar errors probably lol (I promise I edit my stuff).

Info: Lighter x Reader; Nsfw; Fluffy; no pronouns but reader is fem bodied

Lighter is, and always has been, a rather simple man. While he loves you and respects you more than anything in the world, he too has thoughts that any man might have. It was only natural that he found you... mmm... titillating. You were his partner after all, and you were very good-looking if you asked him.

So many times he's found you on his lap, or beneath him whichever comes easiest at the time, drowning in your sweet lips. His hands wandered over your clothed sides, desperate for a taste of the real thing. He was addicted to you, and sweet candies couldn't placate him this time. It was heavenly having you in his grasp, so very close to everything he'd been dreaming about.

The only issue was that you always seemed to have some excuse to push him away. He'd fisted his cock one too many times alone in his room after another failed encounter, and he just didn't get it. You always seemed so eager, so pliant, right up until he slid his hands below your shirt.

The second his fingers made contact with the soft, oh-so-tempting skin there you would jump like he'd burned you. Then you'd push his eager hands down and come up with some lame reason to leave. He understood that maybe you weren't ready, that was okay, but didn't you feel safe enough to tell him? No, surely something else was going on. He could tell, there was something else that was holding you back, and he was going to figure it out.

Tonight would be the perfect chance to do just that. The girls were busy doing their own thing at the bar, leaving him with all the free time in the world to be alone with you. As usual, he had you on his lap, mouths working against each other. His tongue pressed into yours, happily exploring its space as he swallowed up your whimpers and whines.

Fingers press into your thighs like a vice, desperate for all the skin they can get their hands on. As you wind your fingers into his hair, he takes it as his sign to slide his hands up to your hips, slowly pressing you down into him. You jolt a little in his grasp, drawing a low chuckle from the back of his throat. So cute.

You pull back from him, a thin string of saliva keeping you connected, eyes wide and face flushed. Your chest heaves with effort, and your hair is an absolute disaster. It makes his cock twitch in his jeans, another gasp falling from your pretty swollen lips at the sensation.

"Lighter..." You say breathlessly, and he knows its meant to be a scolding remark, but he just finds it too cute.

He cocks his head to the side, "What? Too much to handle?"

You give him an eye roll that is all too endearing, trying and failing to straighten out your messy hair, "It's getting late, I should probably head to mine soon."

His smile falls from his face, disappointed again, like clockwork. He can't even find it in himself to hide it anymore, which makes you frown too. You press a kiss on his cheek, apologetically, "What's wrong? Why is my champion pouting?"

The pet name is almost enough to get him to forget everything, but then you shift on his lap a little and his hard-on screams at him to at least get some kind of answer. So he sighs, patting the meat of your thigh almost sadly, "Why do you always do that?"

You raise an eyebrow, which he mirrors. You know better than to play dumb, Lighter can see right through the schtick. Your demeanor cracks first, and you seem genuinely nervous as you respond, "I don't know..."

"Listen, baby. If you're not ready all you gotta do is tell me--" He tries to soothe you, because he doesn't want you to be upset. There was no shame in just not being ready, but you cut him off before he can finish his reassurances.

"No, it's not-" A grumble leaves your chest, "I want to, I really do I just... I get nervous."

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow at you, sunglasses slanting down his nose as he tilts his head curiously, "What's there to be nervous about...?"

You fluster, looking anywhere your eyes can find that wasn't him. You were awfully cute when you were embarrassed, but he couldn't let himself get distracted. With the gentlest touch to your chin, he refocuses your attention on him. A reassuring smile on his face, urging you without words to tell him what was wrong.

Some kind of war goes on behind your pretty little eyes, and he has to tap your lip with his thumb to center you again. You pout against the finger, and it takes everything in him not to push it up and into your mouth. Finally, after what seemed like ages of waiting, you give another sigh. "I'm... a virgin."

"Oh," he says, automated like a robot. It takes his brain a moment to click the gears together, but once they do, he nods. Oh. That makes so much sense.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, pressing off his chest to get up, but he tugs you back into his lap. Giving you a reassuring squeeze, praying to whatever there was out there for you to give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

It really isn't a big deal to him, not at all. He'd taken people's virginity before - former partners he doesn't even remember the names of - but you. Getting to be your first? It felt like the world had both blessed and cursed him at the same time. You didn't have a good frame of reference, which was great. He'd be the best partner you've had. Yet... he'd also be the only partner you've had, and that was a lot of pressure to put on a guy like him.

"Lighter?" You squeak out, face all nervous and cute in a way that just drives him wild.

A huff leaves him before he can think better of it, causing you to frown a little. His arms wrap around your middle, tugging you closer to him, "That's all? Here you had me thinking you weren't attracted to me all of a sudden."

The response takes you off guard, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Had you genuinely thought that would be a turn-off for him? What do you take him for, some prude? "I- I mean, you know... I don't have any experience, and I figured since... since you had it would just-"

He hushes you, trying his best not to laugh at how ridiculous the thought is. Most guys would leap to be in his shoes, it was a loser's wet dream to take some innocent angel like you and ruin you. Not Lighter, though. Despite how many times he'd fucked his hand thinking about your pretty little body, he would make sure your first time was perfect. He really needed it to be perfect.

"I don't care about that, baby." There's a teasing lilt in his tone that sends shockwaves down your spine, "I just want you to be happy."

It was your turn to be dumbfounded, staring at him like he had spoken forbidden texts in tongues you didn't understand. He tilts your head with the hand still holding your chin, and it's incredibly sexy the way his sunglasses dip a little so you can see the genuineness in his eyes.

"Would it make you happy if I took your virginity?" You give a slow, dumb nod, and he presses closer, "Do you wanna try tonight?"

Lighter watches with thinly veiled amusement as the pieces slip into place for you, face so warm he could feel it at this distance. You seem to have stalled a bit, so he gives you an award-winning smile and taps your lips to remind you to use them.

"Yes. Please." You blurt out, and it's so incredibly unsexy and awkward, but he still bites his lip like you were sex incarnate.

He gives you all but three seconds to admire the (so, so incredibly hot) look on his face before he's picking you up with no effort, hands wrapped under the swell of your ass like they were made to be there. You cling to his shoulders like a lifeline, and his cock strains in his stupidly tight jeans as he imagines you doing so without the jacket between your skin.

"Where are we going?" You ask, voice uneasy.

He smirks at you, "You didn't seriously think I was gonna let your first time be on some dingy outdoor couch, did you?"

You're silent all the way to his quarters after that, warm face buried into the crook of his shoulder. He can feel how nervous you are in the shaky breaths you let puff out onto his neck. He gives your butt a reassuring pat, which only makes you burrow yourself further into his neck.

He doesn't get to see your face again until he carefully lies you on his bed, and he's glad for it too. The nervous shimmer in your eyes would've been enough for him to bend you over any surface in a heartbeat. Your teeth nibble awkwardly on your swollen bottom lip, and he resists the urge to take it in between his own, instead busying his hands with shrugging off his jacket so he doesn't do exactly that.

You look near terrified when he climbs on top of you, so leans down to kiss your forehead, and in the gentlest voice he can muster whispers, "We'll go slow, but we gotta take our clothes off if we wanna do anything, m'kay?"

You give him a slow nod, slowly drifting your eyes down to his tight-fitting t-shirt. Once you seem to calm a little, he leans down and starts right where you left off. Capturing your lips in a soft kiss, slowly easing back into the passion from earlier. His hips press into yours, but they remain still against your heat. He would let you decide when you were ready for that again.

His hands eagerly slid around your thighs, squeezing the fat between his fingers and sighing as they sank against his touch. Always so malleable, it was addictive, but he couldn't get ahead of himself. This was all about you, after all.

Slowly, he inched his digits up to the edge of your shirt, pooling the fabric between them. You give a little jolt, pressing against his crotch a little harder than he expected drawing a hiss from between his teeth. He rubs his nose against yours, "Can we get rid of your shirt?"

Another slow, unsure nod, and he's easing you up just enough that he can tug the offending fabric up and out of the way. (No bra, thank god, he sucks at removing them.) The sight it reveals better than Lighter could've begun to imagine. Your chest rises and falls with your breath, mesmerizing him. You give him an unsure smile, nodding your head along with it, and he thinks he might genuinely die tonight.

He does not suddenly go into cardiac arrest, so instead his hands glide over your stomach, and it's everything he dreamed of and more. The skin is like heaven beneath his calloused fingertips, and the light whimpers and whines you give him are honey in his ears. You shift with every touch, jerking away and then easing into his touch. Unsure, but oh so willing and wanting.

He maps out each inch of your skin like he might lose his way exploring it, tracing all the way to the final destination of your chest. Your nipples are hard already in combination with his touching and the cold air around you. He gives you one last look, one last chance to tell him no, and then he runs his thumb over the tops of them.

The sound you make is delicious, something between a moan and a strangled choking noise -- almost confused at the pleasure you are feeling. He rolls them in his fingers a few times, watching your face intently as he does so. Your confused moans melt into sighs of contentment, so he decides to try his luck with his mouth. With your head rolled back, he ensures you can feel his breath before he presses his tongue to your skin.

You shoot up, gasping in surprise, but you don't make any move to push him away. No, instead you rake your fingers through his hair, pushing his shaggy bangs back so you can really look at him. Those emerald eyes lock with yours, making a show of slowly kissing his way back up to your chest. Along the contours of your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, and finally right down to your perky bud.

Lighter takes a moment to really appreciate just how nice it looks up close, rather than through the fabric of your tank tops. Just the perfect size for sucking on, he thinks right before he engulfs the needy thing in his mouth. You throw your head back, chest hefting with your cry of "Fuck, Lighter."

He hums, only making it so much worse for you, the vibrations sending a shock through your body that makes you twist your hips just right. He takes his sweet time with your breasts, alternating between the two until you're a messy puddle below him. He hadn't even gotten past the waistband of your pants yet, and you were already so far gone. It was an ego booster, to say the least.

His free hand draws its way down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your pants. They dance their way along your abdomen, just itching to be let in, but not willing to disrespect your boundaries. Lucky for him, they don't have to wait long, and your own join him and carefully aid him in their removal.

It's then that he finally gives your chest a break, pulling back to tug your pants down your legs. Giving himself the time to finally admire you. He'd left... more than a few purple marks along your chest, all of which he thinks look incredibly nice in the light of the moon. His eyes trace their way down your stomach, just like his hands had, and land on the underwear you still had on.

They weren't particularly cutesy or sexy, but on you, it was the hottest thing he'd seen in years. They had a sizable wet spot in the middle, right where he wanted- no, needed to be. The only thing standing between him and tasting you was that thin piece of fabric.

A tug at the hem of his shirt draws him out of his daze, meeting eyes with your cute, nervous ones. It takes him a second to realize you wanted his shirt off, but once he gets the message, he wastes no time in shrugging it to the ground. Following it with his pants, leaving him in his boxers.

Your eyes trace their way along his figure, over his shoulders, across his stomach, and settle shyly on the outline of his dick. It only occurs to him then that you might find him just as attractive as he finds you. With eyes blown wide and distracted as you drink him all in, it's hard to avoid how much you're admiring the view right now.

He has the decency to act embarrassed, despite how he was practically drooling all over you just a few moments ago. He shivers when you reach up and trace your fingers over a scar, breath catching in his throat. "They're so pretty," you mutter, completely unaware that you had said that out loud. It could honestly make him cry. The way you look at him like he's some kind of art piece. So much love and admiration in your eyes. He can't handle it for long, even though you seem to be content just admiring his scars.

He grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers together as he presses you back into the mattress. You let out a huff as he pressed his forehead to yours, pouting now that he had interrupted your show. He gives you a few apologetic kisses, smiling at your pouting.

"Are you sure you wanna keep going, we can stop now if you want," he whispers, soft and gentle.

You nod, confident this time, "I'm ready. I wanna do this with you, Lighter. Not anyone else."

That makes his heart swell, sending the feeling right down to his dick, throbbing and reminding him he needs to prepare you. He wasn't usually one to brag, but he knew he was big, and it would be a tough take for your first time. If he wanted you to enjoy it, he'd have to take care to loosen you up first.

"Okay," he hums, reaching over to grab the lube and condoms from his nightstand, setting them nearby for when he needs it, "I'm gonna have to loosen you up first, and it's gonna hurt. You sure you can take it?"

He feels your muscles contract as he trails gentle, feather-light pecks along the edge of your underwear. "You'll take care of me, just like you always do..." Ah, you were gonna be the death of him tonight, he just knows it.

He hooks his fingers over the sides of your underwear, carefully tugging them down your legs like unwrapping a present he didn't want to ruin. What a gift he received as he threw the useless fabric to the floor, your pretty little cunt already drooling for him.

"God..." He mutters out, enchanted at the very sight. He adjusts his position one last time, making sure he is perfectly positioned in front of your gorgeous pussy. The view is something straight out of a porno, Lighter's messy hair shadowing his eyes as they stare into your very being, big hands gripping at your thighs -- like he was readying himself to consume you whole.

"You ready, baby?" He asks one last time, though it's painfully hard to do so now that he was literally right where he wanted to be, "Cause if you're not you better say so now, I don't think I could stop myself once I start, angel."

You give him the slowest nod known to man, followed by a timid little 'yes' and he's gone. His strong arms wrap under and rest atop your thighs, carefully pulling your folds apart to reveal the shining pearl he'd been dreaming of. Involuntarily he huffs out a hot breath, causing you to squirm a little in his grasp, and then he leans down and kisses your clit.

You jolt at the new sensation, another awkward breathy moan leaving your lips. He pulls back to give you a second, watching your expressions and committing them all to mind, and then he licks his lips and leans down for another wet kiss against your neglected bud. Then another, and another, and another, and at some point his tongue joins the barrage but you have no idea when. Too caught up in how good he's making you feel. So much better than your own fingers.

Lighter is in heaven, completely surrounded by nothing but you. Your little sighs, your skin, your sweet smell, and of course your juices dripping down his chin. You tasted so amazing, better than all the candies he ate. He swallowed you like a man starved, arguably more desperate for your pleasure than you were. Your little whines of his name only fueled him to suck on the little bud like a sweet treat, humming at the taste.

He wondered how many more moans he could get out of you if he added a finger... He had to stretch you out anyway, seems like now was better a time than any. One hand unwound itself from under your leg, snaking along the sheets right up under your bum.

Without taking his eyes or mouth off you he gently traces around your hole with his middle and index. Your hips grind up into his mouth, and he feels the way you clench against his fingertips. A smile grows on his face, god you were adorable, weren't you? He presses the tip of his finger into your heat, and you squeeze around it sucking him in like nothing.

"Shit..." He groans against you, the grumble going right through your nerves drawing a delicious moan out of you. He slowly pumps his finger at the same pace as his tongue, when it rolls across your clit, the finger presses up into you again. The white, hot pleasure that curls up your spine and through your body makes you arch your back. If he kept it up like this, you would cum faster than you ever had before.

Unfortunately, he pulls back and you whine like a needy child. He presses his thumb to your clit instead of his mouth as compensation, rolling in sweet little circles. Not nearly as pleasurable, but still enough to make your head spin, especially when you watch him press his cheek to your thigh to watch his own ministrations.

He is mesmerized by the way your hips jerk into his touch, his finger disappearing and reappearing over and over awfully stimulating for his relatively blank mind. His eyes lazily roll up to yours, smirking when he sees you watching him with lidded ones. "You like it, baby?"

You mutter an incoherent sound of approval, head falling back to the pillows, but that doesn't do it for him. He grabs your face with his free hand, focusing your expression on him yet again. As he does so, he eases a second finger in and you let out the most sinful moan of his name he's ever heard. He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, encouraging you to keep making those pretty noises.

He keeps on watching you, eyes having trouble focusing on both your face and your messy cunt. They're both such a good show, how could he be expected to pick which one was better. All the while he was sucking marks into your inner thigh, adding to the growing coil below your naval.

It was all too much for your poor little untouched body. His eyes watching you so carefully, the sting of his teeth on your thighs, his calloused thumb rubbing delightfully perfect circles against your swollen clit. You couldn't even think about anything other than how nice his fingers felt with circular motions right against that spot that your fingers could never reach.

"Lighter..." Your voice is so much more airy than you thought it would be, "I'm-"

He hums, understanding you without you needing to say anything at all. He removes himself from your thigh, climbing over to press his forehead against yours without stopping his movements. He wanted to see the face you made when you cum clearly. Wanted to have it etched into every corner of his brain so he could never dream of forgetting it.

"Go on then, I've got you," He encourages, and that's all it takes for the tight ball in your stomach to burst, and the flood of pleasure to take its place. You spasm around his fingers, juices coating them and dripping down his wrist. It's a beautiful thing to Lighter, watching the way your face scrunches up and then melts into pure pleasure. That was a face he could never forget, not in a million lifetimes.

He keeps his fingers moving at a slow and steady pace, easing you back down from your high. Only pull them out when you stop clenching around them, sucking your essence clean from them with a groan of satisfaction. "Delicious," He whispers, easing you back into the sheets, limbs soft and limp with the pleasant aftershocks of your orgasm.

Lighter is still there above you, watching with all the admiration in the world as your gaze refocuses on him. It's an infectious look that you subconsciously mirror, cradling his face in the palm of your hand.

"Feel good?" He asks, playing with a loose strand of your hair.

You nod, pressing a kiss to his nose, "Wonderful, actually. I don't know what I was so scared of."

He chuckles deep and warmly from the back of his throat, "I'm glad."

He presses gentle kisses across your cheek, nosing along your jaw and following with soft presses into the sensitive skin. You scratch his scalp appreciatively, more than happy to accept the affections.

"You wanna call it there?" He murmurs against your throat, hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, "Don't wanna push you too far."

You shake your head, frowning down at him, "No, no. I wanna keep going. It's not fair of me to leave you like... that." You gesture to his still rock-hard dick pressed against your thigh.

He comes back up to look at you, caressing your face with utmost care, "Don't worry about me, I can live without getting off."

"I know," you giggle, and it's such a sweet sound to him, "I want to, Lighter. I want you. Please indulge me just a little longer?"

He really can't argue with that, not with how you're smiling at him. "Alright," He sits up, grabs the condoms, and rips the box open with practiced ease, "but it's not gonna feel good to start."

"I know," You answer, sitting up to watch him slide his boxers down. His cock springs out, tip an angry red and bleeding precum down the shaft. It was an incredibly hot sight to see him slide the condom over himself, his muscles flexing from the much-needed attention. "I definitely know."

He smirks, settling between your legs again as he picks up the lube this time. "Enjoying the view?"

"Too much," you respond, enraptured as he tugs along his member a few times, shuddering at the sensation.

He takes the time to adjust you beneath him, tugging your hips up in an angled position. The manhandling is surprisingly hot, and your heart skips a beat when he grabs at your thigh more roughly than you're used to.

"I hope I can keep you satisfied," he muses, lining himself up with your pussy.

He runs the tip against your clit a few times, spreading a mixture of lube and your cum around, hissing to himself at the feeling. He wasn't even inside and he was already needing more of you, god what did you do to him?

He presses the tip against your weeping hole, hot and desperate against him. It fluttered in anticipation, feeling far too empty knowing what his fingers felt like. It had you praying to know what his cock felt like fully pressed inside. Surely it would fill you up even better.

His emerald green eyes come down to stare into yours, an intensity you've only ever seen from him in fights burning behind them. "Ready?"

You take a deep breath and then nod as assuredly as you can. You had no idea what you were getting into, but as the tip slowly sunk into you, you felt lightheaded. The sting was deep, drawing a hiss of pain out of you, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. He wasn't lying when he said it would hurt, but this was way worse than you expected.

He leans down, locking his fingers with yours and pressing loving kisses along your cheeks. His hair tickles your skin and it does wonders in distracting you from the burn of his stretching you. That was just the tip. If you couldn't handle that, how could you take the rest of him?

Lighter doesn't let you worry about it, rubbing his thumbs into your hips. Muttering sweet nothings into your sweaty skin, worshipping you like a god. Like you were his whole world. In his pleasure-fueled haze, that was more truth than it was fiction.

For every stinging inch, Lighter muttered praises and peppered a thousand more kisses across your burning skin. This was the most full you'd ever felt, and the more he pushed inside the more you wanted. He stuffed himself in to the hilt, stopping fully when his hips were pressed flush against yours. You shuddered at the sensation of his tip kissing your cervix. When he said he was big he meant it, and it was everything you wanted and more.

His rough hands slide gently along your sides, coaxing you to just look at him. Your glazed eyes slide over to his face, and you smile dumbly at his expression. His face is red, brows furrowed in concentrated effort and eyes clouded in lust. "You okay? Still hurt?"

You shake your head, chest rising and falling with more effort than you were used to. "It feels good. I like it."

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Fuck, he just can't stand it. You were so tight and warm, sucking him in like he was your last meal. He could feel your pussy clench around him suddenly, and he had to bury his face into your neck to stop himself from moaning out loud.

Who could've imagined a few years without sex would make him so weak. Maybe it was actually just you that made him like this. He couldn't possibly imagine any pussy better than yours, it felt like it was molded perfectly just for him. The thought occurs to him, like a stroke of genius, that this was his pussy and it was molded to him. Now that you let him fuck you once, he could do it again and again and again whenever either of you liked.

He liked that idea a lot more than he probably should, his cock twitching a little at the prospect. You squeeze back and he does moan this time, deep and throaty into your neck. It's quite the sound from such a big guy, making your skin tingle excitedly. You had been the reason for it, after all, it was flattering.

"Lighter?" You say, startling him. He looks up at you from his spot against your shoulder, "Can you move? I'm too full with you just sitting there."

He blinks at you, taking in your words carefully and digesting them. Yeah, you were gonna kill him tonight. You had no fucking clue what you were doing to him.

"Whatever you want," He mumbles out, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek, before slowly pulling out.

You groan out in tandem, the drag of his cock and a squeeze of your walls more pleasurable than you'd imagined. Then he pushes back in at the same pace and you shudder in his arms. He keeps the pace slow and easy, still able to remember that he wanted to be gentle despite how much he wished to be anything but. First time, he echoed in his head, take it easy Lighter.

Each drag of his cock against your plush warm insides has you gasping out, desperate for more and more. He watches you with an intensity to rival his excitement during a fight, taking in each detail with careful consideration. The way your brows scrunch up when he brushes that gummy spot with his tip, and how your teeth tug on your lips, and the way your eyelashes flutter when his hips lay flush into yours.

Lighter never considered himself an artist, but damn if you weren't his greatest masterpiece like this. You open your eyes and finally look at him, and the intensity in his gaze has you shying away into your palms. He can't have that, he wanted to look, so he grabbed your wrists and set them on his shoulders. They curl into the skin, crescent-shaped marks sure to form in the morning.

You still try to evade his gaze, so he follows with his own face, leaning forward. "Don't hide," he coos, his hands moving your hips with his upper body so he's fully leaning over you now, the new position allowing him to not only look at you but hit much deeper than before. "Lemme see yer pretty face."

A wanton moan is ripped from your throat as he picks up his pace, and you finally look at him when he grabs at your chin. His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead, breathing heavily as he keeps up the new speed he's set. The wild look in his eyes is enough to make you clench and get to watch in real-time the effect it has on him. Swallowing hard as his eyebrows come together in pleasured surprise.

You were making it so, so hard on him, really you were. Each reaction you had made it so much more difficult to keep himself together. When you clench around him again he lets out a sound between a sigh and a squeak. Your fingers are running along the nape of his neck and through his hair, and it's nearly got him choking on air.

You're no better, hardly even coherent as his hips continue pistoning in and out of you at such consistent pacing. The wet slapping of skin on skin is the only thing you can focus on, everything else is too much for your muddled brain to understand.

The hand that isn't keeping your eyes on him comes down to massage your clit again, fingers splayed across your abdomen to feel himself through your skin while his thumb takes care of you. He was close, and he could tell you were too. Your moans getting more and more desperate, and the squeezing you gave him more and more desperate to keep him moving.

He didn't have it in himself to say anything coherent, so instead he settled on kissing you. Sloppy and uncoordinated and more teeth than anything else, but he still kissed you. Swallowing up every moan like a man starved.

His pace grows sloppy as he chases your highs, both of you moaning unabashedly loudly. He would hear from Lucy in the morning, he was sure of it, but that didn't matter too much to him now. Not when he felt you come undone around him. Your whole body tensed, desperate little cunt squeezing him in a vice grip and moans so delicious that he couldn't help but follow your lead.

He gives one last harsh thrust, and then he unloads into the condom. He thinks for a moment that he wishes it wasn't there but focuses instead on sucking at the juncture of your neck. You writhe under him, fingers raking down his back harsh enough to leave red lines in his skin.

It was better than he had expected it to feel, that was for certain. Even as he calmed down and came back to reality, there were little sparks of pleasure ringing through his body. He kissed his way over the marks he'd left on your body, waiting patiently for you to calm down before he pulled out.

Both of you let out sounds of complaint at the loss, but he knew that he couldn't stay inside you forever (no matter how nice that sounded). He smiled warmly down at you, caressing your face with such gentleness it could make you cry. "You alright...?"

You nod, brushing the hair out of his face so you can look at him properly, "This is probably the best I've ever felt in my whole life."

That gets him to laugh, pressing his forehead against yours, "I'm glad I could be of service."

"Did you-" You start, but he doesn't let you finish before he responds.

"Yes. I did enjoy myself, very much, baby." He hums, washing away any insecurities you could've had with ease.

He eases you up into a sitting position with him, holding you there until he is sure you will stay like that by yourself. Then, he stands and digs around his dresser for a towel to wipe you down with. You take the time to admire how nice his ass is out of those skinny jeans, humming to yourself at the sight.

When he rejoins you on the bed, you smirk at him, "Your ass is nice."

"Yeah," he huffs out a laugh, "Yours ain't all that bad either."

You let him do what he needs to, wiping you of sweat and any fluids that might become uncomfortable after a while. Then he does the same for himself, and the show is rather nice. When he finishes cleaning the both of you up, he crawls into bed and pulls you to his chest.

You take your chance to trace over the scars again, admiring just how pretty his marred skin is. He doesn't say a word, and you have the understanding not to make verbal comments now. The warmth of his chest combined with the pleasant ache in your limbs was enough to lull you to sleep.

The last thing you hear is Lighter mumble a quiet, "I love you." Though you don't respond, you know he knows you feel the same way.

#zzz x reader #zenless zone zero #zzz #lighter lorenz #lighter zzz x reader #lighter zzz #lighter x reader #lighter lorenz x reader #bunni's treats 🧁

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aakeysmash · 9 months ago

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Sukuna will make you beg before helping you with things he’s obviously good at.

You’re playing Wii sport with your friends on a Saturday night at your and your boyfriend’s shared home, like you’re used to doing every week. After a round of baseball you and one of them are at a draw. Your friends decide to play with “the boyfriends” for the last round, choosing bowling as the last game.

You turn to Sukuna preparing yourself to convince him to play. He’s the absolute best at bowling, and everyone in the room knows it, but he’s also a stuck up bitch that never wants to play. He says that there’s no fun if everyone is so shit he doesn’t even have to try hard to win.

“Babe, please-“

“No.” He interrupts you.

“But-“

“Nah.”

“Why not?” You whine, putting your left hand on his bicep and shaking his arm. He takes a swig of the beer he’s holding with that arm, muscles bulging, looking down at you with his piercing maroon eyes.

“Because I said so,” he remarks.

“But I can’t play alone, and I’ll be last if I don’t play,” you pout.

“You’ll get over it,” he shrugs. You’re still holding his arm, and despite the way he’s portraying himself, he loves the physical contact you’re having. He’s possessive; if he could crumple you up and keep you in his pocket, he would.

“I hate you.”

“You know you don’t, baby,” he says smirking, finishing up his drink, still looking at you with both his real and tattooed eyes.

“Thought you didn’t want to date a loser,” you say, changing approach. You see a spark in his gaze. Bingo. But he’s not there yet.

“I’ll make an exception,” he continues.

“Oh, okay, I’ll just tell the others that the duo who owns this house will not be playing and therefore will be last,” you provoke him turning around and walking towards your friends.

He grabs your waist and slams your back on his strong chest. You try to hide your smile.

“You minx. If we don’t fucking win, you’re sleeping on the couch,” he whispers aggressively in your ear.

“Sir yes sir.”

That night you snuggle closer to him on your shared bed before falling asleep.

#sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen fluff #sukuna fluff #modern day au #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x oc #jjk fluff #sukuna jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sukuna

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josephquinnswhore · 7 months ago

Text

refined taste - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel relishes in the taste of you.

word count: 3.2k

content warning: pre-existing relationship, girl dad joel, drinking breastmilk, fingering, humping the bed, male and female ejaculation. mother + father joel. mentions of joel being a hoe pre-outbreak lol. brief mention of age gap, joel cums in his pants.

Times were scarce where you and Joel got to relax.. with no one but the company of each other. That’s what happens when you have a baby—you learn. Hell, most of the time you roamed the house in nothing but one of Joel’s shirts, as you are now. Maria had warned you of what was to come, after her and Tommy’s son was born, he was an absolute nightmare baby. Your and Joel’s daughter, Tilly, was wonderful. She had Joel’s dark hair and his hazel eyes. She looked just like him.

You didn’t mind, not when you could see that she was healing him in a way that you couldn’t. To fill the grief of Sarah. Not to replace her.. but to have a connection that felt the same way. A paternal connection.

Joel is a hands-on father, and he’s honestly incredible. He gently lies Tilly down in her cot.. after she had downed the whole bottle of your warm breast milk. Maria was generous to share over the baby things she no longer needed.

Tilly coos as she falls asleep, her tummy full of milk. For some reason, the bottle was the only way she would take your milk, since she was born she absolutely refused to take your breast. It was hard for you, as you’d heard it was good for her immune system and a way of connecting to the baby. You eventually grew accustomed to bottle feeding, still expressing by hand to relieve your breasts of their ache.

Joel sighs as he lies into bed with you. The sheets wrinkling under the sudden weight.

“Y'know I always wondered what breast milk tastes like.” You wonder aloud. A soft murmur so you don’t wake your daughter.

Joel's eyebrows rise in surprise at your sudden statement, a mix of amusement and mild shock on his face. He chuckles softly, his voice filled with a hint of disbelief.

"Oh really?" he playfully retorts, trying to hide a smirk. "Well, I can tell you it's quite distinct."

He pauses for a moment, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks, before continuing with a teasing tone, "Though I can't claim to be an expert taster."

“Then how do you know?” You ask, a confused expression on your face.

Joel's smirk widens slightly, the playful banter continuing between the two of you. He raises an eyebrow, his voice carrying a hint of mischief.

"I happen to have certain experiences with it," he replies with a feigned air of nonchalance, his gaze meeting yours with a hint of devilishness.

You laugh softly. “Oh, so it’s a fetish of yours then?”

Joel chuckles softly, enjoying the lightheartedness in your voice. His expression softens slightly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of humour and affection.

"I wouldn’t necessarily call it a fetish," he clarifies with a hint of a smile on his lips, "but let's just say I’ve had my moments. You know, like any man who's been around the block.”

A gasp leaves your lips, part shock and part confirmation. “So you were a whore before the outbreak?” You’d assumed he would’ve been a ladies man anyway, looking at the old photo of him before the outbreak.. he was a hunk, even then.

Joel's expression turns serious as he addresses your question, his tone softening. He realises the weight of his past actions and the impact they had on him and others.

"It's true, I was," he confirms, his voice filled with a sense of regret. "Back then, I was not the man I am now. I was more wild, more reckless. The world was a different place, and I made some choices I'm not proud of."

A faux gasp of surprise leaves your lips, and you raise a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe I’m marrying the town bike of Texas!”

Joel's jaw drops slightly at your playful remark, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if trying to process the teasing.

"Hey, you better watch it," he retorts, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I may have been the town bike, but you're the one marrying me. Who's the real crazy one here, hmm?"

“Probably the guy that’s tasted breast milk before his fiancé that’s actually got breastmilk?” You retort.

Joel's eyes widen at your teasing remark, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the flush of red.

"Okay, okay, you got me there," he admits, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "But in my defence, it was research. Purely for scientific purposes, you know."

The laughter that leaves your lips is followed by a low snort. “You’re ridiculous…. Well maybe I can help you with your.. peculiar study.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by your offer. He gazes at you for a moment, gauging your sincerity before responding.

"Oh yeah? You feeling generous, are you?" He teases, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, I suppose I could use a volunteer for my, ahem, 'study.' Just don’t go spreading rumours about me now."

You bite your lip to stop your smile. “I’ll be sure to hold my tongue whenever I feel like making fun of you.”

Joel smiles, his eyes gleaming with affection and a hint of playful mischief. He leans in closer, his voice slightly huskier as he responds.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his words filled with warmth. "I know you wouldn't." He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, his gaze fixated on your face, as if he can't take his eyes off you.

A small drop of milk leaks through one of Joel’s shirts you wore and your face heats up, but you take the opportunity to tease him. You lift your shirt and swipe a drip of milk falling from your nipple, and pop your finger in your mouth, tasting your breast milk. You raise an eyebrow. “Huh.. not bad..”

Joel’s eyes widen slightly as he watches you taste your own milk, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. He can’t help but chuckle softly at your reaction.

"That’s all? Just ‘huh’? I thought I was gonna get some more details," he teasingly responds, his voice carrying a hint of playful disappointment. "Don’t leave me hanging here. How does it taste?"

“You’re more than welcome to test it yourself, mister scientist..”

Joel blinks once, his cheeks flushing with a hint of a blush at your suggestion. He can’t help but chuckle softly, the idea a bit new and unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“Well, I suppose I could be a good scientific partner and contribute to my.. study," he replies with a hint of a smile, his voice a little husky.

He reaches out, gently lifting the material of his own shirt that you wore, exposing your breasts with one hand, and leans in closer, his warm breath grazing your nipple.

A whimper leaves your lips as Joel latches onto your nipple, suckling softly at first to let you adjust to the new feeling, then when the milk starts to flow; he starts suckling desperately, using his hands to help express the milk.

Well; it certainly did seem like he’d done this before.

The tips of your fingers caress his scalp, as his ministrations grow more desperate, you gently tug on the greying locks, he draws a breathless whine from you.

Your touch sends a shiver down Joel's spine, intensifying the connection between you. His mind and body are consumed by the sensations swirling around him. He moves his hands to your hips, gently pulling you closer as he continues to suckle on your breast, the taste of milk fueling his passion. The sound of your whimper only serves to heighten his arousal, his desire for you growing with each passing moment.

“You’re a selfish man Joel.. gonna drain me dry.”

Joel's body tightens at your words, a mix of desire and restraint filling his mind. He pulls away from your breast, his lips leaving a trail of warm kisses along your sternum before he finally speaks.

"You taste divine, you know that?" He whispers, his voice husky and filled with passion. "I might get addicted to this."

“Don’t get greedy now sweetheart.” You tsk him in a mock condescending tone.

Joel chuckles softly, his hands tracing gentle patterns on your hips as he whispers, "I don’t intend to. But you’re tempting me, you know that?”

His eyes gleam with desire, the passion evident in his gaze. "You’re so captivating. I can’t help but want more of you. I hope you’re prepared for it."

Giggling, your fingers play with his hair. “So.. what’s the verdict—Mr scientist? How does it taste?”

Joel smiles, his eyes filled with warmth and affection as he responds, "Ah, the scientific results."

He pauses, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "Well, it tastes wonderful. Sweet, with a hint of earthy goodness. And the texture, smooth and creamy. Not to mention the effect it has on me."

He leans in, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "But I think I’ll need more time to conduct further research."

You hum. “Tastes like sugar water to me. Seems like you’re.. undecided.”

Joel laughs softly, shaking his head in playful disagreement. He nuzzles his face against your neck, his voice filled with teasing desire.

"Oh, come on, you can do better than that. It's not sugar water. It's unique and delicious. I'm not undecided. I'm just thorough, sweetheart. I need more... samples. For science, of course."

“Oh right—if it’s for science.. by all means, go ahead.”

An eager smile spreads across Joel's face, his body pressing closer against you. His eyes gleam with desire, a mix of playful mischief and affection. He leans in, his voice filled with a husky rasp as he whispers against your neck.

"Perfect. I promise to be... thorough."

It feels more sensitive than it did the first time.

Joel's smile widens against your skin as he hears your whine, his body reacting instinctively to the sound. His mouth presses gently against your breast, his tongue coaxing out more milk as he suckles hungrily. His hand begins to massage gently, his grip firm but tender, his touches designed to elicit more of those delightful sounds from you.

Joel becomes more intense with his mouth and tongue, lapping at you, his teeth gently graze at the sensitive skin of your nipple and you moan softly.

A sudden movement catches your attention, the bed shakes a little, and you’re curious—so you look. His hips are desperately rutting against the bed, he groans against your flesh.

As Joel's mouth continues it’s ministrations, exploring your body with increasing intensity, his hips involuntarily rocking in rhythm with your moans and whimpers.

The sensations swirling between you only seem to intensify, the connection between you growing more intimate and powerful. Your voice, the sound of your pleasure, fuels his desire, his touches and kisses growing more urgent and desperate.

“Joel..” you whine, an octave higher than normal. Almost begging for something.. more.

Joel's ears perk up at the sound of his name, his mind consumed by the intimacy of the moment. He can tell that you need more, that you're on the verge of something intense. His mouth moves hungrily across your skin, his teeth grazing softly as one of his hands slide down your body.

His fingers slide down between your cunt—it’s soaking his fingers, the pad of his thumb begins to swirl softly against your clit, teasing you at first. He drags his other fingers down into your hole, pumping in and out. Your head hits the pillow, hips bucking upward as you whine in approval.

As he hears the sharp inhale that escapes your lips, he knows he's found the spot that makes you quiver. His touches grow more deliberate, each stroke sending a shiver of pleasure through you, his touch knowing precisely how to ignite the fire he's been fueling.

You tremble at the sensation of the two most sensitive parts of you both being worked simultaneously. His mouth is lapping desperately at your breast, your sensitive nipple is perked and dribbling milk. Joel doesn’t let a single droplet go to waste. The feeling of his thick fingers pumping into the spongey flesh of your cunt makes you clench around him, his thumb remains in it’s steady pace of working your clit.

Joel's eyes are fixated on your face, watching every tiny expression and reaction to his touch. Witnessing the way you tremble beneath him only serves to heighten his own desire. The intensity of the simultaneous stimulation is nearly overwhelming for you, and he takes full advantage of the moment. His mouth lingers on your breast, his tongue exploring and teasing as his fingers continue their seductive dance on your precious cunt that’s soaking his fingers, determined to bring you to the brink of ecstasy.

You curl your fingers in his greying hair, pulling taut as you fall apart, feeling it all at once, the sensations overwhelm you in a delicious symphony of overstimulation. Then, as coil that had been winding tighter with every pump of his fingers, every lap of his tongue.. it snapped. The quickest orgasm of your life.

By far, the most intense, too. Your toes curl into the bedsheets and your legs try to close at the feeling of sensitivity. Your cunt clenches around his fingers at it coats the thick digits with your cum. A ringing sound warbles through your ears, breath struggling to regulate as you huff quickly, desperate to get oxygen to your lungs after Joel ripped it from you.

Joel's body tightens in response to the way you pull at his hair, a mix of excitement and pleasure surging through him. As your body quivers in release, he continues his ministrations, each slowed stroke designed to prolong your bliss. He can feel the intensity of your pleasure, the way your body convulse and clench, and it fills him with a sense of satisfaction. He watches as you surrender to the moment, his touch gentle yet deliberate, guiding you through the waves of ecstasy until you come back down.

Joel falls apart at the sight of your parted lips and pinched brows—relishing in the intimate and ecstasy of his actions.

The bed vibrates as Joel desperately ruts against the mattress, hearing you fall apart, feeling your cum coat his fingers..

Joel's own release follows shortly after yours, the intensity of the moment overwhelming his senses. He continues to move against the mattress, the friction of his body against it adds to the intoxicating mix of sensations. He finds release in the rhythm of your breaths, the tremble of your skin, and the sound of his name on your lips. As he climaxes, his grip on your body tightens, his gasps and moans mingling with yours in the heat of the moment.

He couldn’t help the way his weeping cock finally exploded inside of his jeans.

You’re wide eyed as you realise Joel had just cum in his jeans, he pants heavily, groaning against your skin as he pulls away from your breast, resting his sweaty forehead against your warm chest.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling as he tries to calm his racing heart. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and he glances up at you, realising the mess he had made.

“Did you just..” you trail off.

He lets out a sheepish chuckle, his voice filled with a hint of embarrassment.

"Oh...well, that was unexpected. Guess I got a little carried away."

“A little? You think?” Your eyebrow is raised. But you’re not upset, not even a little. It was.. flattering, honestly.

Joel laughs again, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and fondness. He looks up at you, a softness in his gaze as he responds.

“Alright, maybe more than a little. Can you blame me though? The sight of you in the throes of passion...it's a sight I can't resist. I couldn't help myself.”

You smile softly, admiring the redness in his cheeks.

“I love you. Even if you were the town bike back in the day.”

Joel's expression softens at your words, a deep affection shining in his eyes. He reaches up, gently cupping your cheek in his calloused hand.

"And I love you, more than anything.” He responds, his voice filled with sincerity. He pauses for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin. "And as for being the town bike...well, let's just say that's a reputation I'm grateful to have left behind. You're the only one I have eyes for now."

His words were truthful, and it entices a smile, knowing he was serious even in your playful banter.

“Good. Cause I’m not sharing my soon to be husband.” You murmur into his hair.

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, a surge of warmth spreading through his body. He returns your smile, his eyes gleaming with love and contentment.

“You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his voice laced with affection. “I'm all yours. Body, heart, and soul. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather spend the rest of my life with than you."

Your other breast, that was left unattended to, starts to leak from being so engorged. As if weeping that it didn’t get any attention.

Joel notices the leaking breast, a flicker of desire in his eyes. He watches as it leaks and dribbles down your torso, leaving a sticky trail.

"Hmm...it seems like this sweet girl is in need of some attention too," he comments, his voice low and husky. He gently cups your breast, massaging it gently. "Can't have you leaking all over the place, right?"

A whimper leaves your dry lips. “Such a greedy man.”

Joel chuckles softly, his eyes meeting yours with a heated gaze.

"Can you blame me, sweetheart? You're simply irresistible," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing teasing circles on your breast. "Every part of you is so alluring. I couldn't resist if I tried."

You roll your eyes in a playful manner. “Just save some for the baby.”

Joel's smile widens, his eyes softening as he leans in to plant a gentle kiss on your lips. "Of course. Just because I can't get enough of you doesn't mean I'll deprive our little one.”

"We'll just have to find ways to share you, hm?" he whispers, nuzzling his face against your neck. "But rest assured, I'll never let either of you go hungry."

You hum as his facial hair scratches against your soft skin.

Joel's stubble brushes against your skin, it’s roughness adds a delightful contrast to the softness of your neck. He nuzzles further into you, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

"You're just so damn irresistible," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "The way you react to my touch...it drives me crazy.”

Joel's body presses closer to yours, his need evident as his arousal grows stronger. He groans, the sound a mixture of pleasure and frustration.

"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?" He mutters, his voice husky and breathless. "The way you affect me...it's hard to hold back sometimes."

You grin cheekily. “Keep up baby. You have a good few decades left. I’ll have to keep you on your toes, eh?”

Joel laughs softly, the sound a mix of amusement and affection. "You cheeky little minx," he teases, his eyes gleaming with adoration. "I should be the one keeping you on your toes, given I'm the older and wiser one. But I reckon keeping up with you will keep me young in spirit."

You laugh. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Joel chuckles, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Years of experience, sweetheart. You learn a few things along the way." His fingers lightly trace across your cheek, a tender gesture that complements his teasing words.

"Besides, when it comes to you, I always have something clever to say. How else am I supposed to keep up with your wit and sass?"

“I just hope little Tilly doesn’t grow up to have your sense of humour, cause then we’ll be in trouble.”

Joel grins against the soft skin of your breast. “Ain’t that the truth.”

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller tlou #game joel miller #smut #dad joel miller

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fastandcarlos · 4 months ago

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Baby On The Cards : ̗̀➛ George Russell

summary: with so many children all around him, george can't help but wonder when one of his own might arrive. but are you on the same page as george is?

Your smile was wide as you waved goodbye to the young fan who had joined you in the Mercedes garage, watching as George led her away to where her parents waited before returning back to your side. “She was adorable,” George chuckled as he took a seat beside you.

“I think you might have a new biggest fan.”

“No way,” George shrugged, throwing his arm across your shoulders, keeping his eye on her as her family walked away. “There’s something about young kids when they shout out at me, I just can’t help but pay attention to them.”

“That’s because you’re such a lovely driver,” you smiled, resting your head against George’s shoulder. “There’s a reason why so many kids love cheering you on.”

George nodded as the two of you fell silent. His mind began clouded, staring down at the floor as he heard the yells of several other children across the paddock as they bumped into their favourite drivers. It was part of the job that George loved, he couldn’t get enough of interacting with young fans and making their dreams come true.

“I’d love to know what skills you’ve got that make you so charming with kids,” you remarked.

“I guess I just love spending time with them, that’s all.”

“I can tell,” you noted, unable to deny how much George loved being around them. “I know you hate always having to say goodbye to them though, don’t you?”

George nodded once again as he remained quiet, slightly lost in his own little world. Your eyes studied him closely, noticing just how lost in his thoughts he seemed to be, knowing exactly what was going on through George’s mind as you watched him too.

There had been little secret made from George that he saw his future filled with children, and as he found himself getting older, and seeing some of his friends begin to settle down too, George couldn’t help but wonder when his own dreams would start to come true.

After a few moments, your hand rested on George’s thigh to get his attention. “Do you want to tell me what’s suddenly got you looking as if you’re about to spiral into some deep thoughts?”

George’s eyes flickered to look at you, “it’s no big deal, just having a bit of a daydream.”

“George,” you softly spoke, sending a glare across at him. “I know you better than you know yourself, tell me what’s on your mind?”

You could see him wondering, weighing up whether he wanted to open up to you or not. Out of the two of you, George was absolutely the one that voiced his desire to have children a lot more than you did, almost leaving him wondering sometimes whether you wanted it at all.

“If you don’t talk to someone, you’re just going to be thinking about it in the car later,” you added, knowing the effects his thoughts had had on his performances before.

“Let’s move on,” George suggested, trying to stand, only for you to pull him back again. “It’s not something that we need to talk about right now anyway.”

Your head shook as George continued to speak, “you’re worrying me George, why does this feel like it’s something pretty important that’s bothering you?”

“Because in the long run, it is,” he admitted, “and I don’t want to sit here and hear things I don’t want to hear.”

You reached across and took a hold of George’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, silently asking him to open up to you.

“I spend all this time with young children, but they’re not mine,” George finally confessed, “and I know it’s not an easy thing, but I guess I just can’t help but wonder what these days would be like if the children around me were mine.”

Your smile turned up as George spoke, leaving him confused beside you. “You know, I think about those moments too and how cool they’ll be one day.”

“You’ve thought about it?” George asked in surprise, his eyes going wide. “You’ve never really spoken about children, I thought they were something that you weren’t too interested in having.”

Although you didn’t make it quite as well-known as George, a family with him was high on your list of priorities. When you watched him with all of the fans around the paddock, you couldn’t deny how heartwarming it was and how much you loved seeing the way he made so many of his young fans smile so wide.

Your response sent a wave of relief over George, your response was completely unexpected for him, but unexpected in the best possible way. To hear you were on the same page as him was all that he had ever wanted.

“I think about it a lot,” you smiled, “I think it’s only natural to think about these things with where we are now.”

“But you’ve never told me.”

Your smile was soft as George shifted so that he was sat facing you. “It feels like it’s an expectation to have a family now, but I want to do all of this in our own time, not when people constantly pester and want to know when we’re settling down.”

“I get it, the questions are constant sometimes,” George agreed, “I’ve never made you feel like there’s a pressure for us to have children, have I?”

“No, no way. I know it’s a huge dream for you George.”

“I guess part of me has always worried about how we’d ever make it work,” you confessed, glancing down to the floor. “You’re hardly ever home and I would never be able to do it by myself.”

It was George’s turn to take a hold of your hand as he noticed the panic in your voice. “We’d make it work, whatever sacrifices I’d need to make when it comes down to it, I’d absolutely do it.”

“You make it sound so easy,” you chuckled, “as if you could just walk away from a race and say you’re not doing it that weekend.”

“Why not? The race would never be my priority.”

“Racing is your life George,” you reminded him.

His head shook as you spoke, “racing is my job, but my family is my life. You, everyone back at home, and any future additions that we might welcome into our family. You know that nothing else would ever come before all of that.”

George had worked hard to make sure that you were the most important thing in his life, to make sure that you were looked after and make sure that you had all of the things that you needed to live as comfortably as possible.

“I’m not saying that we should have a baby tomorrow George, there’s a lot we need to think about, but I definitely think there might be one, or maybe more, in our future,” you told him, watching his eyes light up.

“That’s all that I’ve ever wanted to hear,” he responded, offering you a wide smile. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about how our future plans out, the only people that matter are the two of us.”

You hummed in agreement with him, “throughout all of this, however long it takes us to one day settle down, we’re a team, always.”

George leant forwards and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “whatever we do, we agree to do it together.”

“Exactly, and hopefully one day we’ll be able to be mum and dad.”

“And have baby Russell?”

“Yes George,” you laughed, shaking your head at his enthusiasm. The excitement in his voice unlike anything that you had ever heard from George before.

“I’m so happy we had this conversation,” he added, “you have no idea how much you’ve just eased my mind.”

“See,” you sniggered, “all you had to do was talk to me.”

“You’re right, as painful as it is to admit it.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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1980shorrorfilm · 2 months ago

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pain breaks the rhythm

click here. resources for palestine, congo, sudan, and other countries.

pairing…ellie williams x gn!vampire!reader

in which…ellie wants you to bite her out of curiosity. or something more.

before you read…18+. no smut; vampirism is just sexual. blood drinking.

nirvana plays lowly in ellie’s dorm, her warm fairy lights mixed with orange halloween ones, on the verge of falling due to how lazily she placed them.

they cast a warm glow in the small space, and over the few scattered books on her bed. they lay in between you, along with some notes, both of you sitting in silence as your brains are completely fried from studying at this point.

ellie hasn’t even spoken in five minutes, and knowing her, that means her mind is either empty or on overdrive. she keeps looking at you, as you keep looking at your phone, awaiting a message from whatever girl replies first.

your appetite is growing by the minute, and you can feel it. it causes your head to hurt, and your fingers to fidget, tapping them on your thigh as you attempt to focus on the opened textbook before you.

your little secret wasn’t a secret to ellie. you had trusted her with it, because you trust her with your entire life. she had found the whole thing fascinating, like something out of the many comic books she grew up reading.

except, this is reality, and it’s not as pretty as those colorful pages make it out to be. you’re not a murderer, you don’t have it in you. you’ll stalk the alleys of jackson for rats when desperate, and butter up pretty girls who think your bite is just that— a bite.

a painful yet sensational feeling that makes them want more, and why you rely on them in moments like these.

and for some reason, none of them want to fucking reply to you tonight. it feels like torture, and ellie almost feels bad watching you grow anxious— but she also doesn’t. you and another girl…it makes her want to throw up.

she’s not caught up with her lore, but a kiss from a vampire is equivalent to a proposal to her. and no one, other than her, deserves that from you. she tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth, heart jumping out of its chest when she finally speaks, “i’m curious.”

“hm?” you hum, glancing at your phone again, going over your irrelevant notifications to see if you missed anything. “what it feels like…you know…”

you look up at her, “what?”

“a bite…what it feels like,” she says shamefully; as if she’s admitting the most taboo thing ever. maybe because she had imagined it, seeing you at a corner of a party, head snuggled comfortably in a blonde woman’s neck, everyone else distracted by the blaring music and bumping bodies while she was stunned like a deer in headlights.

how she wasn’t disturbed, she was so far from. she thought about it being her, and letting you take what you wanted, not just what you needed. she could be your personal buffet, she would do that for you in a heartbeat. ellie could satisfy you. no one else, just her.

but, you laugh at her words, as if she told you a joke. ellie did have a habit of shitty vampire jokes and puns, often made in group settings because she thinks it is hilarious to have such an inside joke. she grabs your complete attention, “i’m serious.”

the smile you wore, leaves your face, understanding what she was trying to imply without asking. something off the table, absolutely forbidden.

“no…no, ellie,” you tell her, the rejection like a stake to the heart. there was absolutely nothing more in this universe you’d want more than to taste her, just the idea of it makes your heart beat even faster, shaking your head as though it would rid the enticing picture. you’re hungry enough as is.

“why?”

“because ellie.”

“you can do it to anyone else but not me?”

her question is more of a salty remark, causing you to glare at her, ellie now quickly swallowing whatever other comment she already had prepared. she doesn’t get it, she really doesn’t, and you cannot explain it to her.

how drinking from other people is a necessity, like eating food to her. how you have absolutely no emotional attachment to them, and you don’t crave any more than you’re given.

and with her, someone you love deeply, you could drain her completely. which isn’t an overstatement. you’ve watched the blood run along her veins on more than one occasion, how thick and sweet it is.

you can taste it on your tongue without having a single drop if it…how good it would taste running down your throat. you would get drunk off of her.

“it’s not that simple…you’re…you,” you scratch the back of your neck, confusion crossing her pretty features at the statement. “i’m me?”

“yeah…god, ellie, can we drop it?”

you don’t mean to sound so frustrated, but you are. ellie isn’t aware of the weight of her words, how her desire isn’t just hers. you share it, you want her. you want to quite literally devour her.

your phone vibrates, ellie trying to read the notification, someone asking to meet up with a stupid wink face. a sigh leaves her lips, sinking into her bed, redirecting her gaze to the book in her lap.

“see you tomorrow?” she quietly says, assuming you’re ready to go have dinner. and you should, you know you should, but you remain seated on her bed.

“it’s…hard…when it’s someone close to you,” you try to explain, “and i could hurt you.”

she’s sat up straight again, green eyes boring into you. “could isn’t a for sure thing,” ellie says, “i could get hit by a car tomorrow.”

“that’s not— you don’t get it.”

“i do,” she groans, tossing her head back, huffing, then looking back at you, “…i…trust you.”

the contemplation rests on your face, ellie noticing, her determination still adamant. she reaches for your hand, grabs it, and faintly leans forward.

“you wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.”

the cool air thickens with tension as you consider her request, listening to how hard her heartbeat thuds. it compels you, along with the unwavering gaze of her green irises, luring you into her. she adds, “it’ll be a win-win.”

ellie is right. you think you could attack the first person you’d see when you leave her room, suck them until the light leaves their eyes— mouth salivating thinking about it. you’re practically starving, or so feel that way, and ellie could easily relieve you.

“okay.”

you expect a shit-eating grin on her face, the mischief glint in her eyes whenever you give her what she wants. and this was practically giving her the greatest gift on earth, yet her mouth drops ajar and she looks shocked, even nervous.

“really?”

“yeah…if that’s what you want.”

“yeah— yeah,” she responds almost too quickly, but she has already shown her desperation for you.

you push away everything in between you two, getting close enough to where you’re nearly in her lap.

“it’ll hurt.”

“i can take it.”

you watch the low spoken words leave her mouth, the suggestive tone combined with her hand squeezing yours, abruptly taking the air from you. for a moment, you find yourself more attracted to her lips, than her neck.

a very brief moment, because you’re swiftly distracted by the pumping of her jugular, the veins screaming at you.

you steady yourself, “ready?”

ellie nods, and with that, she lets your gentle hand cradle one side of her jaw, tilting it upward. her breathing hitches while you move in closer, fangs grazing the soft skin of her neck.

the heat radiating from her pulse sends shivers throughout your entire body, carnal desire growing stronger each millisecond that passes. along came restraint, slowly sinking your canine teeth in the side of her neck, afraid of actually hurting her.

she gasps immediately, guilt hitting you at the noise. maybe you should pull back. maybe you should stop, and apologize to her for even agreeing to this.

but the moment her smooth blood runs down your tongue, your delicate pressure turns into something feverish, electrifying. you crave more.

you bite harder, sucking the crimson from her body with your eyes fluttering to the back of your head, your worries about the ordeal fading into oblivion. ellie tastes even better than your fantasies, like the ripest fruit in the orchard, so fucking rich.

she is unlike anyone else— you mean that in every way, but the taste of her might just drive you mad. the way her blood rushes into your lungs, she fills you up just right.

when she whimpers, you moan, continuing to feast on her, the warm liquid is like ecstasy. ellie is gripping the sheets beneath her, the pain she feels is euphoric. addicting. damn perfect.

you’re driving her to an edge she’s never been before, in between life and death, a high that makes her body feel lightweight and her mind empty. the only thing she can think about is you, and your fangs inside of her, her life being in your hands as she gives you life.

for ellie, it is the best feeling in the fucking world.

she truthfully believes you could gnaw on her flesh until it was raw, and she would welcome the burning sensation with wide open, and loving, arms. she falls back, onto her pillows, your lips not leaving her for a single second.

“fu…” ellie murmurs, unable to finish the word, mind suddenly blanking.

on top of her, you can feel ellie shuddering beneath you; this is it.

for a moment, everything fades away. her warmth, her pulse, and the world surrounding you. you listen to her whimper once more, the color leaving all of her features, going pale.

your indulgence comes to an end, divorcing yourself from the crook of her neck, scanning her face out of worry you had gone too far.

she’s exhausted, breathless, fluttering her eyes at you. her pupils are blown, looking at you with pure admiration, as if you’re an angel hovering before her. then, she smiles faintly at you. and how beautiful she looks so drained underneath you.

you bring a hand to her face, thumb stroking her freckled cheek gently, “still with me?”

“mhm,” she hums, and you give her a moment to collect herself. you await for her heart rate to return to normal, for her temperature to rise, hand traveling down to her neck in the meantime.

softly, you touch the puncture wound, a strange feeling of pride at the mark. not wanting to heal it, and not wanting ellie to cover it up. it’ll remain a happy reminder of tonight.

when ellie’s pupils are no longer fuzzy, she takes in the view before her, her blood coating your face, on your mouth, on your chin. sinful thoughts run through her head, it makes her feel wrong— perverse —but with how tantalizing you look, she doesn’t care.

ellie almost wants to take a polaroid, and keep it locked away safely in her underwear drawer, afraid this won’t happen again.

she reaches for your face, thumb swiping the stray trail of crimson on your chin. you think she’s cleaning herself off of you, but she has different intentions.

after experiencing such an intimate moment with you, ellie feels bold, and she keeps it going, daring to brush her thumb against your lips— giving you a very clear signal, and order.

one that you accept, mouth opening slightly. her finger slips in, and your tongue curls around it.

ellie’s teeth dig into her bottom lip while you suck the blood off of her thumb, your eyes shut in bliss at the mere taste of her. you wouldn’t waste a single drop.

ellie is hypnotized by you, by the way you bring your hands to her forearm, holding her tightly in place until you are finished. and when you are, you glance back down at her, noticing how flustered she is by the pink hues of her cheek.

you can’t help but laugh, and she gulps, realizing she’s been caught in her trance. it’s cute.

the sudden confidence she had is now fleeting as you crawl off of her, ellie searching for the right thing to say. unfortunately for her, the only words that want to come out are ‘i love you,’ as if you had just taken her fucking virginity.

she decides to keep her mouth shut, lying there dazed.

ellie would happily die to you, if this was the death you’d give her.

#-🐈‍⬛#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x vampire!reader #the last of us fanfic #tlou fanfic #wlw fanfic #ellie x reader #lesbian #why are you still reading this? do you want me??

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justnatoka · 4 months ago

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Poly! The Lost Boys x GN! Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Warning: slight physical violence (manager grabs reader's arm), verbal abuse

Prompt: “Are you SURE I can’t punch him in the face?” / “Yes.” / “What if I just break his nose a little?”

Summary: The boys have been coming to the diner you’re waiting tables at for a while. Your manager is not a fan. One night things escalate.

Part 1/2

Next Part

The bell chimed above the door, signaling the arrival of new customers. You looked up after placing the food in front of an older couple, and a bright smile lit up your face as you saw the group of four that just walked in. David and his gang have been coming to the diner for months now. They showed up one night, seemingly curious about the new place that had just opened on the boardwalk. You took their order, they made a few flirty remarks, you flirted right back, and that was it. They obviously took a liking to you and have been coming back every other night. It was honestly the highlight of your day, your stomach flipping in excitement every time. Even if they barely ordered anything, they still spent hours there, and you made an effort to go over to them and chat when work got slower and you had some time.

Your manager clearly didn’t like that. He complained before that they make other customers uncomfortable – although it didn’t seem that way to you –, and chastised you for encouraging them to spend so much time there. He made it a point to give you meaningless tasks so you wouldn’t have time for them, making them leave quicker. He had also been making snide remarks about them and glaring at their table to the point that they started noticing it.

You could basically hear him rolling his eyes from behind the counter as you walked up to their booth and greeted them.

“Hey guys, long time no see,” you joked.

“Hi babe, did you miss us?” Paul purred resting his head in his hand, giving you a dreamy look.

“Maybe,” you smiled coyly. “Maybe not. Who knows?”

“You’re such a tease,” he pouted, but his eyes were smiling.

“You know you like it, Paulie.”

“Oh, I absolutely love it,” he grinned right back at you.

You chuckled. “What can I get you guys? The usual?”

“Can I have you for dinner, sugar? I promise I’ll be gentle. Unless you don’t want me to,” Marko said with a shit eating grin on his face.

“You and gentle are on two different planets when it comes to eating, Marko. Babe, if I were you, I wouldn’t let his teeth near me.”

Marko swatted at Paul, who grabbed a menu to shield himself. “Shut up, dude. You’re no better either. You make even bigger messes than I do.”

“Not true.”

“Who complained about his pants getting ruined just a few days ago? Again.”

“Come on, man, that was one time.”

“Like I said. Again.”

“Yeah? Well you-“

“Boys,” David interjected before it could get any more out of hand. “How about we order already?” His tone sounded casual, but there was an edge to it that caused the other two to begrudgingly back down. It was a good thing too. Some of the other customers were already staring at the commotion, shuffling uncomfortably in their seats and whispering among themselves. You could feel your manager practically glaring holes into the back of your head.

They proceeded to give you their orders one by one, and after writing them down and sending them one last smile, you went to relay the orders to the cook. That’s when your manager walked up to you, his stormy expression promising nothing good.

“I need to talk to you for a second,” he stated.

Holding back an eye roll you nodded, “Sure.”

“I told you before that they are not welcome here,” he started, sending a glance towards their table. “Tell those punks to behave or they’ll get kicked out. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want some hooligans bringing down our reputation.”

You wondered whether he had the balls to do the kicking out himself, but all you said aloud was “Yes, sir.”

When you brought out their food, Dwayne caught your wrist to get your attention.

“Is he giving you trouble again?” He motioned with his eyes towards the kitchen, and you looked to see your manager staring out the little window cut into the door.

“It’s fine, nothing I can’t deal with,” you huffed, frustration evident in your voice. Dwayne gave you a concerned look but nodded, trusting your word.

“Thanks for checking in with me though,” you added, feeling a little bashful all of a sudden, not really used to people caring this much about your well-being.

“Of course,” he smiled back at you.

After giving them their food, you wanted to stay and chat for a bit more, seeing as there weren’t many customers, but you could still feel the glare of your manager so you thought better of it. You went back behind the counter and started wiping it down.

You busied yourself with other tasks for a while, refilling a few coffee cups and making small talk while doing so, cleaning up tables after customers left and taking the orders of new arrivals. Even so, you kept stealing glances at them, blushing when you caught David already looking at you a few times. You noticed that he had a habit of following you around with his eyes while you were working, and although you were slightly unnerved at first, now it felt reassuring to know that he was constantly watching over you.

Tearing your eyes from him you wondered, not for the first time, what their life might be like outside these nightly visits. As much as you’ve gotten to know them these past few months, they were still an enigma in a sense. You haven’t seen them around town during the day before, and every time you asked questions about their background, they skillfully redirected the conversation. So you stopped inquiring, afraid that your prodding will drive them away. For now, you were satisfied with just having them here every other night, brightening up your shift with some light flirting and laughter.

Speaking of laughter, you looked up at the sound of a commotion, only to see Marko dodging a fry chucked at his head by Paul and quickly countering with an attack of his own. Paul barely had time to hold up his menu, the handful of fries bouncing off its surface and onto the seat between them, some of it dropping to the floor. He just let down his impromptu shield, when an onion ring landed right in the middle of his face. The whole table burst out laughing, and he was pointing an accusatory finger at Dwayne, who was shrugging his shoulders with a grin. David was leaning back, watching the food fight with amusement, sipping on his drink.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at their antics, not even bothered that you will have to clean up the mess they created. You headed to the back to get a broom, already thinking about a witty line to tell them off. You just turned around to go back out there, when your manager grabbed your arm. Startled, you let go of the broom and it loudly clattered to the floor.

As you looked into his eyes, you saw that he was seething.

“You tell these low-lives to get the hell out of here right now. Enough is enough. They are loud, not respecting other customers, and now they are making a huge mess by throwing food around. I’ve had it up to here with all this. If they keep coming back I’ll have to do something about it,” he hissed at you, then gave you a look which made you feel like dirt under his shoe. “It would also help a lot if you weren’t encouraging them. Batting your eyelashes like a common whore. You think I couldn’t replace you within a few days? You need to start behaving like a professional or so help me I’ll kick you to the curb.”

His grip on you was tightening with each word, and you tried not to flinch. You’ve never seen him so angry before and it was starting to scare you.

“I’m just trying to be friendly with the customers…”

He wasn’t having any of it. “Enough with the fucking excuses. You go over there and tell them to get out right now.”

“Yes, sir,” you squeaked out and as soon as he let you go, you rushed out of there, broom forgotten on the floor.

David was already looking at you when you approached them. His eyes were on you the second you stepped out of the door, his mood darkening as he took you in. Dwayne picked up on it as well, following his gaze to you. He became alert when he saw your stiff posture, your fingers nervously fidgeting with your apron.

“Hey, dollface,” Paul greeted you with a radiant smile, “have you tried this milkshake before? It’s fucking amazing.”

His grin instantly disappeared from his face when you didn’t smile back.

“Everything okay, babe?” he asked, a bit unsure.

You gave him a sigh before you spoke, “I’m sorry, guys, but you have to leave.” There was silence at the table.

“He did this to you?” Marko’s voice was cold as he asked while staring at your arm, where a bruise was already starting to form.

“Marko, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you tried and failed to calm him down. He looked like he was fuming, ready to explode.

“Sweetheart, that’s not nothing,” Dwayne spoke up next, his jaw tight.

David didn’t say anything, but he was glaring down your manager with such intensity, that you saw him scramble back into the kitchen from the corner of your eye.

“I wanna punch him in the face,” Marko stated, and you had no doubt that he would if you let him.

“Please don’t. I need this job to pay my bills,” you sighed. You were getting exhausted at this point, and just wanted this shift to be over.

“Has he done this before? Hurt you?” Paul asked the question all of them wanted to know the answer to.

“No, he just likes to remind me that I’m a failure,” you smiled wryly. “But it’s nothing I can’t deal with. I promise.”

“Are you SURE I can’t punch him in the face?” Marko repeated, this time with the corner of his mouth turning upward into a little smirk.

“Yes.”

“What if I just break his nose a little?” Now he was full on grinning.

You snorted. “Man, I would pay money to see that! But like I said, I really need this job. And if you do break his nose, even just a little bit, I’m sure as hell getting fired.”

David finally spoke up. “Alright, we won’t cause you any more trouble. Let’s go, boys.”

They all stood up, filing out one by one, each of them sending death stares towards your manager peeking through the kitchen door. You watched their retreating figures through the window for a second longer, already dreading how much more boring your shifts are going to be from now on if they don’t come back.

Out in the parking lot Dwayne turned to David. “We’re going to do something about this, right?”

“Yes, we’re definitely doing something about it.” He sent a smirk to the others, and as they silently communicated down the plan, they began grinning as well. They got on their bikes, and with a lot of heavy revving, they sped off into the night. It was a promise for later.

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!!

#tlb 1987 #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys paul #the lost boys marko #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #tlb paul #tlb david #tlb marko #tlb dwayne

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torialefay · 11 months ago

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Do You Want to Try?

daddy!chan x virgin!reader smut 🔞

✨synopsis: chan makes sure you feel comfortable during your first time <3

✨request from: @whatudowhennooneseesyou

✨ word count: ~3.4k

✨warnings: this is literally just smut, so minors dni; uses nicknames like daddy and babygirl, but this is NOT meant to in any way mirror a DD/LG scenario… absolutely no age play here

• “Do you want to try?” Chan asked, watching you wiggle on the bed, his eyes growing big.

• The two of you had been together for a couple of months. With Chan being the gentleman he is, he never explicitly brought up sex, although you could tell he wanted to.

• You weren’t oblivious to the way he would creep his hand up your thigh and hold it there, right on the inside. Sometimes he would lightly squeeze and pretend he wasn’t watching you to gage your reaction.

• Sometimes he would go as far as to walk up behind you while you were in the kitchen cooking, holding onto you from behind and pressing his growing boner against you.

• You knew what he wanted, but you also knew he’d never explicitly bring it up unless you gave him some sort of a signal.

• What Chan didn’t know is that you were a virgin.

• Were you embarrassed? Maybe a little. You knew you didn’t need to be. Chan would never judge you for something like that… And it wasn’t like he didn’t have his sneaking suspicions about it.

• He knew he made you red and nervous when he would act up around you. He thought it was way too cute. It honestly made him want to get you flustered even more. Teasing you and making subtle remarks with the tiniest hints of want in them.

• But you’d still never said it aloud. Until one day, you couldn’t help it.

• STAYs thirsted over Channie like none other. You didn’t mind it much because… hey, he’s the hottest thing ever. But after reading one post in particular, you got a bit of inspiration. It started to make you think… What if Chan really didn’t mind? What if he could show you the ropes.

• The thread was talking about Chan being into the “daddy” kink, and how he’d be very dominant but loving. It got you thinking if it was really true. And the more you thought about it, the more you wanted to test it. You couldn’t help but get a little wet thinking about him getting horny for you anyways.

• So you decided to try your best to push the nerves beside you and let yourself try something new.

• When Chan came home, you’d been waiting for him in the bedroom. Normally, you’d have been in the kitchen or the living room, so he didn’t expect to find you here. He especially didn’t expect you to be sitting on the bed as soon as he stepped in the door, pulling for his hand to bring him closer to you.

• “Channie, can you sit with me for a second?” you asked as you pulled him right to you. A look of worry spread across his face. Instead of sitting on the bed next to you, he opted to kneel right in front of you on the floor so his face could be right in front of yours.

• “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asked.

• “I need to tell you something. It’s something I should have talked to you about a long time ago, but I was embarrassed.”

• “Alright, what is it?”

• “Well, I… Well you probably already figured it out, but I’ve never really had sex before…” you looked toward the corner of the room, too nervous to make eye contact with him. “And I just want you to know that I’ve been picking up on your signals, but I’ve just never done anything like that before and I really don’t know what I’m doing. Or even where to start.”

• Chan squeezed your hand, and stroked around it with his thumb, signaling for you to look back at him.

• “Do you want to try?” Chan asked, watching you wiggle on the bed, his eyes growing big.

• “I think so… I think you’d make me feel comfortable. If you’ll walk me through it?” you got the courage to say.

• Chan took your face in his hands. “Of course I will, sweetheart.” He planted a kiss to your cheek.

• As he backed his face up, he grinned.

• “And Channie, one more thing?”

• “Yes?” He leaned back until he was situated again kneeling on the ground.

• “Would you like it if I called you Daddy?”

• He smiled for a split second, not believing what he’d just heard.

• “Oh baby girl,” he said, lifting himself to his feet. He gently pushed you down so you were laying on the bed. “You don’t even know,” he smiled and threw his body down next to you. He moved himself closer into you so he could kiss your neck.

• This, you were used to. Things had gotten steamy before, but it never led past kissing. This you knew you could do well. You laid back and enjoyed the sensation of his lips connected to your neck.

• “Alright baby, I’m gonna move my hands around you a little bit. If there’s something you don’t like, you let me know and we’ll stop, okay?” He breathed out.

• Getting bolder now, knowing he was thoroughly enjoying giving this new experience to you, you replied back. “Yes daddy.”

• Chan must have really liked that, responding by biting down into your neck. The pain was there, but it was more pleasure than anything. You loved the way it felt.

• Chan slowly moved his hands along your body. Starting at your waist, he traced up and down your hips as he leaned up to join his lips with yours. He crept his hands slowly along the outline of your body until they were resting lightly over your boobs. He gave one a light squeeze and waited for your response.

• You let out a tiny moan, encouraging him to give you more. It felt good to have him massage you so gently. You always thought of sex as something to be nervous about, but maybe with Chan’s it would just be something to focus on making you feel taken care of.

• You felt as Chan started massaging harder and squeezing around, moving to the other breast.

• “Is it okay if I go under your shirt baby?” He asked.

• You nodded in response, not sure if you could really form sentences during this yet.

• He snaked his hand underneath the fabric and let it slide up your stomach until he reached the top of your bra. Scooping his hand around the top and under your boob, he gently moved the fabric of the bra to the side, exposing your breast slightly.

• Not daring to move his lips off of yours again, he slowly moved his fingers around your nipple, letting it get hard from the sensation. And you had to admit, it felt damn good. Slowly, he worked his way up to rubbing harder before taking it in between his fingers and rolling it around. You moaned at how good the pressure felt. You felt Chan smile, breaking the kiss.

• As he moved his hand to begin on the other breast, he moved his head to rest beside yours.

• “Daddy wants to watch you now, okay? I need to see your pretty face to make sure you like it.”

• “Okay,” you got out sheepishly. Suddenly, you felt a bit self-conscious knowing that Chan was going to be watching your every move. You tried to sink down into the mattress to ignore it and instead focus on the feeling of Chan on your other breast. He rubbed and pinched and rolled his fingers around under you were writhing underneath him.

• He let out a small chuckle at how cute you looked. “Feel good baby?”

• “Yes daddy.”

• “How about we get these clothes off of you? I’ll be careful and we’ll go slow, okay?”

• You nodded in agreeance. Chan took that as his cue to raise himself up off the bed and take his time with lifting your shirt off of you. He took special care as he reached around you to unclasp your bra at the back, digging his hands into the mattress to get there and pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t want you to have to lift a finger.

• He slid your pants down and off of you, hooking your underwear as well so that they went with the rest.

• You felt so exposed like this. Completely naked in front of someone for the first time. It was scary, and Chan could pick up on that feeling.

• “Don’t be nervous baby, you are so so beautiful,” he said, sliding his body back to lie down next to yours. One arm held him propped up on an elbow, leaving the other to rub up and down your body.

• “Can daddy move down lower now?” He asked, once he’d settled in right next to your ear, planting small kisses to the outside of it.

• “Mmhmm,” you managed to get out.

• Chan walked his hand down to your pussy, making sure to massage all around the area before focusing in on your middle. Once he got there, he stopped himself. “This is going to make you feel good, okay? I need you to tell me when it starts feeling good, and I’ll keep doing that. Got it?”

• You writhed underneath him in anticipation. “Got it.”

• “Good girl,” he whispered, planting another kiss to your earlobe. He let a couple of fingers work themselves between your folds, admiring quickly how wet you were for him.

• “Do you feel how wet you are? That’s so good honey. I’m so proud of you.”

• You blushed in response, focusing on the feeling of his finger tips.

• He worked them slowly to where he felt your clit. You jumped a little at the sudden sensitive feeling, not knowing how to respond.

• Chan chuckled. “That’s supposed to be the part that makes you feel good. Daddy’s gonna go slow, and you should start to feel it.” He didn’t ask for permission now.

• He slowly started to move his fingers up and down over your clit. You felt your breath hitch. He continued for a little while before beginning to rub small circles around it, sending you into overdrive. Your breath started to quicken.

• “Oh good girl,” he cooed down at you. “So that’s what you like, huh?” He beamed. “Does that feel good? Tell me how it feels.”

• “It feels so good Channie.”

• “Perfect,” he smiled into you. “Daddy’s gonna move down there to get a taste, okay? I promise I won’t stop making it feel good.”

• Chan continued to rub you in just the same way until he slid himself down to where his face was hovering just over your pussy. With his tongue stuck out, he made his way in, licking up and down the folds at first. He then moved to your clit, taking over his previous motions to begin with his tongue. He felt you jolt up slightly at the new feeling, letting out a slight moan in the process.

• He hummed into you in response, the vibrations making you feel a new sensation. You suddenly didn’t know why you’d been scared to tell him for so long. Feeling him wrap his tongue up in you was the most loving, erotic sensation you’d ever felt. And god, if it didn’t make you feel like the most special person in the world.

• “Keep your eyes on daddy,” Chan said. He wasn’t mean, but you knew better than to argue him. As you looked down, you almost came immediately at the sight. His curls were tousled in every direction as his hands splayed across your hips, holding you down into him.

• When his eyes came up to connect with yours, you wanted to jump out of your skin. The look on his face of watching you, knowing how good he was making you feel was overstimulating. He kept circling your clit at just the right pace. You were sure you were going to go over the edge any second.

• Your breathing started to pick up and you felt a twitch down your leg.

• Chan brought a finger up to push inside of you slowly, wanting to give you a tiny bit more stimulation. You could feel the small extra pressure it gave to you, and coupled with how sensitive you were, you were doing everything you could to hold on. It just felt too fucking good. You felt yourself lose all thoughts and begin to drift off.

• Chan disconnected his lips from your cunt for a single moment. “Cum for daddy, baby,” he instructed before going right back to his tiny circles on your clit. Looking at his face and hearing his demand was the last thing you needed to reach your climax. Your hands flew down to his hair to hold onto his head as your legs began to twitch around him and the warm feeling spread out from your clit to the rest of your body. You suddenly started to convulse around him, moaning out for him with every last breath. You couldn’t control yourself as Chan kept lapping at you, holding your hips down to make sure you didn’t miss out on any feeling of the pleasure he could give you.

• Once he was satisfied that you were done, he lifted his face from you and raised his body up until he was resting on his knees. He smiled down at you and how out of it you looked.

• “Mmm did that make you feel good, sweetheart?” He smiled, rubbing and massaging along your thighs. You didn’t even know how to respond to that considering the way he just made you feel. You just nodded your head and smiled, moving your arms to stretch them out over your head and then cover your face in slight embarrassment.

• “How about you let daddy stretch you out a little now?” He asked, already bringing his dick to your entrance to move it around against the wetness of your lips. “Come on, don’t cover that beautiful face. Let me see you.”

• You moved your hands and arms away from your face and brought them together, clasping to each other on your chest. Chan just smiled down, admiring how cute you looked for him.

• “That’s more like it… Now, I’m gonna start slow okay? You’ll let me know if it starts to hurt or if I’m going to fast?”

• “Yes…” you whispered out, not knowing if you were really ready or not.

• “Yes what?” he peered down, stern look now on his face.

• “Yes daddy.”

• With that, he slowly began to inch himself into you. One hand resting on your thigh, the other rested just at the underside of his dick to stabilize himself as he entered. He watched intently as your pussy slowly started to open up for him, making sure to go as slowly as he possibly could. Then he made sure to go back and fixate on your face, now with furrowed brows and lips parted open.

• He continued in silence until he was all the way in, letting himself rest inside for just a moment. “Fuck baby, you’re so tight,” he huffed out, throwing his head back. “I feel like if I start moving, I’m going to tear you apart.”

• He slowly moved himself back, centimeter by centimeter until he was pulled out of you, then slowly pushing back in. He continued this a couple more times until he could tell you were more comfortable. The look on your face had changed from uncertainty to one of actual pleasure. He could tell.

• “You’re taking me so well baby. I knew you’d be a good girl for me.” He finally let himself pull all the way back before ramming into you.

• You let out a loud moan in response, which only agged Chan on more.

• He started to thrust again, faster this time. “Oh, is that how my girl likes it? You like it like that, huh?”

• “Yes, Channie,” you moaned.

• “Ah ah ah,” he stopped pumping for a second.

• “I mean, yes daddy!” you breathed out again.

• With that, Chan picked back up, bringing himself in and out of you with a steadily quickening pace. You could tell he was getting worked up the more he pumped.

• He started to hump into it, more than just strokes now. He was getting deeper into you. You let out a rattling sigh at how good it felt.

• Something almost animalistic came over Chan. He almost looked like he wanted to consume you. His jaw locked and his eyes fixated on your face before spitting out at you every last thought he had in his mind.

• "You like it when your daddy fucks you like this, don’t you? You like letting daddy ruin you for anyone else. Being my good little perfect girl. So good for me, letting me fuck you however I want. You don’t want daddy to stop, do you?”

• At that, Chan started to pound into you, getting relentless now. His face was focused, almost looking mad. He hit the spot that you now knew would be the end of you. He kept hitting it and hitting it until you knew you weren’t going to be able to take it anymore.

• “No, don’t stop. Don’t stop,” you panted out. “Please don’t stop. It feels so good,” you were about to cry at this point, not recognizing this feeling. The feeling of breathlessness and pressure, building up, slowly working you to a point you weren’t yet familiar with.

• Chan began to moan violently, forcing himself into you with no remorse. He violently held onto your hips, slamming them down into him as he fucked you. He was going to make sure you felt all of them.

• “So good and tight… God.. FUCK,” he yelled, throwing his head back. He slammed himself in. “Fuck baby, you’re gonna make me cum.. Don’t give into me yet. You can take it. Keep fucking taking it.” He fucked himself into your as hard and fast as he could, bottoming out every time. He hit way up into your cervix and for a moment, you thought you might pass out.

• “Fucking take it, princess. Fucking take me,” he yelled, not able to stop himself.

• “Yes daddy,” you replied back, borderline crying now. He was just too good. It was all way too good.

• Hearing your new name for him was the last thing he needed. “I’m cumming... Fuck I’m cumming. Holy shit,” Chan quickly pulled himself out of you, quickly jerking his dick back and forth as cum shot out of him and onto your stomach. "Fuckkkkkkk." He couldn’t help but moan the entire time, looking at how pretty you looked with his cum all over you.

• You winced underneath him, never having seen this sight before. This was the hottest you’d ever seen him. And to think, he was doing all of this over you.

• He stroked himself up and down until every last drop of cum was out, growling at the last few drops.

• “Shit baby, hold on just a second,” he said, once he’d finally caught his breath.

• He took a few steps to the bathroom, coming back with a wet cloth to clean you off with.

• As you also had finished catching your breath, he came back up to lay himself beside you, bringing the covers up with him. He raised your head up to extend his arm underneath, and then rested it back on top of him so that you were propped up into him.

• “I’m sorry baby, I should have asked you before doing all of that at the end. I don’t know what came over me. Was it okay? Did it feel okay?”

• You took a few seconds to look into his eyes, suddenly full of love and worry.

• “It was perfect Channie. You were perfect.” You smiled at him. He shot you a huge smile back, nuzzling his head into yours and placing a soft kiss on your lips.

• “I’m so glad. You were perfect for me too. I’m so honored I could be your first.”

• You thought your heart would explode from how much love you felt for this man.

• After giving you another kiss on the cheek and lying his head down to rest on top of yours, he whispered into you. “And hopefully I’m going to be your last too.”

———————————————————————————

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#bangchan smut #chris bang smut #chan smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #bangchan imagines #skz imagines #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #bangchan scenarios #bang chan #bangchan x female reader #bangchan x reader #bangchan x you #christopher bang #stray kids x reader #chan skz

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artytaeh · 5 months ago

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slytherin boys' reaction to being interrupted while you were speaking.

so, the thing is: this week has been terrible and the potato manifestation did NOT work. </3 not only did my exam went terribly, but i'm really sick too— i'm so sorry for taking so long with the requests! 🤕

mattheo riddle x reader, theodore nott x reader, lorenzo berkshire x reader, draco malfoy x reader, blaise zabini x reader. fluff! i hope you enjoy. 🌷

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

THEODORE FUCKS OUT OF THE CONVERSATION IMMEDIATELY. this man couldn't be bothered to continue to listen to the rest of the group, focusing his attention on you now. due to his introvert nature and having been a quieter kid during his first two years at hogwarts, theo understands the struggle. so, hand shoved on his pocket, theo reaches to brush his fingers on your cheek, gently calling your attention to him, and only him. 'you were saying? i want to hear the rest of it.', theo assures you, getting your attention out of the group of people (and distracting you from the embarrassment / hurt from being ignored), to have a conversation with him and only him. would enjoy the attention.

if the two of you are really close friends or in a relationship, theo would talk with those people separately; if the group was his slytherin friends, then theo would warn them to be more attentive about not interrupting you. would be mad if someone called you or him dramatic about it.

MATTHEO WOULD HAVE ABSOLUTELY NONE OF THIS, and stop this fuckery the same second it started. this man wouldn't have private talks or warnings like theodore did; the second someone interrupts you and your voice fades, mattheo will slap the back of their heads (if it's a boy) or nudge them with his elbow (if it's a girl), telling them to shut the hell up, since you were speaking first. then, with everyone silent, he'd nod at you, gesturing for you to continue what you were saying: 'go on babe, you weren't finished.'

this could feel so embarrassing, though; having this group of people all silent and staring at you, for the uhm, wrong reasons? if you complain or talk to mattheo about this, he'll just shrug, totally unbothered. 'can't fucking stand pick me people needing to shout and interrupt others. they're the ones who should be embarrassed, anyway.' and yes, he'll do it again. and again, and again. no one walks over his girl, nuh-huh.

LORENZO WOULD SILENTLY TAKE CARE OF THIS, with his passive-aggressive attitude. no one disrespects you, or his friends, in front of lorenzo without him having a say about it. would wrap his arm around your shoulders, a silent yet protective shield, as he lets out a little laugh. should anyone question it, lorenzo nods in the direction of the one who interrupted you: 'nothing, it's just funny how this one feels so important to the point of interrupting others. go on, tell us what's so important to interrupt my girl.' — an invitation for the said person to fuck off, because honestly, even the people around you would give them side glances, now that lorenzo remarks how rude that actually is.

i said it once and i'll say it again: this man is a bit of a bitch, and i love him for it. check his headcanons here!

DRACO WOULD TAKE THIS PERSONALLY, and be so, or more, offended on your behalf. you see, draco perceives that anything done or said to you, is a direct attack to him— something about growing up and seeing how lucius malfoy always protected his mother, narcissa malfoy, that stirs up protectiveness over his partner. like mattheo, draco directly takes care of the matter; would turn his attention to you, talking louder than whoever interrupted your words: 'darling, you didn't finish what you were saying. some deaf idiot must have not heard you talking first.' and, you see, draco malfoy is quite the queen bee of slytherin, so that alone is more than practice to deal with someone trying to step over you— and by extension, him.

actually so, so mean to whoever thinks that it's funny to be the slightest rude or disrespectful to you; no one will make fun of you in draco's presence. i mentioned this here too!

BLAISE WOULD DISCONNECT FROM THE CONVERSATION, very similar to theodore. the first thing blaise worries about, is your well-being— your feelings, caring if you're hurt and wanting to make sure that you won't take it personally. blaise offers you a smile, resting his hand on the back of your hand and massaging there, incredibly gentle to not mess up your hair: 'don't mind them, pretty girl; these idiots are way worse after some drinks, trust me. wanna tell me what you were saying? i'm all ears.' if you feel like only talking to him, blaise will have his full attention on you, catching up with his friends afterwards.

would silently reassure you with physical touch. as in, guiding you to stand in front of him, his strong arms wrapped around your shoulders and caressing them, while resting his chin on your head. sometimes, blaise can be the center of a conversation, with his great humor; other times, he's more of a listener. would always have 60% of his attention on you, and 40% on the group.

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— the first slytherin boys react i've done, me thinks? once again tysm for reading, and requesting! i'll tend to them as soon as possible. (i'm so sorry i'm a perfectionist. 💔)

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

#slytherin boys #headcanons #hp fandom #slytherin boys react #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #lorenzo berkshire #theo nott #fluff #lorenzo berkshire x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #blaise zabini #blaise zabini x reader #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #fluff headcanons #hurt and comfort #slytherin boys x reader

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hazelfoureyes · 9 months ago

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⟢Alastor x Cupid FemReader Tasked with making a demon believe in true love or you can’t return to heaven, things immediately go off the rails when you hurt yourself and Alastor catches one of your most troubling arrows; Mania

˚₊ · »-♡→ Week 1 and Week 2 ˚₊ · »-♡→Week 3 and Week 4 smut💦 ˚₊ · »-♡→Week 5, Week 6, Week 7, and Epilogue smut💦

Alastor demands you tell him what you’d consider a nice date, which makes a surprisingly lovely time in the library. Dancing leads to… not dancing and a minor rearranging of your guts. And finally, you try to shame Alastor out of Mania and Alastor finds himself having to explain, well, Alastor.

「warnings/promises: Smut, guts➡️rearranged, kinda dub➡️con cuz Alastor still doesn’t listen, but funnily enough neither do you?, lots of interrupting each other, Luci’s hat, you’re down so fucking bad lmao」

🎶 minors DNI 🎵

Angel was live blogging everything you said when you recounted what happened to you after returning to the hotel.

“Wait there’s a character limit, I gotta make a new post.” He was wiping actual tears from his eyes, “Fuck this is funny.”

“Hmmph,” Alastor offered a small noise from his end of the sofa. Neither of you had mentioned or even referenced the sex. There was a strange feeling between you that it didn’t happen so it didn’t need a discussion. But also that it had absolutely happened, as Alastor’s hands found renewed vigor in their search for you when in public and private and your body seemed to respond in kind. You’d still occasionally move his hand off of you, but there was a pulse of electricity every time. When his hand would come to rest on your upper thigh while seated beside each other in the common areas, you let it linger. What harm was it? Heaven wasn’t fucking watching.

Everything aside, the sex had done nothing to dispel his interest. Perhaps you’d only made it worse, for both of you.

By midweek you found the sling useless, happily tossing it aside and beginning gentle stretches. That was more progress than you'd made in your main task.

Every morning you woke up beside Alastor, every day you had him in your orbit, every night you fell asleep feet from him.

Had Mania not taken him he would be a prime candidate for showing the virtue of true love. He was already fucking there, a captive audience. But that wasn’t how it worked. Cupid-induced manic love could never be true. Nothing you created was true, really. But atleast with Eros or Agape you could still have added the notion of true love to the mix. His heart would still be receptive and open to the idea. The way he was now, you could proselytize until you were blue in the face and he’d still think manic love was true love.

An unintended consequence of living with Alastor was discovering you both had quite a bit in common, as much as that information irked you. He enjoyed horror movies such as ‘Dracula’, you enjoyed horror movies as well, just newer ones. Ones in color. He could cook quite well, something you enjoyed to do. And his taste in music was actually lovely. You had assumed he listened to screams on a 7 hour loop.

Actually, upon closer inspection, Alastor was nothing like you had initially assumed. While he had shown you he was capable of terrifying feats of strength and power, he was also remarkably gentle. Every time you descended the stairs his hand was barely felt as it hovered at your elbow ready to save you.

Early in the week you fell asleep watching the group play a board game, somehow redemption related, and awoke with his coat laid over your body. When you thanked him, he just smiled and continued enjoying watching Niffty hide the play money.

You were finding yourself more and more wishing the arrow had never fallen. If you’d just met him as you fell, perhaps you would be staring into that portal home. There were definitely worse options around. Even his imposing height had begun to…not bother you, perhaps was the best way to say it.

Or his large hands. There was a safety in the way they rested on your back. Speaking of…

Your throat ran dry when he leaned into you, one of those hands sliding across your thigh, and asked against your ear, “Ready to go?”

He had to have seen you licking your lips to unstick your teeth. With a nod, he stood and offered a hand to you.

You both were already out of the elevator and walking to your room when he slowed, coming to stop just in front of you.

His room, fucking hell.

“You know, I was thinking,” he wasn’t looking as he spoke to you, which was odd given how often he stared at you. “If you’re going to be here with me from now on-“

You opened your mouth to argue but he put his hand up, “I’d like to know the things you enjoy doing with your romantic interests.” His smile was almost pure, you could tell he was genuinely asking.

“Well I don’t have any so, why would you care?”

“No things you enjoy?”

“No romantic interests.”

His head lolled to the side, “Sometimes I think you say things just to bother me.”

You did.

“I do.”

You thought if you kept being rude maybe you could keep him at an arm’s length. Not get too attached. You’d been kind to people you didn’t like before and eventually you started to like them. This was that. But opposite.

He stared down at you, taking a step closer. You took one back. That smile shifted from pure to sinister, his eyes half lidded. You could almost see the thoughts playing on his face.

“Alastor-,” your back hit the elevator doors. The pounding of your heart when he brought his face to yours drowned out the sounds of the button being pressed. When the doors opened you fell backward with a yelp, but a strong arm caught you by the waist.

“You have twelve floors.” His hand hit the first floor button, “You can share with me your idea of a quality date. Or I can show everyone,” that clawed hand came to your neck, sliding down the evidence of your pounding heart, “how pretty you scream.”

As soon as the doors closed you were pressed against the elevator wall, right leg pulled up and around his waist. “You wouldn’t dare.” You had meant it to sound strong but instead it was half whispered with a shaky voice.

He popped a button off your blouse, “Maybe!” Warm mouth now on your neck, his tongue ran over your pulse, “I wonder if everyone is still in the lobby.”

Over his shoulder you watched the numbers counting down. The hand that cut off the button slid down to your bottoms, slipping under the waistband.

On the 3rd floor the elevator stopped. When the doors opened a demon you didn’t recognize was standing there, eyes wide and mouth open. He didn’t make a move to enter, Alastor looking over his shoulder and sharing what you could only assume was a death glare. The flickering lights were a giveaway to his anger.

His fingers dipped down and cupped your sex, hot palm pressing into your folds.

The doors closed again and you watched the second floor light up. A finger bent and pressed into you.

A nibble at your ear, “You know I’ll win, regardless.”

He was right. Which was the smaller defeat? Humiliation or just telling the bastard your idea of a nice time?

“Books. Drinks.” You squeaked, the first floor lamp now aglow. His hand pulled away just as the doors opened.

Expecting him to gloat you were surprised he just hit the 10th floor button. The library.

He opened the door for you. The library’s main area had two reading chairs bookending a long antique sofa. You took the chair furthest from the door, hearing the door lock.

With a snap, the entire bar with Husk included seemed to fall three inches out of thin air.

“Oh for fucks sake.” Husk looked around, already annoyed, “You coulda just fucking asked for drinks to bring with you. You know cups are portable, right?”

It was nice, actually. Husk poured, you both read. There was an unnecessary fireplace crackling behind you. Cozy. And it got cozier and warmer the more you drank. Your shields softened as the glasses emptied.

Your book was good, but as you felt the alcohol hit you were reminded of the last time you’d gotten a little past tipsy. Sneakily, but not at all, your eyes wandered over to Alastor.

His legs were crossed, but you could remember looking down and seeing them spread open beneath you. Open. Did many people see him like you had? Had his talk about a disinterest in sex actually been a trick to intrigue you? It hadn’t worked, you genuinely didn’t care what his preferences were. If anything it made you less likely to make a pass.

Your eyes wandered down his slender neck to his wide shoulders. Less than a week ago your arms were resting there. Further down, you remembered that soft bit of fur at the base of his cock, a small trail from his belly button.

Husk watched your face turn pink, “You good?” Your head whipped around, looking confused. “You’re getting red.”

Oh. I was just thinking about my pussy drowning in Alastor’s cum.

No, obviously not!

Alastor’s eyes left his book and found yours. They were so red; his eyes, not your cheeks. No one in heaven had such wicked an appearance. When you didn’t reply, busy staring back at Alastor, Husk groaned, “Aah fuck.”

“What are you reading?” You asked, clearly able to see the book title from where you sat.

Alastor held it up, “Oliver Twist.”

“Never read it.”

You had read it.

Setting your book down, you tried to walk as straight as a line as you could to him. You took the book from his hands and sat down on his lap, back against his chest, before picking it up again. “What page are we on?”

“You can leave, Husker.” Alastor didn’t even look at Husk when he said it, eyes still on your face.

When the door closed and Alastor could lock it with a snap, he uncrossed his legs. “Would you like to start over dear? From the beginning.”

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“Can we?” You leaned your head onto his shoulder. When had he become so comfortable…?

“We can.” The book was set aside, his left hand pulling your chin up, “I think we skipped a few chapters before.”

You opened your mouth, “I don’t like kissing.”

“You will.”

The front part of your brain dissolved, you were sure of it. Your decision making abilities were entirely eradicated as his lips pressed into yours. Fuck, maybe even your basic motor skills had been fried, his tongue swiping across your mouth before you just—opened. Your hips ground down into his lap, and you felt his smile widen against your lips.

“Stop smiling. I just like warm bodies.” You reached for the book and opened it to the first page, “and you’re so fucking warm.”

He began to read, but between the rumble of his chest, his voice in your ear, and the heat of his body, you fell asleep.

No matter. Alastor just hummed. With a summoning of his shadow you both sank into your shared bed, where he continued reading with you against his chest.

You dreamt about home. About red eyes and warmth.

Was it so bad, being in hell? Sure you had a fucking deer demon as guard dog but it seemed his mania was … not so terrible. Honestly he seemed relatively normal now. He would wander off for significant lengths of time, even leaving in the mornings while you were still lazing about. A kiss to your hand was the indicator he would be popping off somewhere.

Alastor still wouldn’t let Lucifer alone with you, but otherwise everything was okay. You’d even come to enjoy certain aspects of his possessiveness. That ever present hand, for example. Even when it wasn’t on you, you could still almost feel it. It had become second nature now.

The week was actually peaceful. Your pain was entirely gone, you could move about freely. Despite that Alastor still would press up behind you and offer to help dress you. An offer you declined, but every time he asked you paused longer and longer before saying no.

Alastor was happy to find you in the library toward the end of the week, you having wandered off when he was called away. He summoned a confused but pissed off Husk again, who was midway through making someone else’s drink. He set it aside, pouring Alastor his whiskey. You decided against drinking, you knew you always made poor decisions. Like sleeping.

Delighted by the impressive collection you found a non-fiction and settled into the same large chair.

“Reading is a virtue.” He said to himself yet out-loud, taking a seat and setting the radio on from across the room. Etta James. ‘Somethings got a hold of me.’

“A little past your time, isn’t it?” You smiled, you liked songs about love. Not because of who you were, you just liked the idea of someone so enamored they have to make art.

He laughed, “Nosey little bird, have you been asking about me?”

Well shit. You had forgotten to play dumb. The past couple weeks you had casually inquired about Alastor from the other staff members. A modest collection of facts to help you better understand the man. A quick recovery. “Know your enemy!”

He cackled, “Sun Tzu! What does Cupid need ‘The Art of War’ for?!”

What, did he expect you to only read romance novels and Roman mythos? “You can’t make a shadow without light. In fact,” you put the book down, “The Greeks thought Cupid was a child of War and Beauty.”

Okay well, Greek mythos is a little different than their Roman counterpart’s. So. There.

Alastor watched you leaning over the arm of the chair, no sign of pain as you did so. Your injury must have mended well. “Do you have parents?” He asked, genuinely wondering how your kind were created.

“No, we're just… made. And then sent off on assignments.”

“You must be terribly busy, just one person for all of earth.” If Alastor could pull some limbs and find out more from anyone but you, he would, but unfortunately no one but Vaggie would know anything about you and he had a feeling her time in heaven was never spent thinking about love.

“Oh, actually not so much! When I’m with humans I can travel around without worrying about the concept of time at all. But it takes a toll.” Or so you were told. There were never two Cupids at one time so you couldn’t really ask your predecessors. Alastor’s brows rose, unsure how exactly a Cupid could be taxed if they didn’t feel pain and couldn’t be hurt. “Every trip to Earth weakens us. Until our bodies just, I guess, give out.” A smile crept across your face, unsure what expression you were supposed to be making.

“Is it just Earth? Or,” he lowered the radio volume with just a glance, “Every time you leave heaven?” It would take a great effort to not notice the weight suddenly blanketing the library. Silence was heavy with what he was really asking you. Would remaining here kill you?

It was a great question. Wow he’s really good at this. It almost seemed like he gave a shit. No one had ever asked you about your creation, about your work. It was nice. Even from him. Maybe especially from him.

You had never been to hell, so you couldn’t be sure, but, “I think it’s a human-world time-thing. But I guess we’ll find out!” Another misplaced smile before you awkwardly leaned back and picked up the book.

While you hadn’t noticed the slip up you had made, Alastor had. “I suppose we will.”

You would find out, because you wouldn’t be returning to heaven. He was glad you, even if unconsciously, understood that. And perhaps you could live forever if you never returned to earth.

When the song ended, you offered one of your own.

Alastor was pleasantly surprised to hear you request Nat King Cole’s ‘It’s almost like being in love’.

Standing, he offered you his hand for a dance. “Ugh I hate this cheesy shit.” You said it but stood anyway, putting your hands in his.

Alastor laughed, swaying side to side, “Not a fan of romance? Has Cupid never been in love?”

Those were two seperate things. How could you explain? “Drug dealers number one rule. Never get high off your own supply. That would be—.”

Lonely. Pathetic.

“A bad idea.” His cheek rested on your head. It was a shockingly tender act. “Can you understand? Why would I want something I made. What’s special about that?”

“And what of true love? It isn’t made by you, yes?” Asked into your hair.

“Yeah but when will I ever find the time to make a connection worthwhile. Winners and Angels are gluttons for choice, I am obviously built for a fun time not a long time.” Which you were…fine with. Yeah. I mean, what choice did you have? “And I don’t want to force it…so…” you trailed off. The rest didn’t matter.

He nodded, suppressing another laugh. “I see. Well, allow me to give you something you inspired, how about that? Not made. Would you say no, my muse?”

Inspired? Like a song? “Ha, what have I inspired in you, heathen.”

Alastor stopped dancing, his hand pulling your face up for a kiss which took you by surprise.

“Seriousl-,” Husk mercifully disappeared in a flash of neon green.

You couldn’t remember exactly how it happened, much like many of the moments you surrendered to Alastor. It was so fast and he was so strong, his hands large and confident in how they moved you. Before you knew it you were bent over the sofa’s arm getting fucked so hard your leg was shaking and your stomach nauseous.

This was much better than songs or art or whatever you inspired in others. You were gasping with every breath, the action somehow heightening the sensations. The little huffs and groans your body was pulling from him had your heart racing.

His cock was smashing your womb into your guts, the entire organ suddenly feeling like a new pleasure spot. Every jolt to your cervix made a novel kind of bliss pool in your stomach.

You cried, head empty as he completely left your heat before bottoming out again, “Stop, Alastor. Stop.” A strained moan, hands gripping the wooden sofa arm, “stop, stop, fuuuuck.”

He was pulling out too far and too fast, hitting back too hard and too deep. Your cunt felt swollen around him, your entrance so soft and wet he didn’t need precision to sink back in.

“Does it hurt?” He said quickly on the down beat of his thrust.

“Nngh no.”

“Theeen, no.”

Alastor pulled you up by your chin, back bending as he titled your mouth to his. Despite your mouth hanging open with your tongue out as salacious as you’d ever been, you told him, “I really don’t kiss during sex.”

The look in his downcast eyes sent a shiver along your spine, a power there you couldn’t push against, “You do now, my dear.”

When in hell, you supposed. You didn’t even try to argue, accepting his tongue wrapping around yours and exploring your mouth while his dick churned up your insides. Full from top to bottom. Full of Alastor. Safe. Wanted. Needed.

You pulled away when there was an overwhelming bone-deep sensation spilling through your hips and down your thighs. The muscles felt weak there, and you had an urge to runaway from it but Alastor held you still.

A scream of ecstasy as both legs shook violently, you finally got your hands free orgasm but to your shock it didn’t stop. As it appeared to wane, it just started mounting again. By the third roll, Alastor came with a push so deep your chest fell over the arm of the sofa. If not for the hands bruising your hips, you would have fallen off entirely.

The ache in your stomach began immediately, you’d have thought someone had been punching you in the gut. Well, more literally than they had been. When you groaned and complained to Alastor about what he had done, he pulled you up by your waist.

You were drawn into him, back to his chest again with your body between those long legs. His hands came to your stomach. Alastor massaged deep circles into your abdomen.

“Does that help?” His high voice lowered, husky and kind into your ear. You nodded, the pressure relieved the discomfort.

You wondered if he was used to taller demons than your shorter heavenly form, or perhaps he wasn’t used to anyone at all. Maybe sinners had more room than you did.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Believe it or not,” probably not, “I’m never trying to hurt you.”

Was it terrible you actually did believe him? Yes he was a serial killer, and considered one of the most cruel overlords in recent memory. But he was always gentle when his hands were on you. Flits of memories of him washing your feet came back to you.

“I know perhaps,” his hands kept moving, your back already stuck to his with well earned sweat, “I have at times been easily incensed.”

You nodded quickly.

“But, It’s just,” you heard him swallow hard, “ah I absolutely hate this,” He whispered it to himself. “I’m just scared you’ll leave before I’ve managed to convince you how much happier I can make you here.”

It’s not that it was funny, necessarily, but the very idea hell could be happier than Heaven was laughable. It was Heaven. It was made to be happy. It existed purely to please.

The smile faded from your face. Well, for the winners. It was made to please the winners. It wasn’t made for you, but you still got much enjoyment. You had…sex. Great sex. Not held aloft in a radio tower great, but…You always came. Everyone did. Wasn’t that the point of it?

Wasn’t that the point?

What was the point?

A warm and lonely bed is better than an empty one alone. So.

Well, your bed was always warm and never lonely in hell now that you’d been “moved”.

You had… Hobbies. You liked swimming.

Okay well the hotel had a pool. And yes, if you weren’t running off to earth on command you’d have more energy for hobbies.

What were you thinking about this for again?

You gathered the scraps of your relevant thoughts, “Happiness isn’t being confined to a hotel, Alastor.”

“As soon as you show me you won’t leave me, I won’t care where you go. As long as you’re safe.” One of his hands left your stomach to stroke your cheek, “I’m just waiting for you to realize what I already know.”

If Alastor were to ease his grip on you, could you enjoy yourself? Well, more than you did. But it was more than that, you had to admit you hated the idea of losing, of just running away. “I don’t like giving up.”

His laugh was quiet but it rocked you as his chest moved. “Darling they threw you to hell and told you you’re not allowed to leave unless you do homework. Giving up what? Being a servant to heaven?”

If he had said it a couple weeks prior, you would have left the room indignant. But now, settled against his hot skin and being so softly touched, it sounded like tough love.

“I don’t belong here though.” You were talking to yourself. So many excuses.

His arms wrapped around your chest to hug you into him, “You belong wherever I am.” His cheek pressed against yours, “I won’t let you go.”

A threat. A threat you leaned into and warmed yourself with. A threat a quiet part of you hoped he kept his word on.

You were getting too comfortable. Every morning you woke up to Alastor curled into your body, holding you tightly to him and you found yourself smiling before your consciousness clicked on. At some point in the last week he grabbed your chin and kissed you good night and suddenly every time he left your side you allowed a kiss to your cheek before he parted. What was worse was how you’d talk in bed about your recent reads and what happened the few hours you weren’t with each other.

The thing that made you realize you were getting honestly too deep was when you went to go to bed early and actually took the elevator past your floor, walked all the way to his station and told him good night. You’d made it to his chair and were leaning down for your kiss when your face fell flat.

He asked what was wrong but you shook your head. A poorly faked smile offered to him.

You sat in your bed. His bed. Your bed?

You sat in bed and wondered how to press forward. Two months, nearly, you’d been in hell. At this rate surely heaven had made a replacement. If you could make it back quickly you could still keep your place.

A decision was made, you’d never confronted Alastor head on. You had misunderstood his illusion of you. But maybe if you just forced it into his thick skull he’d been controlled and puppeted by an arrow, not his free will, he would abandon it to save his pride.

Knees to your chest, why were you crying again? Did you want to go home?

No, you wanted to curl into his stupid fucking lap and listen to him hum his stupid old, forgotten songs. You wanted to dance while Husk groaned and rolled his eyes. You wanted to feel loved.

But you weren’t made to want things. And Alastor didn’t love you.

Okay, one more night to enjoy yourself before you pissed him off so much he kicked you out of his bed. Or took such a turn into obsession he never let you leave the room again, allowing you to shirk responsibility for not returning to heaven.

When you turned the handle there was resistance, the door pushing in.

“Alastor? Done already?” He’d seemed busy earlier.

He closed the door and locked it. Oh. A blush. The sound of a locking door had come to mean certain things to you.

“You seemed bothered.” His thumb wiped where your tears had already dried, “What ever is the problem? Did someone upset you? Some neck I should wring?” You shook your head no. His other hand came to join in holding your face, those goddamned red eyes melting you to nothing, “Some limbs I should snap?” He took a step toward you and you took two back, hands holding his wrists. Another no. “Or some cheeks I should kiss?”

Stop crying.

An eager nod. “Don’t cry, my love.” Soft lips catching your tears, thin fingers wiping them away. He kept walking forward and you kept walking back until your legs hit the bed.

One more night, just in case. In case he forfeits the mania.

You kissed his neck, startling him. “Rare form. Did you need some more intimate attention, darling?” You tried to avoid initiating, never knowing what he wanted or when, never wanting to enjoy his touch too much. “I could indulge you.”

What you wanted was to be reduced so thoroughly to just a physical creature by way of pleasure that your mind disconnected from your brain. Fucked dumb, as people said. Alastor wouldn’t know what that meant but you were confident he’d enjoy sussing out the finer details of the meaning if it meant your full surrender.

You bit down on his neck, getting you pushed onto the bed in return. “I need overindulgence. I don’t wanna feel anything tonight but you.” You should practice your manners, for heaven's sake. “Please.”

There it was again. That look that turned your bones to jelly and your brain to cotton; that downcast half lidded stare as he towered over you that promised to devour you whole. His hand pulled at his bow tie and loosened his collar, knees on the bed as his legs spread you open at the thighs.

“Good girl.”

No punishment or inspiration, just that mental numbness that turned off all your worries. We’re you making stupid faces? We’re your sounds embarrassing? Didn’t matter. You didn’t care. You clung to his body like you’d fall apart without his skin on yours. Because you would, in some fashion.

Every gap between your bodies felt like room for doubt. So you filled them with flesh and sighs and moans.

With his height difference you were smothered by him when in traditional heaven-approved missionary, but you liked lying on top. Your head only made it to his chest when your hips were positioned above his cock. You could go slack and let him move you on and off himself. You had been lying when you said you preferred to not move or make noise, but you’d learned he got harder and more feral when you let him manipulate your body any way he pleased.

He smelled like sweat and leather, probably from the chairs in the lobby. No one sweats in heaven, this seemed like a mistake now. You’d have to be sure to not wash your clothes after you left hell, or else you’d forget his scent.

After finishing, he was surprised to find you still clinging to his torso, arms under his armpits and hooked onto his shoulders. He offered to pull out and let you lie down but you just held on tighter in response. He glanced around the room, soft light and softer music on the radio. Your quiver and bow rested against the armoire, practically dusty. He asked if you were alright, a hand coming to your back with large claws gently scratching.

“Yeah I will be.” you lifted your head, waiting.

Both of his eyebrows rose, unsure what you were waiting on.

Complete surrender. “Good night kiss.” You had to stretch to meet his lips before settling back into his chest, “okay bore me to sleep with your day, sinner.” He gladly did, you falling asleep yet again to the sound of his slow heartbeat and the rumble of his words.

You awoke nauseous, already knowing your day was going to fucking suck and it’d be your own fault. The idea of approaching Alastor and initiating the conversation felt impossible, your feet became stone when you thought of it.

The coward’s option. Wait for time alone and then pace the library until he came to find you.

After an hour or so he did, smile brightening as he entered. “Should I summon the bar?”

You shook your head no, struggling to speak. He sat in his chair, book still on the small side table.

Heart pounding, you considered doing this another day or week or maybe year but knew you’d already lost so much time. “Alastor, I need to talk to you about my task.”

He snapped the book shut, eyes not leaving his hands. “Oh?”

“I need to leave the hotel or at least need serious time alone with someone. I need to change someone’s heart on true love. I can’t go home—,” you were cut off, Alastor standing quickly.

“Home?”

“Alastor.” You stood your ground even as his spine stretched and antlers widened.

“Your home is wherever I am.” A pained smile now, something akin to hurt in his eyes that did damage to you too. “Ah. So last night— and people say I’m cruel.”

“I’m not supposed to be here!”

A snap, his anger and desperation eclipsing his pain, “Why don’t you ever listen-,”

Your turn to cut him off, “Because you’re under a spell! You act so fucking tough like you’re in control all the time. But you’re not! It’s just the effect of the arrow.”

He laughed, but you kept going, “Don’t act like you’re sooo strong you can fight the effects of my shot. You don’t fucking love me. Not really, not naturally. It was an accident. You’re just— it’s been made by me. I don’t want it. I want something real and true.”

“My feelings are true, just let me speak. I can make you understand if you’d just listen to me.” Pupils like pins, teeth somehow sharper.

“Alastor you can’t have true love. Nothing triggered by my arrows can ever be true.”

Another ring of laughter, “Tell me then how your true love is different than mine, Oh Wise Cupid.”

You huffed, “Don’t talk down to me, radio demon. True love means caring deeply for someone else that occupies your heart and mind-,” he opened his mouth, looking around the room for where you found the audacity but you snapped twice to get his attention back, “not just that! You put them first without fear because if they truly love you they would never take advantage of that. It’s trusting them with the most fragile parts of yourself. It's a best friend. Someone who makes you feel like a better version of you, makes you want to always be improving yourself.”

Alastor was still smug, staring at you from his unnervingly demonic height, “Lovely! Last question, expert, is true love ever one sided?”

You thought for a beat, “It can be.”

He hummed, body swiftly resuming his smaller but, again, still too tall scale, antlers remaining fierce as his sinister smile dropped to just a small upward turn of his lips. “I see. You’ve truly enlightened me. I believe you.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on you.

You rolled your eyes and licked your lips to go off when a portal opened beside you.

Heaven was just beyond the shining circle.

You looked from Alastor to the circular doorway, taking small steps towards it. Your hand pressed through, confusion wiping your own smugness off your face.

Alastor began a mocking slow clap. “I’ve been convinced. Happy now? Task complete.”

“But- the love Mania causes…It clouds the mind, you can’t even process the idea of true love properly.” You searched the floor for some clarity.

His hands stopped, eyebrows meeting his bangs as a laugh that started typically but quickly morphed into maniacal filled the room. You just kept pushing your hand in and out of the portal. Alastor finally quieted, antlers fully drawn back into little prongs. He stared at you. A shiver as his smile reached his ears. That look again. You took a deep breath, ready to be eaten.

“Your little arrow didn’t pierce me, you glorious fool. It literally fell into my pocket. I was never under the effects of your magic. I said that many times.” He straightened out his suit jacket, “Very plainly, might I add. You just never listened to me. So sure you knew better than I did.”

You sputtered, too many thoughts trying to express themselves, “Why did you act like that then?!”

“Because I wanted you. Something something first sight, as I recall the adage goes.” He crossed his arms and looked at his claws, “Perhaps my love happens to be manic by default. I am a murderous overlord, darling.”

All the energy left your body, shoulders relaxing. “Oh.”

“So, here I am,” he opened his arms, “trusting you to not hurt me any further today. Does that fall into your narrow view of true love?”

A good question. You shifted your weight onto your other foot, looking back at heaven. You could see the shining gates.

He sighed and brought his arms down, “I can’t promise how long I’ll let you stand there and look at anything other than me.”

A warning.

A deep breath, another shift onto your other foot again as you shook the anxiety out of your hands before finally making eye contact with him, “Well, eldritch horror, prove it.”

You heard the door lock from across the room.

You decided heaven could wait. It took about two days before they seemed to notice you hadn’t entered the portal, which closed on its own some time between Alastor pushing you onto the floor and you begging him for more. Luckily St. Peter wasn’t privy to your escapades.

It was a fact Sera was aware you had completed your task, because a knock came to the library door on that second day after you did so. Entering without waiting for a reply, which was brave, Lucifer and his hat popped into the room.

“Heeeey giiiirl. I got a message from heaven asking what’s the hold up, worried you were incapacitated.”

From your seat in Alastor’s lap you lowered your book, “How nice of them to suddenly care about my well-being.” You brought the book back up, “Little late.”

He nodded, “Uh huh, uh huh. Yeah I can understand that. Sooo,” his fingers tapped the door, “What should I reply with?”

Alastor turned the page and hummed a reply, “Finders Keepers.”

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

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#alastor smut #alastor #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader smut

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davidtennantgenderenvy · 1 year ago

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On David Tennant and Aging

So, I’ve seen a lot of posts in response to Tumblr users’ habit of affectionately calling their favorite middle aged dudes “old men”, David Tennant in particular, saying things like “clearly you’ve never met an actual old person”, “omg you talk about these guys like they’re 80”, “please be normal about people aging”, etc. And on one hand, all of these statements are objectively right and true! But as someone who’s always been really fascinated by and found a lot of beauty in getting older (which I’ve explored in some of my writing on A03 because nobody else is going to do it for me), I’d like to provide a bit more nuance on how I think this label applies to David in particular.

David, obviously, in literal terms, is not “old”, at least not to me- I don’t personally consider people old until they get past 60. 52 is middle aged, simple as that. And yet, when I see David stuck with the “old man” label, it still somehow feels weirdly right, for a number of reasons.

It annoys me so much when people say David “hasn’t aged a day since Doctor Who”, because, well…

He clearly has. A lot. He’s got forehead creases, deep crows’ feet and eyebags, and I think that post-Fourteen we’re gonna see him rocking the grey temples a LOT more. He also has the voice of an older man now, his upper range is still there but the default is much more deep and rich, with a gravelly, rumbling quality that just goes straight through you. I personally think Broadchurch was when David finally started to embrace looking his age- Alec Hardy just wouldn’t have been served by Ten’s fresh-faced boyishness.

Obviously, these are the kinds of changes you’d expect any 52-year-old man to have, but something about David just makes it all seem a bit more… intense? The expressiveness of his face combined with his almost gaunt frame makes his wrinkles very prominent, and when he works his voice to its emotional extremes, his lower register can sound positively ancient, to devastating effect.

David, I think, is someone with an old soul- I don’t think he could be as good as he is at playing ancient characters like Crowley and The Doctor if he weren’t. He has lived so many lives, given so much of himself to so many characters, often incredibly tragic ones, and I think it wears on him. David also has five kids. FIVE. Do you know how exhausting it is to be one of the hardest working actors alive and be a present, loving father to even ONE child? But David somehow does it anyway! Nowadays I see him and my heart breaks because he looks so tired, so weary and fragile. But he’s all the more beautiful for it to me because I know that that is because he is kind. He’s a deeply empathetic person who feels and lives to the absolute fullest, and that story is written so clearly on his face, along with every other story he has ever been a part of.

There’s other things about David that make the label endearingly fitting- his utter hopelessness when it comes to technology, for instance. And he’s just got that warm, wise, grandpa energy too sometimes- look at that above Fourteen picture and tell me I’m wrong!

I once showed my friend who’d only seen David in Doctor Who and Harry Potter a picture of David from Around The World in 80 Days. It was a particularly emotional scene, and his face had just the most beautiful expression of compassion and sadness, every wrinkle on full display. And she said, in a less than complimentary fashion, “he looks so old!” Which, of course, offended me quite a bit at first. But to me, referring to David as old almost feels like a badge of honor, something he’s earned by living fully and selflessly, working hard and being wise and compassionate beyond his years. I think David himself is secretly more than a little insecure about the fact that he’s getting older. There’s sadness behind every jovially self-depreciating remark he’s made about his age in the past year, particularly in comparing himself to Ncuti Gatwa. I know how much David struggles with his impostor syndrome and how people perceive him, and I can clearly see in his eyes the fear of being discarded, the anxiety he feels about if he’ll still be as loved as he was back in 2007 now that he’s closer in age to King Lear than he is to Romeo. So I hope David knows it’s a privilege to watch him grow older, to watch his soul and talents deepen with the crinkles around his eyes. If I, in my silly goofy tumblr girl-ness, call David Tennant an old man, it’s because it’s a label that suits him beautifully- even if it isn’t TECHNICALLY an accurate one yet.

#David tennant #doctor who #the tenth doctor #the fourteenth doctor #good omens #crowley #shakespeare #around the world in 80 days #phileas fogg #pro aging #growing old

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fangswbenefits · 1 year ago

Text

The Arrangement (7) - Tension

Chapter summary: Astarion needs to feed and things get out of hand... again.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Dry humping. Masturbation, Precum, Innuendo. Astarion briefly talking you through it. Sexual tension. Sexual frustration.

Word count: 5.4k

Series Masterlist

Astarion needed to feed.

That undeniable fact had come to light in various forms.

You were quite sure that, to the others, it was a blessing in disguise, as Astarion's snarky remarks were now sparse.

But you knew better.

You knew him better.

He hadn't even made a single comment when Gale brought home some horrendous tapestry that he promptly hung on the wall.

That was when you knew he was due a proper feeding.

You glanced at him over your shoulder as you diced some fruit to start the day off.

Astarion was seemingly deep in thought as he masterfully threaded a needle along the edge of the collar of his shirt.

Your heart fluttered briefly as you recalled his enjoyment in embroidery. He had once revealed it helped him hone his dexterity while looking fabulous at it.

A faint smile tugged at your lips, and you returned your attention to the cutting board.

The morning had started off slow and quiet and, for the first time in a long time, you had gotten a proper night's rest.

You couldn't tell if your conversation with Astarion was the sole reason for that, considering you did try the lavender extract Shadowheart had given you. Regardless, there was this pleasant and warm feeling brewing within you.

The joys of communication laced with a touch of intimacy truly left you feeling at peace.

But then…

Your face tensed up as your thought drifted back to Ava.

All pleasant feelings morphed into dread at the conjured image of Astarion offering her his blood.

Whatever interest she had in it had to be rooted in something nefarious. You refused to believe otherwise. Besides, how could she even accept such an exchange when dealing with his vulnerability?

That wasn't right.

You were so caught up in the haunting visual projection of her bleeding him dry, that you didn't realise someone was pressing against you from behind.

“I, for one, am glad we are not back in the wilderness, darling.”

Astarion.

You jolted in surprise as his chin came to rest on your shoulder, his hand drifting down your arm to grip the knife you were holding.

“Anyone with ill-intentions would have you gutted by now.” His voice was low with the faintest hint of a tease.

He was absolutely correct.

Your distraction could have landed you in a bit of a predicament not long ago.

But your gaze was now set on how his hand examined the blade.

“This knife needs polishing,” he said, shifting his lips closer to your neck. “And the edge needs sharpening.”

Oh, he really needed to feed.

And he wasn't even being subtle about it at this point as his lips ghosted your skin.

“I'll get to it later.”

You were trying your hardest to keep your composure, feeling the palms of your hands sweat when he pressed further against you.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest and your back. “Honestly, I'm surprised you can cut through anything but butter with this.”

He had to know.

He had to know how your pulse had quickened so easily because of him.

“Astarion.”

“Hmm?”

But your mind had blanked for a second, your body reacting instinctively to his.

His hand was closed around yours, thumb rubbing circles on your heated skin as he pressed his cold lips to the throbbing artery that ran along your neck.

Gods…

“You need to feed.”

He paused briefly. “It's quite adorable how you can tell whenever I'm craving your blood.”

You would have dropped the knife had he not been making sure you kept a firm grip on the handle.

“You aren't being particularly subtle.”

He let out a dramatic gasp. “I'm merely offering help with this sad blunt knife, my darling.”

Well, his idea of ‘help’ now involved him pressing his thumb against yours to have it tracing circles along the handle.

“I reckon your grip isn't adequate either,” he whispered in your ear this time. “You must grip it tighter .”

Oh.

Oh…

He was too good at courtship.

The innuendo wasn't lost on you, and you nearly rolled your eyes at his bluntness.

“I do know how to grip a knife, Astarion.”

He chuckled once again. “Yes, I remember your fierce grip whe–”

But before he could finish his sentence, a scoff was heard next to you and you immediately jolted back in panic, slamming into Astarion's lower half.

“Gods! ” he wailed in pain.

Chaos ensued as fruit went flying off the table and rolling along the floor, the knife landing at your feet and the jarring sound of metal clattering around.

“Is everything alright?” Gale's alarmed voice was heard.

Lae'zel merely stood with arms crossed and looking as unfazed as ever.

“Could you two keep your mating rituals out of the kitchen?”

Your eyes widened at her accusation, crouching to clean up the mess. “Oh! No – no! We were not – Astarion was just… just talking about polishing this knife.” You immediately held the blade in your hand for Lae'zel to see.

She raised a brow instead. “Yes. I am quite sure Astarion wouldn't mind you polishing his knife.”

Your jaw dropped.

Astarion was still hunched over the table, clutching his crotch and spilling profanities.

Shit.

You must have hit him really hard.

Lae'zel threw a final scoff heavy with disapproval at both of you before pacing away.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it…” You started off, wincing as Astarion massaged the soreness away.

He waved a hand dismissively. “You're a menace even when you don't mean to.”

As he straightened up with a low growl, you noticed the colossal height difference.

Kneeling on the floor, you gathered the scattered fruit and utensils as you looked up at Astarion.

A playful smirk tugged at his lips when he met your gaze. “Not even going to kiss it better, darling?”

You were now at eye-level with his crotch and, for a moment, you thought he had rendered you speechless.

But two could play this game.

You placed a hand dramatically over your mouth. “Right here? In front of everyone? Astarion! ”

You hadn't bothered keeping your voice down and as you rose back to your feet again, you saw a couple of heads turn your way.

Gale looked utterly confused while Lae'zel rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the sword in her hands.

Astarion's smile only deepened. “Oh, you vicious little tease – that was good.”

You patted your clothes straight with a proud smirk before leaning in closer to his face.

“I learned from the best.”

And you quickly pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek.

He stirred briefly under your touch and you offered him a kind smile as you walked away, casually taking a bite off a pear.

“You should do that more often if it means we are greeted with his silence.” Lae'zel complimented as you sat by her side.

Astarion looked as though you had just slammed a frying pan on his head, but his eyes following your every move.

It wasn't every day that once could take pride in leaving Astarion speechless.

He could hand out the most intricate of innuendos laced with sexual tension, but show him small acts of affection, and he will be disarmed in an instant.

You still remembered that first hug you ever gave him in Moonrise Towers and how he was stunned at first.

“Are you malfunctioning, Astarion?” Shadowheart suddenly quipped as she trailed down the flight of stairs.

You giggled softly at how adorable he looked, even when he finally came to his senses and shook his head, frowning slightly.

“They were engaging in some bizarre pre-mating ritual,” Lae'zel spoke up, inspecting her sword up close. “Seems like she won. Not that I'm surprised.”

Shadowheart winced, disgust splattered all over her face.

Gale chose the wrong time to sip his camomile tea and nearly choked, and you rushed to his side to pat him on the back.

“You do have a way with words, no doubt,” he drawled out, clearing his throat.

Even as used to her bluntness as you were, you still felt heat rush to your cheeks. “We were not doing such a thing.”

She merely shrugged.

Having snapped out of his previous stunned state, Astarion cleared his throat. “You sound jealous, Lae'zel. Should we invite you over?”

You gave him a murderous look, which only served to fuel his boldness.

“Jealous of what, Astarion? Getting kicked in the balls?”

He scoffed.

A soft knock on the door was heard and Shadowheart swiftly moved to open it.

Your stomach flipped momentarily, hoping it wasn't an undesired visit yet again.

But your worries were laid to rest as Wyll strolled in, accompanied by a Fist.

You bolted from the sofa, pulling him into a hug, which he promptly returned.

“I would normally welcome your visit, but the look on your face tells me you don't come bearing good words.” Gale said, tension heavy in his voice.

Wyll parted from you and his silence was truly revealing.

You shuddered and felt panic rising inside you. “What is it? What happened?”

He forced a warm smile. “Shall we take a seat?”

“Or…” Astarion said with a deep scowl. “... you could simply spit out whatever ill-news you're about to drop on us without the unnecessary foreplay.”

Wyll sighed as you motioned for him to take a seat, as everyone else followed suit. The Fist stopped by his side, an unreadable face turned to Astarion.

“Can I get you something?” you asked.

He shook his head vehemently. “I am not staying long. Just offering an update on the murder case.”

You heaved a deep breath, eyeing him expectantly.

“Well? Get on with it,” Astarion goaded impatiently with a click of his tongue.

Shadowheart seemed quite tense all of a sudden and Lae'zel kept a hand on her sword handle.

“It seems that Astarion is no longer a suspect.”

You watched as he rose from his seat with a smile. “Finally. Glad this is all settled!”

“Not so fast,” Wyll said, his face heavy. “Have a seat.”

He sank back into the chair with a deep scowl and crossed arms as a child who had just been told to finish their vegetables.

“After talking to some of the passers-by from that night, the general consensus is that you were the only one they spotted,” Wyll said, turning his head to you. “No one recalls a second person being there, let alone that person being Astarion.”

Your heart dropped before speeding up again.

“What… does that mean?” you said in a whisper.

There was a brief silence and you could feel the tension in the room becoming increasingly more palpable.

“For all intents and purposes, you are regarded as the only offender.”

A cold layer of sweat took over your body all at once.

“Nonsense,” Astarion scoffed in disbelief. “I was there with her. I got captured.”

This time, the Fist was the one to speak, “You offered to get captured, spawn .”

“I wasn't talking to you, Fist .”

You felt Gale's arm around your shoulder protectively. “Wyll, this is ludicrous. No one here murdered anyone.”

He nodded. “I agree. I do believe this to be a grave misunderstanding. However, upon closer inspection of the body, there were some interesting findings.”

You were too stunned to utter a single word, thankful that your companions were doing the talking instead.

Lae'zel's grip on the sword intensified, her stare glued to the plate-armoured Fist. “Such as?”

“Necrotic magic reminiscent of that found in the Szarr palace.”

You watched as Astarion stilled all of a sudden, lips pressed together.

“Which we cannot further compare since someone burned down the entire place,” the Fist said, eyes shifting to Astarion.

The grand manor had gone up in flames not long ago, and you did know Astarion had had a hand in it, but with no proof of his crime, there was no effective way to pin him to it.

But it had been enough to strain his relationship with The Flaming Fist with only Wyll being able to keep them at bay.

“Accusing me of arson now? My, my, add it to my tab, dear,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

But Wyll's patience was wearing thin. “None of this makes any sense. If the two of you are not to be blamed for this – which I definitely stand by – then who could benefit from tangling you into this mess?”

Ava.

Your mind immediately jumped to her.

You had no idea what purpose that could serve, but your instinct seldom failed you.

Even so, you remained silent.

“We are to continue the investigations, naturally,” Wyll went on with a nod. “Necromancy is grounds for imprisonment. Whoever did this, needs to be found and brought to justice.”

Astarion tumbled his fingers on the table. “Well, if you are so sure we are innocent, then let us go.”

“Justice should be blind. I know it is not always the case, but as a former magistrate, I am sure you can agree on the principle.”

Astarion waved dismissively. “It's a sound principle on paper, but its application is tainted and unjust. No one expects the lordlings of Baldur's Gate to answer for any crime.”

Wyll's face twisted into a faint frown. “As true as that might be, I am not keen on upholding such practice. Friend or foe, everyone must face the consequences of their actions.”

A mysterious smile settled on Astarion's lips, but he didn't retort.

Shadowheart cleared her throat. “I could lend my expertise in the matter, Wyll. I could examine the body myself. I have some contacts in the city that could aid me, but I shall need a sample.”

He seemed to hesitate at first, but then slowly nodded. “Very well.”

“So what now?” you finally found your voice again, eager for any glimmer of hope.

Wyll gave you a kind smile. “My friend, do not fret. I am keeping you both here as safekeeping for now. The Council of Four remains sceptical, but if someone did try to frame you, then it is best to stay out of sight.”

You gave him a reluctant nod, realising that time was the only thing on your side for now.

“We've increased the security outside,” the Fist said flatly. “We've added detection spells and mage slayers on rotation.”

You looked up, startled. “ Mage slayers? ”

Gale shared your indignation, the arm around you tensing up. “That is quite extreme.”

“Is it?” Wyll asked. “You two are quite powerful at magic, my friends – but there is always a bigger fish.”

“No wonder my magic has been wavering this morning,” Gale said, rubbing at his chest before pacing towards the window and taking a peek behind the black curtains. “ Two? Wyll, this is–”

“Necessary. For now.”

You swallowed hard, burying your face in your hands in sheer frustration.

“On a lighter note” Wyll began once again. “I was informed that you are to go to Waterdeep to meet with your contact.”

Gale returned to his seat, looking livid. “Yes. We are expecting some proper information on the Wish spell.”

“Good news, then, Astarion,” he said with a soft smile.

He threw a poisonous glare at him instead. “Seeing is believing, or so they say. I will not be celebrating until I am strolling down the sunlight streets of this city without having my ashes being swept off the pavement and into an ashtray..”

Wyll gave him a light-hearted laugh before rising to his feet, adjusting his cloak. “Fair enough. Though my offer still stands, should things go awry.”

That immediately piqued your interest. “What offer?”

Astarion shrugged. “Oh, dear Wyll made me an offer after becoming duke.”

“Which you refused.”

He nodded with a frown. “I am not a dog to order around.”

Your gaze kept switching between the two of them, feeling lost.

“That was never the implication of my offer, friend. You know the nightlife of Baldur's Gate better than anyone. Your intel would be of great value,” Wyll said in exasperation.

“And you are an adequate rogue,” the Fist said.

Astarion immediately scoffed. “ Adequate? I could have you pinned to that wall at the tip of my dagger faster than you can say ‘Baldur's Gate’,” he said with a laugh, but his words held no humour.

“I'd like to see you try, spawn."

Astarion drew his dagger from its sheath, twirling it playfully between his fingers.

Wyll quickly intervened. “It's not one or the other, Astarion. You could have both. We would keep searching for a way to cure your vampirism, while you'd take to the streets to help us fight wrongdoers.”

Well.

It did sound like a solid proposal.

“I would still need to feed.”

“We would bring you fresh carcasses at your demand.”

Astarion was now inspecting his nails. “What about thinking creatures?”

Wyll tensed up immediately. “No.”

Astarion smiled playfully. “Then I'm better off with my current arrangement. The blood of carrion can only do so much for my body and mind.”

He exchanged a look with you.

“I don't mind helping you out,” you said firmly.

Wyll sighed heavily. “Well, I do not like that arrangement one bit, but it's your blood, so it's your choice.”

As he paced towards the door after bidding his goodbyes, you hurried after him.

“I have a favour to ask.”

He arched an inquisitive brow. “What is it?”

You took a deep breath, glancing around to make sure no one could listen.

“I need to go to The Blushing Mermaid.”

Wyll's eyes widened. “The Blushing Mermaid? Why?”

“I need to talk to someone there,” you said in a whisper. “And maybe you should come, too.”

He chuckled. “My days sneaking into that tavern are long gone, my friend. It would not be suitable for the Duke of Ravengard to visit such a place.”

You shook your head, grasping his hand in a plea. “ Please . There's this woman. Astarion's… acquaintance . Ava. She is – or used to be – a monster hunter and she has been taking blood from him.”

You blurted out the words in one breath, hoping he wouldn't ask you to repeat yourself.

If there was anyone who might be able to help you with this issue, it would be Wyll. After all, his experience as a monster slayer and as the Blade of Frontiers had to account for something.

He looked positively flabbergasted. “A monster hunter… bedding a… vampire spawn?” he drawled out as if trying to make sense of your words.

That effectively struck a nerve in you. “She is not bedding him… but there is something off about her.”

“Ava you say? That name doesn't ring a bell.”

You mustered all your courage. “Please let me go talk to her… I have a feeling she might be involved in this entire mess.”

That caught his attention. “You think she's behind this? No respectable monster hunter would resort to Necromancy.”

“She's meddling with Alchemy now.”

He seemed… alarmed.

“Very well. I cannot accompany you today, but tomorrow we shall go there.”

You expected more resistance from him, and his sudden availability made you feel very wary all of a sudden.

“How bad do you think this is?”

The Fist appeared from behind Wyll, startling you. “My Lord, we ought to go. We have a council meeting to attend.”

Wyll nodded and gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe it's nothing at all.”

Maybe it's nothing, but it could be anything…

As he moved out and the door closed behind him, Astarion hurried to join your side, clearing his throat.

“You two have gotten quite close.”

You scoffed at him, not in the mood for indulging in his banter.

“Well, being pleasant to others has its perks.”

Astarion smirked widely, his fangs peeking through. “I can be pleasant, darling.”

You rolled your eyes.

But it seemed that Astarion was bent on having your attention on him.

“So… sweet and righteous Wyll?”

You squinted, realising where this was headed. “Are you jealous, Astarion?”

As expected, he didn't bend easily to your taunt as he was a master at it and an equally skilled dodger.

So, he merely held his smirk, seeing through your intent.

“Can I feed on you tonight?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Right.

He still needed to feed.

His bluntness caught you slightly off guard. “Uh… of course.”

You watched as his smile only grew wider before he leaned in to plant a quick kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes widened as the coldness of his lips parted from your skin and your mouth fell agape.

“Splendid.”

And he swiftly went back to his embroidery duties, humming some camp songs as if he hadn't just made your heart almost implode.

Across the room, you spotted Lae'zel rolling her eyes.

Astarion came to you in the dead of night.

The door to your room clicked shut behind him and you immediately felt your body react to his presence.

With only candlelight and the muted glow from the moon spilling through the uncovered windows, you realised he looked more beautiful than ever.

Your heartbeat nearly doubled as you rose from your bed, waiting for him to close the distance.

And he did.

With sure and slow steps, he came to you.

His black shirt held a new embroidery near the collar.

Exquisite needlework.

He held a faint smile as you traced the flowery lining with one finger.

“This is beautiful.”

“My fingers can make or break,” he whispered softly, his crimson eyes set on you. “Depending on what the situation requires, that is.”

You swallowed hard as his words seeped through your mind, reminding you that the man before you had experience and knowledge in matters you could only dream of achieving.

He held your chin, gently tilting your head, and your eyes fluttered shut as you waited for a kiss.

And he did kiss you.

Just not where you expected.

Or wanted.

His lips lingered on the swell of your cheek, your body already accustomed to the difference in temperature.

“I was thinking…”

He hummed, tilting your head slightly to the left, so he could mirror the kiss on the other cheek.

“You can feed on me more often, if you'd like…”

Astarion pulled back slowly, an elegant eyebrow arched. “More often?”

“Yes. If you want to, of course.”

He eyed you in disbelief, the thumb on your chin rubbing gently circles. “If I want to? Darling, if I had it my way, I would feed on you every single day.”

His words hit hard and not because the prospect of that scenario scared you.

But because you wished he would do it.

The moments when he fed on you belonged to the two of you alone.

No one could interfere in the intimacy of it.

He would not feed on anyone else but you.

And that sort of craving was easy to get addicted to.

You wanted him to want you.

To feel comfortable enough with you that he wouldn't seek anyone else.

“Maybe we can do it every other day, then?” you suggested, nearly gasping as his thumb moved up to trace your lower lip.

Astarion glared at you in silence for a moment, caressing your flesh and occasionally teasing further by pushing past your lips.

“Do you have enough scrolls of Lesser Restoration for that?”

You nodded, feeling his thumb being pushed inside.

“So, I can feed more often…” he said, eyes dropping to your mouth.

He sounded absolutely delighted and you closed your lips around him, earning a low growl of approval.

Then you let go and he moved to your lower lip once again.

“More often, but less quantity.”

He nodded with a smile. “Seems fair.”

The room was already heavy with sexual tension, and you needed to disperse it before things escalated too quickly.

“Are you still tender down there?” you asked sweetly.

“Well, there is only one way to test out if you haven't caused irreparable damage.”

Oh.

Of course.

You felt a wave of heat flush to your face at his words.

Because Astarion would get an erection eventually.

It was expected and, at this point, more than welcome.

“Go on. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to your bed.

You stared at him in confusion. He usually fed on you while standing. It was more practical and less intimate.

But then it dawned on you that maybe that was what he was aiming for.

“This one might be a long feed.”

Your expectations shattered at once and you gave him a hesitant stare, remaining rooted in place.

“Honestly, after all the times I fed on you, you still worry I might take it too far?”

“Can you blame me?”

He chuckled, placing both hands on your shoulder before planting a kiss to the back of your head.

“I suppose not, but you are free to press a stake to my chest just in case,” he said teasingly.

You picked a scroll from inside the bedside table, placing it carefully atop as it waited for the inevitable moment.

Slowly, he let go of you so you could settle back on your back, feeling the soft mattress envelop your body.

Your legs were firmly pressed together and you laced your hands in each other and on your stomach, waiting for his move.

Astarion hunched over you before shifting until his face met yours.

You felt the mattress dip under you as he got on top.

At this point, your heart was drumming so loudly in your ears, that it drowned out any other noise.

Unexpectedly, you felt his lips on yours, but before you could react, he had lowered himself until you felt his tongue swiping along the skin of your neck.

Just like clockwork, you felt a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body and lingering between your legs. You tensed up and clutched your hands together more fiercely, bracing yourself for what was to come.

The initial sting made you jolt lightly as he pushed his fangs further into you, before his lips closed around the wound and he began to suck.

The first gasp didn't take long to spill from your lips from the sound of his faint moans.

The throb between your legs continued to intensity with each passing second, and you prayed to any god above to spare you from succumbing to the lurking lust.

You felt him untangle your hands and pinning both your wrists together and above your head as he lowered himself even further.

And much to your embarrassment, your legs instinctively parted to accommodate him as he pressed further into you.

Gods… no, no, no….

This was not good at all.

Even through the fabric of your trousers, you could feel his growing erection nudging against you.

Astarion's chest rumbled in a growl of approval and you couldn't keep your hips from rolling, seeking that delicious friction.

You balled your fists as your back arched when his hips began to match yours.

No… no…

The throb in your head was nearly blinding from the blood being drained whilst the one in between your legs only intensified.

“Astarion…” you moaned through gritted teeth.

He slowed down ever so slightly, but you quickly realise it was even more torturous as you could now feel the clothed underside of his thick cock teasing between your folds.

Oh, you were not going to last long like this…

You were too hungry for him to deny yourself from reaching your peak as he fed on you.

Even as your body became weaker, you could still feel yourself walking dangerously fast to the precipice, yearning that sweet release.

“I'm going… I'm going to…” you mumbled, feeling wetness drip from you as your body readied itself for him to be inside you.

Your breathing quickened and your gasps began to merge together as his cock dug harder against you with each roll.

And just as your eyes closed shut and your mouth parted to welcome the pinnacle of your pleasure, you felt him pull back with a guttural growl.

Blood trailed down his lips and chin and neck and you nearly cried tears of overwhelming frustration as you were denied your release.

He moved to grip the scroll and shoved it into your hand.

“Say it.”

Astarion knelt in between your legs, fumbling with the lacing of his trousers, his bulge strained against the fabric and you spotted the familiar stains of precum.

“Say it…” he urged you with a growl.

But you could only stare, mesmerised at the beautiful sight of relief he let out once he managed to ease pressure that had built up.

It made your mouth water and you suddenly felt the urge to touch yourself.

“Say. It .”

As if he had just snapped you from a dream, you quickly mumbled the incantation as the scroll vanished into thin air.

Your heart was hit with newfound vigour as warmth spread throughout your body on rhythmic waves.

Astarion slid off the bed, adjusting himself through his clothes with a whine.

He looked so beautiful… ears flushed pink and a tint of a blush on his face as your blood coursed through him.

The swell and throb didn't fade and you allowed your fingers to dip slightly under the waistband, wanting nothing but release.

He eventually locked eyes with you, licking the remnants of your blood from his lips, pacing closer to you.

With a gasp, you felt him tug at the strings of your own trousers, eyes dark and pupils fully blown.

“Do what you must.”

He had loosened them just enough for your hand to slide inside, and you couldn't contain the moan that erupted from within you once the pads of your fingers brushed against the throbbing swell between your legs.

Instinctively, you began to roll your hips, feeling just how ridiculously soaked you were for him.

Your half-hooded eyes landed on his lower half, taking in the sight of the precum that had seeped through the fabric and wishing you could see his cock.

Astarion's cock always looked the prettiest after he had fed on you: all flushed pink, bulging veins snaking around his length, precum dribbling down…

But it seemed that he had no intention of granting you your wish, and you felt guilty for craving it in the first place, knowing he probably just wanted to take his time.

So you stopped your ministrations, which earned a disapproving growl from him.

“Keep going. I can hear how wet you are for me and it's music to my ears,” he whispered, before kneeling at your side. “Be a good girl… please .”

Your hips bucked at the caress from his words.

His face was so close, but his eyes were fixed on your hand that moved under your trousers, your own fingers teasing your entrance.

“You just slid one inside, didn't you?”

You bit down on your lip, nodding with a whimper as you clenched around yourself.

“Gods… you can take another one, can't you?”

Your back arched and your eyes fluttered shut. “Astarion…”

His lips ghosted yours. “Add another one…”

His voice was dripping with lust and it was all the incentive you needed to push a second one inside.

You tried to remember how his cock felt inside you. How full you always felt and how much cum he spilled inside you.

Your fingers were no match for him.

He felt so much better…

How you wished he would replace your fingers with his, going knuckle-deep and drawing out the most desperate moans and pleas from you.

He finally pressed his now warm lips against yours and you eagerly deepened the kiss, tasting your blood on his tongue.

You kept riding your own fingers and you nearly whimpered as his hand came to rest on your forearm, thumb caressing your heated skin.

He broke the kiss not long after and your eyes snapped open as you were about to voice a complaint.

Astarion was on his feet again, fingers expertly tying the front of his trousers once again, drawing a pained hiss as his hard cock was once again strained.

You whimpered in response, rolling your hips desperately as your fingers edged you closer and closer.

��It's frustrating, isn't it?” he asked as he finished working on the lacing, crushing your hopes of seeing his cock leaking precum for you.

“Now you know how it feels..." he said, a devious smile crossing his face. "Besides, I still wonder if this is what friends do."

Your jaw slacked open as a gasp mixed with a whine escaped your lips from his taunting words.

No. No. No...

"See, you never gave me an answer, darling."

You removed your fingers from deep within you with a long and pained whine on the verge of tears.

"I'll leave you to figure it out, then."

Before you could voice a protest, he slipped out of the room quickly, and you vaguely wondered if he had been there at all if not more the ache between your legs and the fresh puncture wounds in your neck.

Fuck.

TBC

series masterlist . ao3

#astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x female tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader

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