#actually ask me if the things people say are true and what my explanation is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr has a low social media market share in South America.

#actually ask me if the things people say are true and what my explanation is

dancingbirdie · 8 months

Note

Okay so on Astarion, I was reading this fic about him not knowing Tavs true intentions with him and it bothering Astarion a lot, so what if he goes to some mage or magic user and asks them to show Tavs true intentions to him, when he does the vision he sees is just... being snuggled. It's Tav on top of him and the both of you are falling asleep, his hands are under your shirt softly petting your skin as your sleepy self is contently snuggled up to him. I just start crying about him finding out that Tavs DASTARDLY and EVIL plan with him, their greatest desire from him... is to simply be held. 🥺

Hi @goblin-creatcher! Thank you so much for this BEAUTIFUL prompt. I, uhh, kind of took it and went a million miles an hour with it. This is honestly one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it as well! xoxoxo

Something Imagined / Something Real

Word Count: 3.9K

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Warnings/Tags: Brief but detailed description of rough consensual sex, descriptions and references to Astarion's trauma/trauma responses, minor Act 1 and Act 2 spoilers, FLUFF, angst

Suggested Song Pairing: Slow Dancing in A Burning Room (Stripped) - cover by ST LUNA

Summary: Astarion has been suspicious of Tav’s true intentions toward him. He persuades Gale to cast a spell and reveal her motivations. ANGST and FLUFF ensue. A rewriting of Astarion’s confession scene from Act 2.

The sun had just begun to set on the campsite when Astarion decided to put his plan into action. He had waited until Tav departed with some of the other party members before making his way over to the wizard. Gale was too busy reassembling the bookshelf inside his tent to notice Astarion’s approach. It wasn’t until he gave a polite cough that Gale jumped and whirled to face him.

“No, no, no,” he began all at once, hands raised in a sort of shooing motion. Astarion stared at him in confusion. “I can respect Tav’s indulging in your need for blood, but as I’ve said before: I taste terrible.”

Astarion scoffed. “Charming. Actually, wizard, I was coming to request your aid in a different, though somewhat related, matter.”

“Really? Care to elaborate?” Gale responded, still somewhat wary. It wasn’t often he found himself alone with the vampire.

“Testy, I see,” Astarion crooned teasingly. His knee-jerk response to people treating him like a monster, to behave in the most false saccharine sort of way.

But he drew up short, censoring himself before saying anything else he might regret. He knew he needed to get on the wizard’s good side if he had any chance of getting the answers he sought.

“I was hoping you knew a spell to reveal someone’s true intentions. Their… motivations for behaving in a certain way, so to speak,” he finished more seriously.

Gale pondered the question for a moment before answering.

“Hmm… yes, there is magic to determine that sort of thing… Although it’s been some time since I practiced it…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Why are you asking for such a thing?” he asked suddenly.

Astarion had been prepared for this question, of course. No one did anything for free, no questions asked. He delivered his explanation perfectly, as he’d been rehearsing in his mind.

“One might say our dear sweet Tav and I have been growing a bit… closer these days, but I can sense a master manipulator when I see one. I just simply want to ensure their intentions toward me - toward the party - are true,” he replied with mock innocence.

“Ah, yes,” Gale nodded. “I gathered as much when the two of you slipped away from the tiefling’s party a few nights ago.”

“But,” he continued on,”I needn’t think you should worry when it comes to Tav. She seems about as transparent as they come. I’m sure any intentions she has toward you are true.”

Yes, but the best actors always mask their motivations behind innocence and transparency, Astarion thought to himself. I should know. I’ve been doing it for centuries.

After the party’s unfortunate meeting with that Gur in the Sunlit Wetlands, Astarion realized he would have to take potential threats from Cazador even more seriously. He wasn’t about to lose his freedom, not now that he finally had some small taste of it.

It didn’t hurt to be more suspicious of everyone he encountered, even the sweetling Tav. Anyone could be an operative sent by Cazador, and the best ones would be as skilled as he was in the art of manipulation. It was well-known at this point that the person he’d grown the closest to on their journey was their brave party leader, Tav. Unlikely as it may be that she was scheming for his master, Astarion’s paranoia wouldn’t let him indulge in interactions with her a second longer unless he knew how she truly felt.

Given Gale’s hesitation, Astarion knew he would have to kick his acting up a notch. Press on that wizard’s heartstrings. Touch the one nerve he knew he was sensitive to.

“Gale, darling, from one literally damaged soul to another, indulge me just this once,” Astarion beseeched him.

The wizard glared at him a moment, before finally relenting with a heavy sigh. “Fine. Fine. But I want it known that I don’t agree with this so-called solution one whit,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, yes, noted and formally documented, on my word as a former Baldurian magistrate,” Astarion replied cheerily. “So, let’s hop to it then, shall we?”

“What, right now?” Gale asked, shocked. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, a little less conspicuous?”

“What better time than now?” Astarion responded. “Tav’s out gathering firewood with Wyll and Karlach. They won’t be back for some time. As for Lae’zel and Shadowheart, well…” he paused, gesturing over his shoulder.

Said two were engaged in a heated sparring session on the outskirts of the camp. Snarls and curses could be heard emanating from both warriors as they tried, and failed, to gain the upper hand against their opponent.

“That lovers’ dance could go on until morning,” Astarion finished.

“Fair point,” Gale admitted begrudgingly, grimacing at the sound of swords clashing violently. “Very well. Let’s get started.”

Clearing his throat, Gale began to utter a series of phrases completely foreign to Astarion. He watched as the wizard began moving his hands in a wavelike pattern, forming a circle before them. Suddenly, a mist began to form from seemingly thin air, taking shape according to the boundaries Gale’s hands were creating. The mist grew more and more opaque until it appeared before them like a clouded mirror.

As the fogginess of the ethereal magic began to clear, the “mirror” became a confusing blur of scenes whipping by, too fast for Astarion or Gale to really comprehend. There were flashes of Tav and Astarion, together and separate, but they disappeared too quickly to ascertain their context. It was as though the spell was shuffling through the entirety of Tav’s thoughts, assessing each one at breakneck speed.

Finally, the spell slowed to a halt, stopping on one scene in particular. Astarion was struck speechless by what began playing out in the foggy portal before them. So distracted, he didn’t even notice Gale’s tight cough, or how the wizard suddenly became intensely interested in a copse of trees nearby, rather than the revelation the spell was revealing.

Not that the scene was especially profound, objectively speaking. In fact, to anyone else, it might be viewed as the least revelatory thing possible that the spell could have shown. Boring. Inconsequential, even. But to Astarion, it was almost earth shattering.

He saw himself - he could see his face! - with Tav, lying tangled together in some immaculate four-poster bed.

That was the first shock that coursed through him, nearly causing his knees to buckle. He was seeing himself for the first time in over 200 years. Or at least, he was seeing himself as Tav saw him. And… the person he saw… Well, he was gorgeous. White blonde locks, curled and tousled in a devil-may-care sort of way. A strong, patrician nose that suggested good breeding. High, sharp cheekbones. Full lips, upturned in a thoughtless grin. Red eyes bordered by long, sweeping lashes. Delicately pointed elven ears. Smooth alabaster skin, without blemish or spot.

Astarion could scarcely believe his own eyes.

The second shock to his system was the nature of their activities. He would have been less surprised had the vision shown them fucking. Him taking her roughly from behind perhaps. His name a cry of ecstasy from her lips as he pistoned in and out of her with a feral sort of determination.

Fantasies of lust, of total domination, now those were things he was familiar with inspiring in the minds of the victims he had taken as lovers. It was what he strove for, in all honesty. Desire like that all but ensured he would capture his prey and live to serve another day for his master.

But nothing of the sort was occurring between vision-Tav and himself. Instead, they were just… embracing? What in sweet hells was this?

She lay halfway on top of him. Her hair was mussed, perhaps from sleep or perhaps from previous lovemaking. One hand was drawing absentminded shapes across his chest, her lips trailing behind, leaving kisses in their wake. He watched as vision-Astarion chuckled softly, as his hands slipped beneath her sleepshirt to caress her waist, as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of Tav’s head. Eventually, she reached for his hand. They both watched their fingers intertwine, blissfully content.

It was the purest, unadulterated expression of affection that Astarion had ever seen. Something in his heart quaked at the sight of it. He wanted that moment. He envied, he hated, vision-Astarion for enjoying such apparent happiness.

So absorbed in the vision and its implications, Astarion failed to notice the soft padding of feet that indicated someone’s re-entry into the camp.

“If the two of you are quite finished poking around in my head,” an angry voice suddenly spat from behind them, “I’d appreciate you preserving what little privacy I have left and shutting that damn spell off.”

Mortified, Astarion and Gale turned to see Tav, arms crossed and visibly seething with rage. Gale quickly dispelled the magic with a flick of his wrist. A blush was slowly but surely rising up Tav’s neck to reach her cheeks. Whether from rage or embarrassment, Astarion couldn’t be certain.

“Tav, let us explain-” Astarion started.

“It was his idea-” Gale blurted at the same time, pointing at Astarion.

Both paused, glaring at one another. But Tav would have none of their feeble attempts at backpedaling.

“The explanation doesn’t matter. Whose idea it was doesn’t matter. The fact is that both of you violated the privacy of my mind, which I’ll remind you, has ALREADY been violated by having a bloody tadpole forced inside of it!” Tav shouted. At their words, the camp became enveloped in a heavy silence. Even the crickets ceased their chirping.

Astarion cringed inwardly, knowing the other party members could plainly hear this altercation and had likely stopped whatever it was that they had been doing to listen in. He noted the sounds of swords clanging together had ceased. He was certain Lae’zel and Shadowheart at least were aware of what was happening. Nosy bastards, all of them.

But what disturbed him even more was the realization that Tav’s eyes were welling with tears. She was too proud to acknowledge them or wipe them away. Such was her nature. But they were there nonetheless, and the knowledge that Astarion had brought her to the point of tears was enough to spur a rush of utter self-loathing inside him.

Without another word, Tav turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of camp, toward the direction of a nearby creek they’d identified as a water source earlier in the day.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to perform that spell,” Gale said as she disappeared between the trees. He dragged his hands down his face.

“How could we have been so doltish, forgetting that all of our privacies have already been violated with this tadpole business?”

Astarion didn’t have an answer to that. At least, not one the wizard could possibly understand.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Astarion, he realized, because violations of privacy had been something so intrinsic to his being for over 200 years. He didn’t even recognize it as something abnormal. Like a fish unaware that the water surrounding it is, in fact, water.

Violations of privacy were a part of life, at least for him. So much so that his request for Gale to perform that magic hadn’t even occurred to him as an overstepping of boundaries. To Astarion, it had simply been a matter of survival. He had needed to know another potentially manipulative person’s true intentions, and so he had found a means to uncover it and maintain the upper hand.

Belatedly, he also realized that Gale’s hesitation to cast the spell had had nothing to do with being inconvenienced for the evening, but because the wizard had known that it was improper to do to another person. If he had misread that, Astarion wondered, then what other truly benevolent behaviors had he mistaken as pragmatic manipulation?

“I need to go find her,” Astarion murmured, clenching and unclenching his fists in an uncharacteristic fit of uncertainty.

“Yes, you do,” Gale asserted. “We both owe her a sincere apology… if she’ll even accept it.”

“I’ll see if I can convince her to come back to camp,” Astarion replied, making to leave in the direction Tav had stormed off.

“Wait,” Gale said, a hand on his shoulder. Astarion turned to meet his gaze.

“Look, well, I’m obviously not an expert in healthy demonstrations of affection. But I do think it’s obvious from what you saw in that spell that Tav well and truly cares about you. In perhaps the purest way possible. Treat that carefully.”

Part of Astarion wanted to laugh aloud in utter hopelessness at the wizard’s advice. Someone cared for him? Truly and purely? No hidden games, no strings attached? Oh certainly, that wouldn’t be a problem for Astarion at all. Obviously, his 200-year existence as a master-manipulator-fetch-hound for a power-hungry vampire lord had perfectly prepared him to respond to this situation in a healthy manner. Obviously.

But all that was too much to reveal to someone he barely knew and too heavy to say aloud. Rather than giving some smarmy retort, Astarion opted instead to give a stiff nod and continue walking toward the edge of camp. He had no idea how he could make things right with Tav, but at the very least he could try.

***

He found Tav sitting on a fallen tree near the edge of the creek bed. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she rested a cheek to her knees. In the waning twilight, she reminded Astarion of some misbegotten gargoyle perched on the roof of a temple, solitary and so very sad.

Her ears twitched as she noted his arrival. Astarion wasn’t trying to be stealthy. On top of everything else, the last thing he needed to do was scare her.

“Can I join you?” he asked softly, wincing to himself at the awkwardness of the question.

The reality was that there was no way to broach this conversation without some stilted beginning, and he hated it. Navigating tricky conversations was normally something he excelled at. But as he was quickly finding, when it related to Tav, nothing in his past life had prepared him to respond to her well.

“If you’d like,” Tav answered tonelessly.

Knowing it was probably the best response he was going to get, Astarion swallowed thickly and moved to sit down on the log next to her.

“I… wanted to… apologize for what you saw, back at camp,” he began.

“Apologize for doing it, or apologize for getting caught?” Tav asked as she turned her head to look at him, resting her other cheek on her knees.

Astarion balked at the question. Her piercing gaze unnerved him. He hadn’t really thought that far.

“Both, I suppose?” he answered honestly, although it sounded more like a question to Tav. She huffed a laugh.

“You know, part of me really wants to yell at you. Scream in your face. Tell you off proper,” she mused.

“So why don’t you?” Astarion asked, perplexed.

Tav didn’t respond at first, just sat there studying him. As if by staring at him long enough, she could project the answer into his mind.

Astarion didn’t interrupt her, much as he would have liked to. Part of him always bristled when people gazed at him for too long. It was unfair that they could study him, when he hadn’t been able to so much as glance at his reflection in over 200 years.

Finally, Tav released a heavy sigh, her body curling further in on itself. She closed her eyes as she spoke.

“Because then I would be just like every other bastard in your life who’s mistreated you.”

Astarion flinched in surprise. Those had not been the sort of words he’d been expecting. The truth of them cut deeper than had she raged at him like she wanted to. It left him feeling even more vulnerable, and that in turn made him want to retreat into the comfort of viciousness.

“I don’t need you to pull any punches,” he scoffed, glaring at her. “Go ahead and say what you will.”

She straightened up at his tone, opening her eyes and returning his glare.

“No. I don’t want to,” she said testily.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hissed. “It’s insulting.”

“Gods damn it all, Astarion!” Tav exclaimed suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise. She threw her hands up in defeat. “I’m not doing anything out of pity! I don’t want to rage at you, because I know that whatever I say right now, I won’t mean it come the morning!”

Astarion blinked. Once again he was left feeling flat footed by the turn of the conversation. Sensing his surprise, Tav continued on with her deluge of words.

“You hurt me tonight, and I’m angry at you - and at Gale, for that matter - for what you did. But you’ve shared enough of your… history… with me, that I realize your behavior is just… just a byproduct of centuries of abuse and manipulation you’ve endured! And I won’t be another abuser in your life. I won’t,” she asserted.

Astarion continued staring at her, as if she were some otherworldly creature that had just wandered across his path. He watched as Tav inhaled a deep breath, releasing it shakily. She turned away from him to peer out into the forest, uncertain. She opened and closed her mouth several times before actually speaking. As if whatever she was about to say was more intimidating to her than anything else she’d said tonight.

“I… care deeply for you, Astarion,” she said quietly. “You obviously saw that in the vision. I’m not playing any games. There’s no hidden motive. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

She turned to look at him again before continuing, her breathing a bit unsteady.

“I didn’t sleep with you that night of the tiefling party as some sort of maneuver to gain your trust. Although I understand if that was your motivation for doing so.”

Astarion’s expression morphed into one of guilt. But Tav nodded soberly, as if she had already expected it, before continuing on.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry. But I’m putting all my cards on the table now, so to speak. Actually, your decision tonight forced my hand, but I had been planning on telling you soon anyway. So, there you have it. The truth of my intentions. What you do with that information is up to you.”

She turned back to gaze out at their surroundings. Like she was giving him the opportunity to bolt away without her watching him. As if she expected him to flee from her confession.

But Astarion didn’t flee. He remained seated, staring at her in complete wonderment.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

She looked back at him again, confusion evident on her face.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care for me? You’re so… well-adjusted. And I’m well… this,” he finished lamely, placing a hand on his chest.

Tav pursed her lips. “It would be a mistake to misconstrue my empathy for you as me being well-adjusted. Everyone has their own demons, Astarion,” she murmured. “Mine just look different from yours.”

Astarion mulled her words over in his mind, considering them. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees, his head drooping slightly.

“I…,” he started, unsure. “That vision… what it implied… You deserve something real, Tav. You’re incredible… truly.”

Tav closed her eyes, bracing for the fallout. Even though she would accept his decision, whatever it was, she didn’t think she could bear to watch him deny her. It would hurt too much.

“Look. When we met, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan,” he blurted all at once. Rising swiftly to his feet, Tav watched as he began to pace before her, near to bursting with frenetic energy.

“Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me,” he counted off, laughing half-heartedly. “It was… easy - instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do… was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart,” he finished, stopping to stand before her.

She held his gaze, speechless.

“I want you,” he whispered fervently. “I want what was in that vision… I want us to be something real.”

Never in a million years had she thought he would respond to her like this. She opened her mouth to speak, but Astarion cut her off with another sudden exclamation.

“I just don’t know what real is,” he confessed, his tone a touch hysterical. Tav knew from his body language that being this transparent was completely out of Astarion’s comfort zone.

“Being… close to someone - any kind of intimacy - was something I performed to lure people back. For him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust, and loathing. I… I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to,” he finished, staring at her with beseeching eyes, willing her to understand.

Tav rose to her feet, coming to stand before him.

“I don’t want you for your body,” she whispered. “Or to perform any acts of intimacy. We can be together, without sleeping together, for as long as you need.”

“Really,” he asked softly, his voice pitched low, rough with emotion.

“Really,” Tav asserted, giving him a small smile. “Would it be all right if…” she paused, conflicted. He eyed her curiously.

“Could I hug you?” she whispered.

The fact that she asked before doing so caused a well of emotion to spring up inside him. Eyes watering, Astarion nodded.

Slowly, Tav moved forward to wrap her arms around his waist. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder. A perfect fit. He felt her exhale a deep sigh.

Tav hugging him was a sensation unlike any he had ever felt. At least, any he could remember feeling. The act of being touched, embraced, without any desire for something more. She just wanted to hold him, feel him close to her. It was incomprehensible to him, but utterly enjoyable, at the same time.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Astarion raised his arms to return Tav’s embrace. Drawing her even closer, he bowed his head to rest his cheek against her hair. It was soft, like the finest silk. He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, appreciating her sweet, floral scent.

She made to pull away after a moment, not wishing to overwhelm him. But Astarion gripped her more firmly, a silent urge for them to stay that way a little longer.

“This… this is nice,” he whispered.

He both felt and heard Tav hum contentedly in response.

It wasn’t identical to the vision from Tav’s mind that he had seen, but Astarion reveled in their embrace nonetheless. It felt like the beginning of something new. And for the first time in his very, very long life, Astarion felt excited at the prospects of what would come next.

#astarion #dancingbirdiewrites #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #baldur’s gate astarion #astarion x f!reader #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion fic #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic

6K notes · View notes

capslocked · 3 months

Text

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

k1ngpin42 · 14 days

Text

Abby being insecure about how needy she is ;)

Warnings: Not proof read at all 😭 I wrote this while sick at like 3am so sorry for this monstrosity. Pretty intense sexual references, some fluff if you can call it that.

“We shouldn’t be doing this…” Abby breathes out apologetically, bringing one of her large hands to the soft flesh on your face. You cock your head, smiling at her softly. Your wide eyes bring a smile of her own to Abby’s face as she makes the comparison to a deer in headlights in her mind.

“I just…” Abby explains, letting out a deep breath. “Don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I mean I- feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” You were stunned by her words. In fact, you were stunned by the whole situation. Abby; without her cocky fucking facade about her, the fact Abby would think she’s taking advantage of you.

You had wanted this from the start, so if in any plane of reality she was somehow taking advantage of you, you’d let her, 100 times over.

“What are you talking about? You know I love our sex…”

“I’m objectifying you.” Abby tries, and you let out a laugh in disbelief.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve tried not to think about it, but I can’t. It makes me feel so selfish I can barely say it.”

“Say what, Abby? I’m so confused-“

“I want to have sex with you. Every minute of every day. I think about you when you’re on assignments, I dream about you when you’re sleeping elsewhere, I want to fuck you senseless in front of everyone I- Jesus what am I saying? What am I doing, even? But it’s true I just…whether you’re wearing tight jeans, short skirts, long dresses, even a fucking hoodie I want to tear it off and do so many things to you. Maybe…maybe we should break up, this shouldn’t be normal, it isn’t-“ You stop her by planting a soft kiss on her lips.

Abbys gaze softened and her shoulders slouch back into place.

“Just calm down Abby….I love our sex. Fucking love it.”

“But-“ You shake your head, quickly preventing her doubts from festering.

“Love…we’re in a relationship….if you didn’t feel passionate for me there wouldn’t be much of one, would there? Now just look at the place around us. This place was once used for actual football…by people who lived in a world with an abundance of simple pleasures. We live in a world where pleasure is so much rarer, it’s no surprise that you revel in what we have…what you can give me….especially since you’re a soldier. Always so…tense.” She listens to your explanation intently and nods, hesitantly.

“I still feel…you know….” You look at her with a comforting smile, but it was still clear to her you weren’t a mind reader.

“I know that I love being around you…hugging you…kissing you…I could probably survive without the sex but I still feel like I’m using you somehow…I mean we’ve…” she clears her throat, now wondering why the word ‘sex' suddenly felt like poison in her throat.

“Had sex at least twice a day every day that we’ve been together. I mean that one Saturday I-“ She pauses and you both blush remembering it.

“You were still limping by Monday….” She concludes. You can’t help but laugh at her babbling.

“Abigail Anderson…this is emotional stuff, you know you should write this down…ooh maybe you can try poetry?” She shuts the idea down with a playful hit to your shoulder.

“Ow.” You laugh. Your smile fades a little and you close the gap between you guys, leaning into her ear.

“You think you’re the only one who craves it every day? I know you don’t want to hurt me but when you’re rough holy fuck….the marks you leave on my body…it’s stupid and embarrassing but I get off to them….” Her eyes widen.

“What? You never said-“

“Well because I thought it was toxic at the time-“

“Hey you said this stuff was normal!”

“It is!” You exclaim back, playfully. You both laugh and you kiss her deeply. She leans back onto her bed and you fall onto her lap, kissing her fully again.

“Hm, so what other shit do you want to tell me, then?” She asked, playing with your hair. You just smirk at her.

“To be honest…I think I’ve had enough talking for one afternoon wouldn’t you agree my little sex addict?” She rolls her eyes.

“You’re so annoying.” Abby replies, unbuckling her belt.

#abby anderson #tlou2 #ellie williams #abby tlou #abby x fem reader #sub abby

502 notes · View notes

help-itrappedmyself · 3 months

Text

Danny Punches a Clown Part 6

Masterpost

Danny, after many promises and assurances, lets Red Robin take him to the batcave. They travel by car, and as fancy as it was, Danny was almost scared to touch anything inside it. Red was a much better driver than his father though, so he just closed his eyes and focused on trying to keep his healing up.

The Batcave turned out to be an actual cave, underground, with actual bats in it. He was whisked to a medical area too quickly to see much of anything else besides some other vehicles and a giant computer set up.

Someone was waiting in the medical space with a tray of tools and bandages ready next to the bed, Red introduced him as Agent A. They were quick to lie him down on a cot and set him up to a heart monitor and that had Red and the A frowning immediately.

“It’s a medical condition.” Danny blurted, and both pairs of eyes shot to him. “My heartrate is naturally very slow, temperature runs cold, pale skin, slow circulation so I can't have a lot of different medications." Not that any medications would really work, but better safe than sorry. Them not working would be suspicious, and Danny does not have the energy or focus for trying to keep straight any real explanations right now. "It’s fine, I promise.”

Agent A nodded slowly. “Is there anything else we should know before we start treatment?”

“Just can't give me any medicines, I think that's the only relevant bit.”

“Alright, I will keep that in mind. Please lift your shirt so I can see the wound.”

Danny does, and they manage their expressions quite well on seeing it. Agent A goes immediately for creams and bandages.

“What burned you like that?” Red asked.

“Gun.” Danny was starting to slur. He did not want to sleep right now, with these people here.

“A gun? What kind of gun causes burns?”

“New blaster, parents made it special.”

“Your parents make guns?”

Danny shrugs, turning his head to look at Red instead of the far off ceiling of the cave. “My parents make lots of things. They're scientists, inventors." Danny waves his arm around vaguely. "The gun was new though, hadn’t been shot with that one before. The earlier versions were much less powerful.”

“Are you saying that your parents are the ones that shot you?” Red asked gently, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed. “It wasn’t just their gun that was used?”

Danny frowns. “Well yeah.”

Tim is very concerned at the tone he just used, like getting shot at by your parents was normal. “Do they shoot at you a lot?”

“Fair amount I suppose.” Red could see Danny thinking really hard about something. Dany’s head was really starting to hurt. His brain was fuzzy and he knew he should be concerned about something, but couldn’t figure out what. His parents shooting at him was nothing new, considering. “Like, they did it more than Vlad but I don’t see him as often, and they’ve done it longer than the GIW, but since the GIW has started they’ve been about equal I guess. I mean, sometimes all the defense systems in the house target me but that wasn’t technically intentional. Took forever for us to figure out how to get them to stop that.”

“Danny, when was the last time you slept?” Red asked gently.

Danny wasn’t sure if his blip earlier this morning counted. He didn’t think it lasted more than an hour, but the last time he slept before that was before his fight in Amity, escaping through the ghost zone and running around in this dimension.

“It’s been awhile.” Danny landed on. True enough for medical history he supposed.

“Right.” A finished the last of the bandages and tugged Danny’s shirt back down. “Well, why don’t you do that now, while we go and find you something to eat.”

“I’m too tired to fight food right now.”

Tim shared a look with Alfred before turning back to Danny. “Okay then. Maybe sleep first and then eat?”

“I will go start making something now that you’re all set up here Mister Danny.” Agent A states, walking past the medical curtains and shutting them behind him. Red pulled out a tablet and started tapping on it. He noticed Danny’s eyes on him after a moment.

“You going to sleep?”

“Strange place, strange people. Not sure that’s the best decision here.”

Red looked up from his tablet.

“You trusted me enough to come here. Trust me enough to sleep. I will make sure no one but me or A comes in before you’re ready.”

#danny phantom #my writing #fanfiction #batman #dp x dc #dc x dp #red robin #tim drake #agent a #alfred pennyworth #they've made it to the batcave #danny has now been awake for about 3 straight days #sort of #time is weird in the zone #danny punches a clown #dc x dp crossover #alternate universe

1K notes · View notes

azrielbrainrot · 4 months

Text

My Body Keeps Saying it's Yours

Pairing: Rhysand x Reader

Description: Some foolish males try to seduce you and Rhysand decides to show them who you belong to.

Warnings: Smut, Exhibitionism, Slight Dom/Sub dynamic, Abuse of power, Darker themes (not that much but just to be safe)

Word Count: 4304

Rating: 18+

Notes: This is just smut, couldn't get Rhys off my mind and this happened. Also I'm terrible with titles I'm so sorry. Enjoy!

You were making your way to your husband's office slowly. It wasn't that unusual for Rhys to ask you to come to his office in the middle of the day, you've shown up out of the blue so many times, for reasons as simple as finding a nice place for a nap or for a quickie on his desk, but something about the tone of his voice has you a bit nervous to find out what he's up to today.

Your suspicions are proven true when you open the door to find two males sitting on the sofa in the corner of his office, tied up in chains and, from the looks of it, under some sort of silencing spell, as they kept opening and closing their mouths to no avail, not being able to make a single sound. Their eyes were open wide in fear, almost begging you with their expression to help them.

You look back to your husband for an explanation but you find him sitting at his desk with a serene smile on his face, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. After a few moments of seeing you frozen in the middle of the office looking between the sofa and him, Rhys finally gets up, walking around his desk to stand in front of you.

“Welcome, my love.” He bends down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, still acting like this is a completely normal occurrence. At this proximity, you can, however, make out a glint in his violet eyes, one you know too well, one that promises trouble.

“What are they doing here, Rhys?” He merely keeps smiling down at you, running his thumb over your plush bottom lip. “What's going on?”

“I've never thought of myself as particularly lenient,” he starts with a sigh and traces a path down your jaw to the column of your throat, then wraps his hand fully around your neck, not pressing down, just holding you possessively, “but it seems some people still need to be reminded not to covet my things.” The new information has you frowning, looking back at the tied up males to try to make sense of it. “We're going to show them exactly who you belong to, darling.”

You remember now. These two males were invited to a banquet up in the House of Wind last weekend, just like so many of the more notable merchants in Velaris were. The economy in the city was thriving and Rhys thought it would be a good idea to celebrate the fae working hard to make that happen. The party lasted almost all night, which was to be expected in Velaris. Towards the end of the night, while Rhys followed through with his duties and entertained everyone in the room, you sneaked off to a quieter place for a moment to unwind. Azriel had sneaked off hours ago so you decided it was only fair that you got a break as well.

Unfortunately, two males, the ones present, had gotten too drunk or were just incredibly dumb and decided it was a good idea to try to seduce you, their High Lord's wife, in his own house. You tried not to cause a scene at the time, only slapping one of them and leaving Cassian to throw them out, but when you got back to the party, Rhys had immediately knocked at your mental walls to see what happened. You managed to convince him not to ruin the night for everyone and calm him down, showing him they hadn't actually done anything besides a few crude remarks.

Later that night, he had made it up to you, even apologizing for letting this happen. Of course you told him it wasn't his fault but you should have known your scheming High Lord wouldn't leave things at that. With a sigh you open your mind to him so hopefully he can show you what's going through his.

Do you trust me, darling? You'd be offended he even had to ask if you weren't so apprehensive about this situation. Every time you think you have a good read on his thoughts, he surprises you.

With anything. His answering smirk almost has you wishing to take the words back. He leans back against the edge of the desk, never breaking eye contact, and pulls you with him by your waist. Dropping a soft kiss to your lips, a kiss you know the meaning of too well. It's a reminder of sorts, of how much he loves you.

Your eyes move from his to the cowering males still tied up on the sofa. You have a feeling you know what he's about to do, what he wants to show them but you've never had an audience before. You can't help the anxiety in the pit of your stomach.

Do you want me to stop? You bite your lip and look back at him. You've never really thought about the possibility of anyone watching you in such a compromising position, but you don't think you're opposed to it at all. They won't do anything more than watch and you know Rhys will fix this if it all goes wrong anyway, one way or another.

No.

The look on his face as he leans down to kiss you again should be illegal, satisfaction and anticipation glowing beautifully on his features. This time there's nothing chaste about the kiss, it's nothing short of passionate. He's unhurried in his movements, letting himself taste you properly. I need you to be good for me now.

Breaking away from the consuming kiss, Rhys pushes you off him carefully to pick up one of the chairs by his desk. He carries it to the middle of the room and sets it back down so the confused males have a great view of it, sitting on it with spread legs, like a king on his throne.

He looks over to where you're standing and holds out a hand, you take it without hesitation, letting him guide you until you're standing in between his legs, with your back to them. You look down to his lap, taking notice of the bulge already waiting for you. He holds onto your waist to get your attention back on him.

“Take everything off first, my love.” You'd probably jump off the window to your left if he asked it in that tone of voice of his. You kick your shoes off first, slowly, while looking straight into his eyes. You know he has the power in this situation but you can't help but tease him at least a little, it'd be no fun if you just followed his every word blindly. He raises an eyebrow at the delay but he knows you too well, knows you don't really mean it.

The simple black dress drops to the floor soon after, leaving you only in your violet lacy panties. He seemed pleased at your choice, reaching out a hand to run his fingers over the hem of your undergarments. You thought he would be when you bought them, you just never imagined anyone else would see them. You suppose they help the point he's trying to make - a happy coincidence.

“I said everything.” You hook both your thumbs on each side of the panties and drag them down your legs slowly, making a show of bending down, letting your chest fall right into his line of sight. As you hear a gasp behind you, you remember they're also getting a show. The thought has you wanting to play into Rhys' idea even more, show them you'd never think of letting them touch you.

“Should I throw this at them?” You taunt as you dangle the piece of fabric from your index finger.

“No,” he reaches out for it and puts it in his pocket, “They don't get to smell how wet you are for me.” His words make you realize that you can't smell them at all, Rhys put up a shield between you. The possessive bastard.

“What will you have me do now, High Lord?” You know all too well exactly what he wants. Still, hearing him order you through it sounds delicious.

“On your knees, darling,” his smirk deepens when you obey immediately, “Take me out. Show them what you can do to me.”

You can see the imprint of his throbbing cock through his trousers. Not being able to resist playing with him a little you gather your hair to one side of your face and look up at him with doe eyes before leaning down to lick his erection through his pants, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the tip.

He hisses and grabs onto your hair, pulling your head away to look into your eyes. A warning. You try to fight your smile by biting your lip. You love when he gives you warnings.

Luckily for him, you can't wait to feel him in your mouth. You're also committed to showing the disrespectful males what they won't ever be deserving of. Reaching out for his trousers, you make quick work of the buttons holding them close. Pulling them and his underwear down enough to let his cock slap back to his stomach, looking painfully hard and absolutely delicious.

You grab onto it, feeling its familiar weight in your hand before wrapping your lips around the head, swirling your tongue around, tasting him. You pull back just to hear him growl and lick up a stripe up his length with a smile. Gods, he's going to wreck you tonight.

Taking him back into your mouth, you start taking as much of him as you can, getting lower with each bob of your head, sucking harder, tightening your hand at the base, just the way you know he likes. His hand tangles back in your hair, softer now. Almost petting your head and caressing your cheek tenderly as he watches you.

“Just like that,” he moans out, “Isn't she absolutely breathtaking?” His heavy lidded gaze moves from the exquisite view of your pretty mouth wrapped around his cock to the sorry excuses of males that dared to think they could take you from him. “Such a shame you won't ever get to feel her perfect mouth on you. Let me tell you, boys,” his gaze moves back to you, knowing the praise will get to your head, “It feels like heaven, hell and everything in between.”

You take him deeper in response, determined to get everything into your mouth. He rakes his fingers through your scalp and throws his head back in a breathless moan, letting himself get lost in the pleasure, forgetting the show momentarily. His hips start thrusting into your mouth, slowly at first to let you get adjusted but, when it's clear you can take it, he holds onto your hair tighter and takes over, fucking your throat with slow, deep thrusts.

You start to feel your arousal dripping down to your thighs. It seems you enjoy the spectators more than you thought you would, you don't remember the last time you were this wet without even being touched. Reaching a hand down your body, you gather some of your slick and bring it up, circling your clit in small motions, taking some of the edge off, moaning softly.

“Sucking my cock got you that needy?” He can try to tease you as much as he can but you can tell his voice is strained, he's getting close. Being watched is getting to him too, but it's the confirming moan you let out around his cock and whatever picture he finds in your open mind that has him moaning out your name and speeding up, uncaring of the slight choking noises erupting from you, cumming down your throat not long after.

He keeps thrusting into you slowly as he rides his orgasm out, mumbling mindless praise while stroking your head. After a few moments, he pulls you gently away from his sensitive cock and coos at you when you swallow the last bits of his cum without him even having to ask.

Rhys pulls you up and gives you a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. You wince slightly into his mouth as you take your likely bruised knees off the floor, moving up higher to sit across his lap so you can reach him better. Never breaking the passionate kiss, he starts caressing your sore knees, making you moan in contentment.

You're both lost in your own little world for a while, tasting and touching each other, but it seems like he remembered what you were there to do because he pulls away from you, smirking at the wrecked look on your face and the string of saliva connecting both your lips. You move back to suck his bottom lip into your mouth, licking the string connecting you away, drawing a breathless moan from his lips.

“We're being rude to our guests,” he says as he holds your hand up to his face, the still damp hand you had used to play with yourself before, and sucks the fingers into his mouth, moaning around them at your taste.

“You were the one who invited them.” As his tongue swirls around your digits, you can only think of the mind shattering pleasure he can bring you with that tongue. Your guests could keep watching or take a dive out the window for all you cared.

“And I promised them a show.” He takes your hand out of his mouth to speak and it brings a pout to your lips. It seems you won't get to feel his skilled mouth today. Later. You smile victoriously at the reassurance. So spoiled. That's your fault.

He smiles fondly at you before turning you around in his lap, leaning you back into his chest and spreading your legs over his, making you face said guests. Your eyes widen a bit at what you see, you hadn't looked their way since before you even took your clothes off. Being able to see them, with their faces morphed into awe and horror, and a noticeable bulge on their pants has a tiny glint of fear spark in your body.

Rhysand moves to reassure you as soon as he feels you tense, stroking your body tenderly and kissing your neck, whispering into your ear, “I'm right here.” You relax almost instantly, you don't have to worry about the consequences when you're with him. He wouldn't let either of them hurt you or even get close to you. “Let me take care of you.” You nod and relax further into him, letting him take over.

You let yourself wonder what you must look like in the males' eyes, spread over their High Lord, completely naked while he was fully clothed in his dark suit. One of his hands moves to rest on your stomach and the other grabs one of your legs, spreading them open even more so your guests can have a good look at your wet cunt, all for him.

“Having the privilege of watching is one you don't deserve,” he drops your leg, moving it over his so you can't close them even you wanted to, “But since you were brave enough to try to make a move on my wife,” he drags his hand from your stomach straight to where you need him most, playing around with the wetness, making you drop your head back into him with a soft moan, “It's only fair I show you exactly why you're not worthy of her.” Hearing him use his High Lord voice while he's taking care of you is making you tingly in all sorts of places.

After coating his fingers in your wetness, cursing softly at the amount he finds, he starts rubbing slow circles around your clit, just as you had done before. Letting you melt into him and become more malleable with each stroke.

“Do you hear that?” You open your eyes, not sure if he's talking to you or them but you get your answer when you see them nod with a terrified look on their faces. Seems like your husband got inside their minds. “That's all for me. All of this,” he pulls his hand away to show them the wetness clinging to his skin, connecting him to your pussy, “is mine.” You nudge your hips up, reminding him to keep giving you the attention you deserve after you did such a good job for him. He complies with a chuckle.

He speeds up his pace and moves one hand up to play with your nipples, teasing them just as he knows you like. When he starts tracing your neck with sloppy, open mouth kisses, biting you softly every so often, you realize he wants you to cum fast. You almost forgot he was trying to prove a point.

Your hips start chasing his hand, greedily wanting more. As you're moving back and forth, you can feel him already hard and ready for you again. This makes you moan louder and sink your nails into anything you can reach, one of those things being his arm.

“Want me to stop?” He purrs into your ear, slowing down slightly, pulling a growl out of you.

“Don't you dare.” You stab your nails deeper into his skin, smelling blood.

He just chuckles and picks back up the pace. Looking up to watch your guests squirming in their seats and, you assume, to fuck with their minds further. He widens his legs more, taking yours with his, baring you even more to them.

“I'm going to make her cum now,” you let out something between a whimper and a plea, “And when she does, I need you to hear exactly whose name she'll moan.”

True to his word, he speeds up again, touching you exactly how you need him to. You're really getting close, your moans start getting louder, a mix of his name and please escaping your parted lips, until the knot getting impossibly tighter breaks, washing you away in waves of ecstasy, pulling you under until you can't breathe.

It doesn't take you as long to come to, you weren't completely satisfied after all, he was intentionally neglecting your fluttering entrance. When you do, you notice he has moved his hand to cup your cunt. You almost think it's a way to cover you after the show is over but, as you notice the glint in his eyes as he's staring them on, you know it's a way to mark his claim even more.

“Rhysand.” You've played his game and you know the poor idiots more than got the message. You want him now.

“Tell me, darling.” He looks back to you, moving to kiss your neck, biting at the already fading marks he left earlier.

“Want you to fuck me.” He hums, still sucking around your neck, not giving you any indication that he'll follow through with your request.

“We have company.” What an infuriating time to start caring about the males sitting across from you.

“I don't care.” It seems like that was the answer he was looking for since he immediately turns you around and kisses you deeply. You can feel all the self control he was holding onto break as his kiss gets sloppier, more desperate. He stands up, lifting you up with him and walks to his desk, setting you down on the dark wood, devouring your mouth all the while. The room feels different around you and you don't have to look to know he let his power run untamed.

Urgency starts spreading inside you with each stroke of his tongue, moving to all but rip his clothes off him, needing to feel his body against your own, as close as physically possible. He breaks away from your mouth in favor of trailing kisses all over your chest, biting down on your nipples until you grab his hair and bring him back up to crash your lips against his once again.

You let your hand wander down his torso, running your nails just hard enough to leave red marks in their wake. Wasting no time, you grab onto his cock, giving him a few strokes so you can hear him moan into your mouth.

He pushes you down gently onto the desk, laying you down with no care for the important documents still scattered around it. He breathes out a curse as he holds onto your hips and watches your body sprawled before him, he knows he'll never tire of the sight. You take notice of the darkness that set itself in the room, you probably wouldn't even be able to see your guests through it. Not that you'd look away from him for anything right now.

Ever the tease, Rhys starts swirling the leaking head of his cock around your clit, playing with you before giving you what you want. He does this enough times that you were just about to snarl at him, but then he finally circles your entrance, pushing the head in slowly and bottoming out soon after, not being able to resist your sweet warmth.

The pace he sets is messy but you still try to meet him in his thrusts, you're both desperate, having only one thing in your minds. The hold he has on your hips is sure to bruise but he doesn't let up, and you keep begging him not to stop. You try to hold onto the desk, pushing some things to the floor, trying to keep a hold on your sanity as well. Your legs wrap around him, your body urging him to keep going. Not that he would ever dream of stopping.

You feel your orgasm reaching for you fast, screaming out his name in warning. He moves one hand to play with your clit once again, and it doesn't even take two thrusts before you're exploding around him. Your mind goes blank behind your eyes and you barely feel him cumming right after you, filling you up.

This time it takes you both longer to come back down to the world of the living. Mind blowing pleasure still teasing at every one of your nerve endings, your legs still shaking softly. You run your hand over your face before opening your eyes to catch him already staring down at you. He looks absolutely ruined. His hair is messy from both his hands and yours running through the dark locks, there were red marks all over his torso, down his hips and his arms, your marks. You don't have to see yourself to know you match his satiated expression.

Rhys helps you sit back up on the desk, wincing at the papers stuck to you and picking them off with a smile. Your muscles feel like soup but you still find the strength to hug him to you, leaving little kisses everywhere you can reach. You can't help but bite down on his collarbone when he pulls his spent cock out of you gently, burning with oversensitivity. He drops a kiss on your shoulder as an apology, wrapping one arm around you as well.

You're extremely uncomfortable sitting on the desk, you're probably ruining said desk with the cum dripping out of you too, but you refuse to move away from him. As you lean your head on his chest, almost purring at the way he's caressing your back, you look over to the tied up males, noticing they were unconscious.

“They've already seen enough,” he explains when he catches you looking. You simply hum in response, at this point you don't care if they also see you fuck him or hug him. It won't matter either way.

“You'll make them forget about it?” Your voice is scratchy from all the abuse your throat just endured, you could still feel him when you swallowed.

“Of course,” he nuzzles your hair, “Wouldn't want them to remember how beautiful you are with my cock in your mouth or screaming my name in pure pleasure.” The reminder has your thighs clenching. Gods, this male makes you insatiable.

“Was that all for nothing then?” You move back enough to look into his eyes, not resisting giving him a soft kiss.

“Not for nothing,” he pecks your lips again before giving you an impish grin. “Do you realize how hard you just came?” Your body somehow still has the energy to blush a little at his words.

“That's not what I meant.” You roll your eyes slowly, pouting a little. If he makes them forget about this whole situation, they won't learn their lesson. You hope they're not dumb enough to try hitting on you twice but if they did there was nothing you could do to save them from spending the rest of their days in Azriel's dungeons, you probably wouldn't even want to try to help them.

“I'll leave some of our previous talk intact. They can't forget who you belong to.” He looks over to the males with a serious look on his face, seems he's still on the fence about letting them go so easily. Being High Lord must be hard sometimes, having to be the voice of reason. “I'll let them remember how easily I could toy with their minds and have them think the rest was a nightmare.”

“And you're not worried about what your people would think if they knew how mean you can be?” You wrap your arms around his neck again, pulling him closer, always needing him closer.

“As long as you still love me, darling,” he kisses your forehead before leaning back to smile down at you, “I don't care what anyone else thinks of me.”

#rhysand smut #rhys smut #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand x you #rhysand x y/n #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhysand fanfic #rhys acotar #acotar fanfiction #divider by saradika

563 notes · View notes

kirishima-eijirock · 5 months

Text

@katsuslover asked: Making katsuki jealous by talking w deku or something and he's all sulky and a baby and u show him why he's better

a/n: omg hell yessss I made it a little angsty but I hope he’s not too OOC

You narrow your eyes at the blonde sitting right in front of you. His eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a deep frown that you’ve never seen before. Clenched fists that are slightly shaking, he glares down at the floor with such an intensity that almost frightens you. Almost.

He’s been that way for the past half an hour, with no warnings at all. It’s weird, how this morning he wasn’t giving two fucks about anyone or anything at all, and now he’s just… furious isn’t even the word to describe it. Neither is rage. This is something else, and you knew it.

“Kats, just spit it out already.”

You’ve been trying to coax an explanation out of him for the past twenty-seven minutes, and yes, you’ve been counting. He’s never hid his anger from you. Or anyone, actually. But definitely not you.

“Kats, I swear to god, if you don’t start saying anything then I’ll go back to my conversation with Midoriya—”

“Get that bastard’s name out of your mouth.”

It was a quick mumble. A short demand. A command, if you will. He’s never said shit about Midoriya with such pure hatred that it did confuse you, and you started to question if you really understood Katsuki in the first place.

His brow furrowed and his teeth gritted, his glare shifts from the floor to your shoulder, avoiding your direct gaze. He couldn’t bring himself to glare at you, no. The last thing that he wanted to do was to direct his anger at you. You were one of the most precious people in his life, and he wasn’t gonna risk anything, much less even glaring, to fuck it up. But looking down and glaring at the floor looked utterly pathetic, too. So his eyes dart from the wall behind you, to your shoulder and neck, but never your face. You didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t your fault, either.

He knew it’s not your fault, so why did it sting so much to hear you laughing with that bastard? He didn’t get it.

“Never mind. ‘M fine. It’s nothing.”

“Kats, you can’t be mad like that and not explain yourself.”

It’s true. He knew that he owed you an explanation, and a good one. Shame crept up on him as he realised that he snapped at you. That you were on the receiving end of his anger. The promise he made to himself— to never, ever make you upset, or to ever let you feel like the reason that he’s mad— was now broken in his eyes.

“I’m… sorry. For snapping at you. It’s not your fault,” he mumbled under his breath.

It wasn’t snapping, but he hated the fact that he still could have upset you.

“Kats, it’s okay. I’m fine, I promise. What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything that’s on your mind, right?”

“No, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, though it’s clear that his snapping only made him more irritated with himself.

“It’s not nothing if you’re…” you trail off, not wanting to point out the current tears in his eyes.

“Huh? I’m what?” Still oblivious to the tears, he looked around and found nothing.

“Kats, seriously. Tell me, now.”

The firm gaze directed at him from your eyes made him freeze, and the gentle tone in your voice made him hesitate. He was surprised, to say the least, that you were still here, trying to help him while he stood there in front of you like an idiot. If you left now, he wouldn’t have been surprised. In fact, he understood why you would do that, and he couldn’t blame you. This emotional, vulnerable part of him finally showed for the first time in your relationship.

It surprised you, just a little. You knew he hated showing emotions besides happiness and the occasional happiness, but never tears. He never cried solely in front of you, at least.

He felt weak, so… pathetic.

And on the other hand, you were there, trying to help him and coax some coherent words out of him, before finally giving up with a sigh

“Kats, if you don’t wanna talk, then we can save that for another time. I won’t push you any further if you’re getting uncomfortable.”

He’s never felt comfort like this. Not warmth, or such gentleness either. It’s so new to him, but in the best ways that he couldn’t describe.

What was this feeling? His heart was bittersweet now. His loathing towards Midoriya was worsening, but the sweetness in your voice was making it fade away slowly.

“I promise I’m fine,” he rasped out.

“Okay, Kats. As long as you’re alright,” you murmured, not really pushing him to speak unless he really wanted to.

He took a deep breath, not sure how to address the issue.

“Look, I don’t know what to feel when you’re talking to that damn Deku,” he stated plainly.

“You don’t know what to feel? What are you talking about?”

“I’m not stopping you from having friends, okay? I just don’t like how giggly and shit you were with him,” he huffed.

“Well… why not?”

“It just bugs me, that’s all. Just feel like I should be the reason you’re laughing. Not him.”

Oh. It finally clicked in your mind. He was jealous. You wanted to point it out, but it could sour his mood further, so you decided against it for the time being.

“Well, if that was the case, you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have a problem with that.”

You were too sweet, too understanding. It was hard for him to believe that he deserved it. That he deserved you.

“Really?”

“Yes, really, Kats. You don’t need to worry that I’ll be upset, okay?”

He nodded slowly, still not used to this amount of sincerity and care from someone.

He was never this soft, or vulnerable to anyone. You, however, were an exception. He wasn’t afraid to show it to you, and even though he wasn’t used to it, he sure as hell wasn’t complaining.

“Thanks…” a soft mumble of thanks left his lips, happy how this confrontation went.

@angelshimaa angst for you :)))

#kiri next and im gonna make two versions of this LMAO #bnha #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugou

476 notes · View notes

demilypyro · 10 months

Text

Okay since this doesn't seem to want to go away here's me addressing every single "allegation" that I've heard about. I hope to have at least given a good explanation where the horrible things being said about me came from, and why I consider them either just totally not true or badly misconstrued. Some of my friends have recommended I don't say anything at all, but I've always preferred openness and honesty, so I hope that's appreciated.

I understand that some people will still dislike me even though the things being said about me are not true. That's fine. I don't need everyone to like me, but it's when I'm being consistently harassed and lied about that it interferes with my mental health and ability to work. So I'm gonna try and end things with this.

"She's racist"

From what I can tell this is about one time when I said I keep my interest in anime to myself around new people. I do this because showing you're a Huge Fucking Nerd right off the bat can make a bad impression. I could have said the same thing about Star Trek or comic books, I just happened to be talking about anime in that moment. Someone seems to have misconstrued this as me finding Japanese culture something shameful and lesser than other cultures?... Which I would call a total willful misinterpretation. The rest of this seems to stem just from being Dutch, because the Netherlands is a country that has a problem with xenophobia. This is true, but uhhh I'm mixed myself so I'm pretty well aware of that, and I obviously don't support our infamous "blackface holiday." Just because I live here doesn't mean I agree with everything this country does, be that historically or in the modern day.

"She's friends with racists/misogynists/transphobes"

The only thing I can guess this is about is when I was mutuals with a user called porko-rosso at least 5 years ago and didn't really believe it when people told me they were a bigot. I haven't interacted with this user in over 4 years but people still claim we're like best friends, which was never true in the first place, we just knew a lot of the same people. Most of the resentment from the people who repeatedly spread these rumours about me seems to have started here. So for the record: no, I am not friends with any racists, misogynists or transphobes.

"She thinks she's better than other trans women because she passes better"

This is just not true. This idea seems to pop up just whenever I post about enjoying the benefits of HRT or surgery, but most recently this was misconstrued from a post where I said being trans is about being yourself as much as possible. Since this was in response to someone saying that me trying to pass is "erasing my identity", people thought I meant trying to pass is the same as being good at being trans, which was not what I meant, but some people didn't seem to want to believe me when I clarified. My apologies for the misunderstanding I guess, but that's all it was. So no, I do not hate people who don't pass as well as I do, nor do I think all trans people should be transitioning medically, and I resent the implication.

"She has a secret discord server where she makes fun of pictures of other trans women and calls them slurs"

I had absolutely no clue what this was about when I first heard it. I was sent screenshots that supposedly prove this but all they show is me being rude about someone's appearance one time in january of 2022. I actually thought these were faked because I don't remember this happening and the things said confused me, but one of my friends says she found it was in her server, where she had showed a picture of someone and asked everyone present (mostly other trans women) if they were hot. Apparently I did not think they were hot. So yes, I did insult someone's appearance back in january 2022, but it was an isolated incident. Frankly even I find my remarks in these screenshots distasteful, I don't know what I was on when I wrote that stuff. I'm sorry to that person specifically. What I said has weighed heavily on me and I apologize for it. It's not something I approve of, and don't intend to repeat that mistake. Still, to say it means I hate trans women and I love to make fun of them in my secret discord server and call them slurs is just... a super-villain level of exaggeration. I didn't even know about the word that was named as an example. It's not true.

"She's often rude"

I can't deny this one. Autism gonna autism. I've seen many therapists, doctors, experts, what have you, to try and help me with this, but it seems my particular brand of autistic in combination with the cultural differences between mine and other countries just really often ends with my foot in my mouth when I speak English. I apologize! I have never meant to personally offend anyone. It just keeps happening and I can't stop it from happening.

If after reading all this, you still consider me bad enough to hate my guts, I can't stop you, but I wanted to have at least had my say. I swear that everything in this post is the honest truth as I understand it, and that I've never acted with purposeful malicious intent.

#and yes feel free to reblog and share #demilypyro #demily pyro

943 notes · View notes

reggieslocket · 2 years

Text

prepare yourselves because i'm going to give you a bunch of reasons and hints that will show you the high chance of eddie being actually gay and him and steve becoming a thing >:)

1. "freak" as a queercoded word

let's start with the scene where dustin, robin, steve and max find eddie in the house where he was hiding and particularly on the dialogue between the five of them

there's this scene where eddie says something about how the people in town are getting ready to hunt him because they think he's guilty and he says "hunt the freak right?" and we see robin giving him an almost sad but understating look before replying "exactly" and i find it curios that they made her respond that out of everyone, i feel like it could be because she kind of relates to eddie's situation? she also would probably be considered a freak by people if they knew about her sexuality and that's why i believe the word has a queercoded meaning, if you think about it, "freak" was already used in the past seasons when bullies made fun of will, who also happens to be a queercoded character (even though we know he's coming out this season)

2. the handkerchief code

the handkerchief code gained popularity in the 70s and later on in the 80s and it was used especially by gay men to let others know their sexual preferences and fetishes. there were different and specific meanings depending on the color of your handkerchief and where you decided to put it (left pocket or right pocket)

now if you watch closely eddie can be seen wearing a black hanky in his left pocket throughout the seven episodes and of course these little details have their own meaning, in fact the black one was used to indicate S&M (sadomasochism) and as mentioned before the fact that it is placed in his left pocket isn't casual because that placement indicated that the person wearing it was a top (the dominant one in bed) while if you put it in your right pocket it meant you were a bottom (the submissive one)

this whole hanky thing made quite sense for me except for the fact that it was hard to believe that eddie is into sadomasochism but then rewatching the show a few days ago i noticed some handcuffs in his room and i found it weird because honestly what is a 20 year old man doing with those? he's not a cop or anything and so the fact that they are in his room is a bit strange for me... i just hope that the choice of making eddie wear the handkerchief isn't casual but a powerful move by the duffer brothers in order to hint at his sexuality

3. joe and joseph's interview

this interview really do be getting my hopes up. basically the interviewer asks joe what season one steve would think of his season four self and he replies with "surprised, approving... approval" WHILE looking and smiling at joseph who is also grinning, like there's no way they aren't hiding something and i hope it's the relationship between steve and eddie and steve's bisexuality. plus the fact that even maya is smiling while it seems like natalia is the only one able to be subtle about the whole thing lmao

then obviously there are steddie-antis saying that he would be approving of him and nancy getting back together but like... what should he be approving of? they were already a couple in season one so it wouldn't make much sense

4. gaten ships them as well

remember: if gaten ships it then it's canon

i love how the first couple that came to his mind is steddie and how proudly he says their names. he seemed so serious while saying it that it made me reflect on the fact that it's not that impossible seeing it happen and if not in season 4 maybe in season 5 since i read somewhere that luckily neither steve nor eddie are going to die in the last two episodes of this season (i don't know if it's true but let's hope so)

5. the chrissy-eddie thing

almost everyone who hates the fact that we headcanon eddie as gay will give the same explanation that he is clearly straight because he was flirting with chrissy and honestly i didn't see that as flirting at all, i just thought he was being really nice to her like he is to everyone. she was having a hard time and he was able to make her laugh and loosen up a little, i didn't find it as something romantic and furthermore who says that every interaction between a man a woman has to be romantic?

like friendship exists as well people?? and don't try and say "tHeRe cAn'T bE sO mAnY qUeEr cHaRaCtErS iN oNe sHoW, iT's nOt rEaLiStIc" like trust me it's more realistic having a group of only (or almost) queer people than one where everyone is straight and i know the show takes place in the 80s but gay people existed even then but they just couldn't openly say it so stfu

6. steve's attempts to find a girlfriend

we all know mama steve is trying his hardest to find a girlfriend but none of them really "suists" him right? what if eddie is the person that suits him? i mean it would be epic if he spent two seasons trying to find a girlfriend and then he ends up with a dude lol, i'd like to see bi steve happening so bad and i just know that robin would be super supportive of him and my boy dustin would be the happiest person on earth if his two dads got together

you can't tell me that they aren't developing a little crush on each other or that they don't care about each other, just look at eddie's face and his loving eyes in that scene and steve staring at eddie's lips for the whole time. i swear if they are really trying to get nancy and steve back together i'll start a riot because honestly they would be so forced, it wouldn't be good for both of their character development and also my boy jonathan doesn't deserve this, they made jancy dirty this season and i'm still pissed ugh

anyway if you read the whole thing ily and thanks for coming to my ted talk :)

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things s4 #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #stranger things volume 2

6K notes · View notes

eamour · 1 year

Text

manifesting is easy.

the reason why i keep saying the same whenever people ask me how to manifest is because manifesting always remains the same. you believe an assumption to be true i.e. you believe that your desire is yours. that’s it. i don’t even know how to give a more detailed explanation because if you decide that you have xyz and persist in it, you don’t need to worry about anything else.

i can rephrase my sentences as often as i‘d like but the way you manifest doesn’t change. it’s so easy, i think manifesting is almost too easy. it’s like… you guys don’t even want to believe this and try to come up with ways to question the law, asking "okay, now, how do i REALLY manifest?".

manifesting itself is easy. persisting in an assumption, not being fazed by your circumstances, remaining faithful to your imagination — THIS can actually be quite challenging. but you know how the law works. i‘m sure, all of you know too much about the law already. you know exactly what to do, why is it that you still ask what else you can do?

it's meant to be simple.

no, you don’t have to do a ritual and cleanse your crystals in order to manifest. you don’t need to light up a candle in your room at 3AM and speak the words "please… please give me my desire". you don’t need to affirm 24/7 either if you think that it’s tiring and actually does the opposite of getting you into the state of knowing. see, all of these methods, techniques and challenges are supposed to help you. you don’t need to know about them. because in the end, you always do the same. assumption + persistence = materialisation of your desire.

most posts on tumblr explain the logic behind manifesting. why it works (the law), why some things show up in your reality (imagination and the subconscious mind), why persistence matters, what exactly happens when you manifest (shifting realities), and much more that’s actually just terminology explained in a more simple way.

you want it? you want that desire of yours? then HAVE it. GIVE it to yourself. i am not the one giving you your desire, YOU are. and that’s so beautiful because if there is someone that can make you the happiest person alive and guarantee you that, it’s YOU. YOU are the only one who can promise themselves that dream life and make it happen. and you don’t even need to work for it? how cool is that?!

with love, ella.

667 notes · View notes

jamesleecult · 27 days

Text

James lee x gn!reader : In case you come back one day.

The reader rants about their past relationships experience on a song comment section they recently listened to.

note: James kinda ooc(?), attempted to angst. I was planning to make it like the reader view, like their feelings then what happened(flashback or smthg idk) but I’m lazy. Not proof read, I’m bad. Reader kinda still hung up, if you squint enough I’m kinda listening to a sad song rn. Bold font for the typing and the italicized for flashback. (Plottwist dg wrote the song and saw the comment lol) with the help of Grammarly.

During the midnight hour, their finger danced across the keyboard, each keystroke echoing in the quiet room. Blending with the faint whirr of the glowing screen with melody’s in the background.

The sounds of the faint tapping on the keys stopped, few moments later - a sound of clicking can be heard as they began to typed again.

I've met it fresh and hot, it was years ago, yet it felt like yesterday. Actually, I've been walking so far that I can start again with someone else, but in my heart I secretly ask a question. Do I really still have a spot left for him?

In their distant and hazy memories, They shared soft whispers and laughter, the gentle breeze carrying their words like secrets through the air. With each stolen glance and faint smiles.

Or always ask myself that do I love the person in front of me equally to that person. Until now.

In the dimly lit ambiance of their favorite spot, he sat across from them- on the side, his demeanor cool and composed, concealing the turmoil within. They sensed a distance growing, a chill settling in the air.

“We need to talk,” he began, his voice steady, devoid of emotion, easily making their pulse quickened, a knot forming in the stomach.

"I met a lot of people, but in the end, no one can replace you." Right into the hook. I realized, I didn't intend to hurt the person infront of me.

“What’s wrong?”

I just want myself to try and start again, but now I understand that.

“This,” the red haired boy, he gestured subtly between them, “isn’t working anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

I did never stop loving or stop missing him at all.

Confusion etched across their face, so many questions left unanswered. He met their gaze, his eyes holding a depth they couldn’t fathom.

“I’m leaving.”

I wanna say something in case, even if I never get the chance to tell him.

“Leaving? Why?” Panic rising within them making their heart skipped a beat.

“I can’t stay,” the tall boy stated firmly, his tone unwavering. “It’s not safe for you.”

They searched his eyes for answers, finding only resolve. “Not safe? What are you talking about?—That’s not true. We love each other. We can work through whatever it is!”

I got so many questions that was never answered, you left with no room for me to ask further more. What’s happening? Did I do something wrong?

As they spoke, he looked away, sighing at their persistence. Unable to meet their gaze. “No, you don’t understand. I’m.. I’m dangerous.”

Their brows furrowed in confusion and annoyance. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

“I can’t explain” he said, his voice barely a whisper in disappointment. “But you need to trust me. You need to let me go.. there are things you don’t know about me. Things that could put you in danger if I stay.”

Their mind raced, trying to make sense of his words. “But I don’t understand. We are together, we love each other- why are you leaving me with just.. short explanations?”

Then you just disappeared for no reason. I couldn’t find you, as if you were gone.

“…farewell.”

And with that he just walked away, coldly stood up- leaving them sitting there, alone with nothing but unanswered questions and a heart heavy with sorrow.

I still have a spot left for you in my feelings, always will be the one for you, In case you come back one day.

After hours of uninterrupted typing, they finally halted, their hands hovering over the keyboard as they took a moment to gather their thoughts. Pressing the final key—

The soft click of the laptop lid echoing in the now silent room.

#lookism #lookism x reader #james lee #James lee x reader #dg x reader #lee jihoon #lookism dg #lookism james lee #Diego kang #kang dagyeom #lee Jihoon x reader #kang Dagyeom x reader #dg #jamesleecult #lookism spoiler #what the sigma

98 notes · View notes

iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 5 months

Text

The Arcana HCs: M6 with an asexual MC

~ this is by no means my personal experience, but after several requests and some wonderful people helping me research, here we are! Hope you enjoy :) - brainrot ~

NOTE: being asexual and being aromantic are two distinct experiences. these headcanons are for an asexual MC, if I write for an aromantic MC, that will be in its own post so it's properly covered ^.^

Julian

This reflects on his own unfortunate dating history, but he's really not used to starting romantic relationships off of something that doesn't involve a physical connection. He's a little confused

He's not stupid, he can tell you two have something special going on, but you don't seem especially interested in taking things to the bedroom and he's not sure what to make of it

Do you just find him physically repulsive, but mentally stimulating? Is it the eyepatch? Because he can lose the eyepatch -

Genuinely relieved once you explain, because it lets him know what your boundaries are and how best he can work towards something real with you without pushing you into something you don't want

If you enjoy steamier things when it's part of you two connecting and expressing your feelings, he's still quick to initiate

He's very understanding when you're not in the mood or up for anything steamy, but it's equally important to him to hear that you still want to spend time loving him, even if it's not in that way

If you don't want to do anything steamy at all, he'll want you to give him clear boundaries so he doesn't accidentally overstep

In the end, his relationship with you is based on your mutual commitment to taking care of each other. That's not changing

Asra

This is ... complicated for them

Don't get him wrong. He loves you, completely and unconditionally, and he would never, ever want you to feel forced. He's just happy he gets a second shot at life with you

At the same time, they have the easiest time expressing their love for you through their physicality

He says "I love you" out loud maybe once a fortnight - but he says it a thousand times daily with gentle touches, kisses brushed to your neck in passing, and casually intimate moments

So realizing as they cared for you that you had no interest in the ultimate physical act of love required a bit of a mental reset

Honestly, he's scared of not being able to love you the way you deserve, and of not feeling loved in return (he'll find it's not true)

If you enjoy steamier things as part of an emotional connection, they are all on board. They're always clear about being open to fun times, but they'll leave it to you to actually initiate stuff

If you don't want to do anything of that nature, he'll avoid the conversation at first but ultimately want to talk to you about what physical affection you are open to. Kisses? Cuddles? Handholding?

Their joy is in your joy. If they can feel you breathing, they're happy

Nadia

Oh. Oh dear, she's gone about wooing you quite the wrong way

Her first instinct on hearing your explanation is to apologize. Her approach to courtship tends to be very sensual, and the thought of you not enjoying such things didn't cross her mind

She's going to want to clear a few things up, too - she knows she took a steamy approach, but she genuinely enjoys you for who you are, regardless of what you are or aren't open to

That said, please sit down and talk to her right away about what your boundaries, preferences, and comfort zones are, because she doesn't want to take any chances on miscommunication

Thankfully, spoiling you doesn't require any physical contact at all

If you're open to fun times as part of a special connection, she's very careful to establish a balanced power dynamic in that area. (Unless you'd still like her to take control :P)

She'll initiate sometimes, but it's always preceded with her asking what mood you're in and if you're in the headspace for it

If you'd rather keep things completely innocent, she'll want detailed boundaries for what physical affection is and isn't okay

She doesn't love you for your body. She loves you for your strength, and your faith in her. Give her that, and she'll give you everything

Muriel

Okay. Sounds good

This is accompanied with a heavy blush because it means you're referencing *adult* things, but he's really not that bothered

If he has any relational issues with it, it would only be after you've been together long enough that he would feel comfortable sharing his body with you if it were an option

Then he might take it into his head that this is your way of saying you don't trust him not to hurt you, or that you find his scars ugly

Obviously, this is not true, and all it takes to prove otherwise is not wincing when you see him or shying away when he gets close

If you enjoy less innocent things when it's a way of being close and enjoying each other, then he's down for that too. He doesn't really get "in the mood" unless you put him in the mood, so there's that

There might be a lot of missed opportunities until one or both of you learns to initiate without worrying about pressuring each other

If you don't like steamy things at all, cool. He likes how relatively uncomplicated that makes the physical side of your relationship, especially when he's still got a complicated view of his body

He's learning to love gentle, safe touch, though, so if things like cuddles and cheek kisses are your jam, then please. Have at it

Portia

Huh. She's pretty sure she's heard of this before, but she's never navigated a relationship where that was something to keep in mind. Tell her more!

She feels the most free to discuss it casually/joke around about it. Gets completely into the garlic bread stereotype and will laughingly bake you some if it's something you like eating

If anything, learning about this makes her feel even more secure in her relationship with you. It tells her all over again that you chose her for who she is, and not some other motivation

That said, she does have needs of her own, and feels just as free talking to you about how she goes about satisfying them solo as long as that's not something you're disgusted hearing about

If you enjoy steamy things with her as part of your connection, she'll go out of her way to really emphasize what the act means with you instead of getting lost in the moment

She'll bring it up fairly often, usually as part of a list of options to do together: do you want normal cuddles, or special cuddles?

If it's something you don't want anything to do with, she's likely to ask you lots of questions about it simply because she's a curious person. You're her partner in crime! That's all that really matters

Lucio

He's about as confused by someone who wants a relationship without adult special fun time as he is confused by people who like to listen to music without dancing along

Don't you feel like you're missing out? Isn't that the whole point of being in a relationship with someone? (spoiler alert: it's not. that's the trauma and lack of self awareness talking)

When he first learns this about you as he gets to know you, he ends up assuming it means that you just don't do romance at all

And then, as his own feelings for you grow and he learns what it means to trust someone enough to be vulnerable around them, he comes to realize that relationships can be so much more than that

If you enjoy adult stuff when it's part of a bigger context, he ends up having to learn how to engage in intimacy that isn't just a greedy scramble to satisfy physical desires

You have a standing invitation to his body, and he'll bring it up frequently, but he finds way more satisfaction in the quiet security of being held by someone he loves, who loves him back

If you're not into it at all, he'll need a solid explanation of what's on and off the table and why before he learns what to and not to initiate. He wants to love you and be loved. That's all

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

129 notes · View notes

myfandomrealitea · 9 days

Note

I really wanted to ask you about this:

Do you have any advice of how to develop critical thinking and media literacy?

There are many, many ways you can practice critical thinking, evaluation and media literacy. At its most basic, you can access student resources for lower levels of education like earlier high school years and look at the examples and guidance given there. Rehashing this will often give you a good foundation to build off of and apply.

One of the main aspects of critical thinking involves discerning what is fact and what is opinion. A good portion of media analytics is opinion. What is 'bad' by one person's standards is 'sub-par' or even 'great' by another's. Similarly, the majority of fandom space is opinion-based. The main pitfall of fandom spaces is that everyone wants their opinion to be taken as fact, which is where critical thinking and even basic communication begin to fall away.

"I'm right and you're wrong" and "this is the way it should be, if you do it or think differently, you're wrong" are common roadblocks people run into when engaging with things like media analysis and even basic fandom activities like fanfiction.

'Mischaracterisation' is fanfiction is one popular topic, especially here on Tumblr. What people often fail to recognize is the true creative depth of fanfiction and using someone else's pre-existing characters. Characters as they are in the source material may not make the choices or behave in the ways necessary to activate or validate certain plot material or author intentions in fanfiction. Which is, inherently, one of the main points of fanfiction. Exploring the alternate.

While you might immediately recoil and say "he'd never do that!" you then have to sit back and recognise that that's exactly the point. That this iteration of that character is not meant to directly reflect the source material. Its a re-imagining, a re-interpretation. That doesn't mean its bad. Its simply different.

'Mischaracterisation' is only actually applicable in fandom spaces when someone is trying to insist as a blanket fact that a character would do something or behave in a way that blatantly contradicts their canon behavior, opinions, morals and perspective or deliberately interpreting an action in biased bad faith. It is not actually applicable to fanfiction where creative liberty dictates you can do whatever the fuck you want with a character because you're not trying to claim it as part of the source content.

Questions To Ask Yourself

Am I reacting to [media] emotionally instead of rationally? Is my emotional response to [media] blinding me to the rational or critical approach(es)?

Am I allowing my expectations to get in the way of me understanding [media] fully? Am I forming a biased negative opinion of [media] because it isn't meeting my expectations?

Even if I disagree with [media], do I actually understand it? Can I recognise the reasoning behind choices made or actions even if I don't agree with them?

Am I searching too hard to hidden meaning or purpose in absolutely everything? Can I recognise what is simply passive information/detail and what is active information/detail? (E.g; English tutors saying a character's curtains are blue because they're depressed when throughout the literature its passively reinforced that blue is the character's favorite color.)

Even though I disagree with the statement or opinion shown, is it necessary to argue against it? Is there any benefit to making my counter-opinion known or is it simply a no-end argument? Am I just using arguing as a means of release/fulfilment? Am I treating this person poorly because of their opinion/statement?

Resources

Critical Thinking Exercises & Explanations #1 The Critical Thinking Activity Workbook Early Stage Critical Thinking Games Five Media Literacy Activities Six Media Literacy Ideas

#myfandomrealitea #sephiroth speaks #fandom #reality #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fic #literature #media literacy #critical thinking #education #fandom culture #activities #games #fiction #ao3

67 notes · View notes

ino-tamukas-baggy-sweater · 5 months

Text

A Second Chance, A Father's Curse - Part 3 (Ryomen Sukuna x Reader)

I'm trying so hard not to burn myself out on writing because I've written and posted so much the past few weeks. which is a really short amount of time for me, also I'm going away for about a week which means I won't be able to write, so hopefully by the time I come back I'll be refreshed and ready to write more! In the meantime enjoy part 3 :)

Part 2 here

Warnings: sukuna is a volatile lil shit, possibly incorrect descriptions of disabilities? i did do a bit of research but also it's a lot of heavy headcanoning

Word count: 3.6k

“Have you seen the news?” “Prince Ryomen L/n…” “Why do you think he changed his last name?” “He’s part of Iqoria now, whether he meant it or not,” “Surely there’s an explanation for it,” “There must be, but he’s here now and he’ll be a great asset if he knows what he’s doing,” “That is true, I suppose we should just trust the King, if he trusts him with Princess L/n then we should too,”

There have been no shortage of murmurings in the streets about the sudden and unexpected marriage and arrival of the newlywed Ryomen L/n. It’s only been a couple of days, the people will adjust. You’re making sure that you take the time to walk him around the castle and actually get to know him before you take up the traditional clan tattoos that will bind the pair of you to Iqoria, of which he holds a curious fascination.

“What are the origins of your clan tattoos?” He asks on the second morning. A lovely warm day, you’ve chosen a light dress and a parasol to accompany you on your walk through the gardens. You look over to him beside you, the pair of you hidden amongst the bushes as you sit together on a shaded bench, “There are a few different opinions and accounts, but I believe the most popular stems back to an ancient era of the kingdom where curses were much more abundant than they are currently."

"One of my female ancestors centuries ago used ink to disguise herself and played pretend as a fierce and strong curse, almost acting as a god, and she led great numbers of them to their destruction to protect her village. Adenfast is said to be named after that village, but the original location is unknown,” You explain.

“Have they changed much over the years?” He has taken your hand and is tracing his thumb over the lines on your wrist, “Not as far as I know, I know a few lines here and there that came from specific people from my family tree because of things they achieved, but it’s mostly stayed the same,” You point to your wrists, the two thick black bands there prominent, “These were added by my great great grandmother, as protection for the young children in the family, two lines done at age ten and then renewed after marriage,”

He smirks, but it’s softer than it has been, “Interesting…” He murmurs. “How will you be incorporating your clans tattoos into mine?” You ask quietly, because ultimately it’s his decision, and you’re already fearing his answer. He just shrugs, “Not sure,” He looks away, still holding your hand, “It all doesn’t feel real,” He murmurs. “Freedom?” You squeeze his hand gently.

He nods, his gaze traveling around the quiet gardens as you take in the moment. He’s been skittish, he flinched when your father raised his voice at dinner the night before and you’d made sure to scold your father afterwards. You can always sense the storm within him, he can’t easily suppress his energy and you’ve had to deal with one other outburst than the one on the journey here.

He’d been here only a day, his sleep was restless and this you knew because you spent that night in the same bed together in lieu of the wasted night spent in a carriage. Nothing happened between the two of you, but he jolted the both of you awake in the early hours of the morning after a nightmare. The sun hadn’t risen, his face was barely visible in the dim starlight creeping through the window, but you could feel his sadness. He wouldn’t tell you what it was, he didn’t say a word, just allowed you to pull him against you and hide his face in your chest. His outburst later that day was aimed at Geto, who’d foolishly commented on his younger brothers.

“Does your father not see your younger brothers the way he sees his precious eldest heirs?” He’d said during one of your tutelage sessions with Gojo in which Ryomen was watching from the sidelines, and you knew he was deliberately stepping over a line. You thought Geto was better than that, but after this happened you weren’t sure you could trust him in the same way you always had.

You felt Ryomen coming up behind you and stepped to put yourself between them with a glare in your eyes before Ryomen could even think about throwing a punch, “Suguru Geto, you know better than that, do I have to tell my father about this?!” You had shouted. His eyes had widened and he’d dropped to a knee, immediately apologising. He clearly hadn’t expected you to support your husband. You suppose he held a grudge against the man for his actions towards you on the journey to Iqoria and thought you would share these reservations, but you refused to stand for it. “You fucking bastard, never speak of my brothers again, do you hear me?!” Ryomen spat over your shoulder, “My brothers are better men than you will ever be, I can fucking smell the hatred that you exude,”

You also didn’t appreciate the accusation that came from Ryomen but you let it slide, you’d seen his last interaction with his brothers and knew it still rubbed him raw to even think about them. “We’re done here, Geto I will speak with you at a later time,” You turned and herded Ryomen out of the room. His eyes held that familiar tint of red at the edges of his irises and his energy had flared to such a level that you’d taken him out to the rear of the castle, where the guards trained, and he had destroyed a wooden dummy halfway across the courtyard beyond recognition within mere seconds of arrival.

He was breathing heavily when he finally looked back at you, and you refused to look away or show you were afraid. He was in pain, and you needed to let him work through it and seek help only where he wanted it. “Let’s not tell anyone about that,” You nodded vaguely in the direction of where the dummy used to be as he returned to your side, his breath ragged and sweat dripping down his face and neck.

He nodded in response, swallowing thickly, “I’m sorry,” He mutters, “You shouldn’t have to see me like this,” “Is that your technique?” You asked, gaze flitting to the pieces of the dummy. He looked away and you didn’t question him further, you just took his hand and lead him into the castle to force him into a bath.

Back in the present as you’re reminded of the fear in his eyes, you look back to him, “Are you… afraid of yourself?” You murmur. He looks like a kicked puppy when he turns to you and your eyes widen, “Sorry! Sorry, I take it back, you don’t have to answer that,” He clutches your hand just a little tighter, his knuckles going white and his lips set in a thin line, “Yes,” He states, his voice shaky, “I am afraid of myself,”

“I’m afraid of what I might do to you if I’m left unchecked,” He continues, “I’m afraid of hurting you and lashing out at the people around me because I still feel like a caged wolf even though the reality of my situation has changed,” “I hope you can one day see me as home,” You say, putting your parasol down to reach your hand up to his cheek, “I know it will be hard, and I promise I will know you down to your core one day, but there is no rush,” He nudges his nose against your palm for a moment, “I am first and foremost your new friend, and I want only to be your strongest ally,”

He nods, “Thank you,” He whispers softly. “Princess Y/n!” The shout of your name shatters the small bubble of peace around the two of you. You drop your hand from his face but keep your fingers intertwined as you stand. A young maid around your age that you grew up with, Belinda, comes racing around a dense rosebush and comes to a skidding halt when she spots you. She bows for a moment, “Your father has requested your presence for the application of the L/n clan tattoos,” She informs you and you hand your parasol to her, “Thank you for letting me know, take this to my closet and we will make our way to the throne room,”

She darts off with the parasol in hand and you link arms with Ryomen as he stands again, leading you back into the castle. Once in the throne room, you’re greeted by the pair of artists responsible for both your and your brother’s tattoos, “Ah Princess Y/n, and Prince Ryomen, an honour it is,” The couple bow as your father stands and opens his arms, “My children, it is time,” He smiles widely, “See to this duty with dignity,” You curtsey to the tattoo artists before they lead the two of you to a room dimly lit with candles.

“As you aren’t the Crown Prince and Princess, this isn’t considered an extravagantly formal affair,” The woman assures you, “You may speak freely with one another while we work, there are a few rituals we will conduct during and after the inking process, but nothing remarkable,” The tattoo artists are specially chosen for their artistic abilities and their knowledge of cursed energy, as a reverse cursed technique is needed for royal family tattoos which are expected to appear to the public within the first twenty four hours of application.

“If you please,” The other artist, the man who gave you your wristbands when you were ten, gestures to the outline of a person on a poster you didn’t even notice at first on the wall. It’s not quite life size, just smaller than you, but it shows you the complete map of tattoos that you will be getting for the L/n clan including a back view just beside it.

Bands on your upper arms and around your shoulders as well as a large spot on your shoulders, two sharp parallel streaks down your abdomen with matching lines reflected on the small of your back, two broken lines that wrap over your shoulders like overall straps and veer up and then down again just below your collarbone on your breasts. You’d always known about the facial tattoos, the lines that follow the jaw bone, the emblem in the centre of the forehead that was said to represent wisdom, and the line over the nose, but you’d always seem then as quite delicate and symbolic of the fragility of life.

The tattoos hidden beneath the clothing were thick and strong, reminiscent of the ones on your wrists that were there for protection. These were the tattoos of fierce and noble protectors. Those who would risk their lives to keep the weak safe. Your family was strong, a fact perhaps forgotten in times of peace, and this reminder gives you a boost of confidence as you begin stripping down to just your bottom half undergarments. There are no tattoos below the waist save for a pair of thick ankle bands and the symbol on your forehead copied on both hips.

“How would you like to incorporate the Itadori clan tattoos?” The man asks Ryomen behind you. You hear the shuffle of clothing and then his hand on your bare upper back. Having to get really comfortable really fast with one another, you rip the bandage off and turn to him with your arms crossed over your chest, hugging yourself, “I don’t think I will,” He grins as he looks you up and down, his gaze flicking between you and the poster on the wall a couple of times. The artists exchange glances but you just nod, “Make it so,” “Your majesties, this isn’t a wise decision diplomatically speaking,” The woman speaks softly, her head bowed.

“This marriage wasn’t for the sake of diplomacy so why the fuck should I care what my father thinks?” Ryomen snaps. You grab his hand, still keeping one arm tight over your bare chest, “Ryomen,” You say softly, “Ryomen, it’s okay, they’re allowed to be worried for their kingdom, this has never happened before, are you sure you don’t want to add anything? Even if it isn’t from your clan?” He looks into your eyes for a fleeting moment and then looks to the map again, frowning as he breathes deeply. “Can you tattoo a pair of fake closed eyelids just above the edge of where the lines will end on my cheeks?” He gestures on his face just below his real eyes.

You look confused for a moment but he clarifies, “My second eyes, Yuji always used to tell me I had an extra pair of eyes reserved for my brothers,” The artists seem to relax only slightly and the woman asks you if you’ll be getting that modification to which you reply, after confirmation from Ryomen that he is comfortable, that yes you will. The entire process is long and tedious, difficult, you spend more time squeezing Ryomen’s hand than actually talking because the pain gets to you after a while. He’s antsy the whole time, he reaches up and fidgets with your fingers and plays with your hair after his arms and shoulders are done while you’re sat up getting your back done.

“Tell me about your brothers,” You ask softly once the man starts work on his back, the woman in between the two of you tattooing atop your breasts and collarbones. “My brothers? What would you like to know?” You shrug, “Anything you want to tell me,” He looks up for a moment, “Well, Yuji and I were always the closest, since Choso is the Crown Prince he spent a lot of time in studies and learning how to be king. Eso and Kechizu are five and eight years younger than me, fifteen and twelve, both born with disabilities that prevent them from leading normal lives,”

There is an intense sadness in his eyes and you squeeze his hand gently, “Eso significantly lacks in his movement and coordination ability, the doctors would never tell us exactly what it was but we knew he couldn’t play the same way we used to as children, so we never played rough. Kechizu is hard to explain, because he was born with significant tunnel vision and a high sensitivity to light, and so hasn’t bothered opening his eyes most of his life, but also has problems with his blood. He bleeds heavily if he gets hurt, he bruises extremely easily, so then we learned we had to be gentle with both boys,” You’re sure your sadness is palpable at this point, but he seems to be perking up slightly just talking about them with someone.

“Despite the limitations in their abilities, they were always so lively and never wanted to be left behind if we went out to train, Eso spent his time describing in exaggerated detail the three of us as we trained to Kechizu, and I just remember them being so happy when my father wasn’t around-“ He cuts himself off, his lips returning to a thin line as his eyes sparkle slightly in the candlelight. You know he doesn’t want to cry in front of the artists, so you instead begin to tell him stories of your childhood, your brother and Geto, the young maids who grew up alongside you and now serve you, the kindness of the Iqorian people and the events and festivals you’ve attended all your life.

“That all sounds lovely,” He murmurs as he cups your cheek, tracing a thumb over the new tattoo just below your eyes and letting his energy flow through you to heal the raw skin left there. The gesture warms your heart, healing his addition to your clan tattoos, and you uncover your chest shyly to place your own hands over the newly healed tattoos on his collarbone, tracing the edges of the thick lines gently. “You know, now that it’s happening, I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else,” He says, his voice thick with emotion.

You blush softly, “You really do have a way with words sometimes, I think you could have been a poet in another life,” He steps into your space, half attempting to hide your exposed skin from the artists, “I think I’d very much like to be reborn as a songbird,” He whispers, his large hands still gently holding your cheeks as the artists begin their final rituals, leaning his forehead down and resting it against yours. “Then I could sing you songs of every kind of love every morning when you wake,” A soft glow surrounds the pair of you as you look into his eyes, the tattoos emitting the glow as the artists murmur softly.

You’re unsure of what exactly they’re doing but you know this is a moment you won’t ever forget, stood in the center of a dark room with the man you saved within mere hours of meeting him. Your new husband, perhaps the most dangerous man alive if Satoru Gojo’s Six Eyes are to be believed. But he’s here, he’s right in front of you holding you like a butterfly, bearing your last name and the marks of your clan because of the ignorance of his father.

The artists have left the room by the time you come back to one another, the glow slowly dimming with every second, but his hands never leave your body. He traces his hands over everything he can see, and everything he can’t, in an effort to familiarise himself with you and seek comfort in your warmth. It doesn’t occur to you that this is a little scandalous, you simply allow him to softly caress your skin, nothing but a hint of innocent desperation in the air. He needs this. He needs you to step into the role Yuji had tried his best to fill, his main protector and advocate, and if Ryomen needs to know you inside and out to allow himself to trust you then you’ll do whatever it takes.

“We have a people to address,” You murmur, still looking up into his half-lidded eyes. He nods gently, sitting back down on the table and breaking the trance, allowing you to search for the robes and bring them back to him. Simple white clothing, symbolising purity, adorned with green stitching, symbolising new beginnings. Both outfits are sleeveless, the straps thin and the neckline plunging deep on both your front and back to expose the main shoulder to collar tattoos to the air. Nothing can be done about the tattoos on your stomach and lower back, but the sleeveless nature allows for the arm and shoulders to be fully exposed.

“Allow me,” He murmurs, reaching for the simple dress and then helping you step into it, clasping it at your hips and just below the middle of your back to secure it. It’s oddly comfortable, it had looked itchy and uncomfortable on your sister-in-law but you suppose she just didn’t like the stares of the people. When you turn back to him he’s already pulled the loose pants on and you watch his muscles flex and relax as he slips into the shirt.

“You look good,” You murmur softly, clasping your hands at your stomach, “Are you alright?” He looks up, fixing his hair slightly. His soft smile sends a shot of warmth through your body as he reaches for you, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I can say with full confidence,” He starts, holding you to his chest and hiding you against him as the door opens again, revealing your parents, “That I’ve never been better than I am right now,” He whispers for only your ears, and you feel tears welling up in your eyes as you nuzzle against him.

“It is time,” Your father announces, “For you to address the people as husband and wife,” You steel yourself as you pull away, noticing a hint of red in Ryomen’s eyes as he looked down at you, but feeling nothing but strength from his aura as opposed to rage. You look to your father and nod, “We’re ready,” Time had seemed to stand still while the two of you were in that room, but the moment you stepped out you saw the day had ticked over and it was now the morning again. The rituals performed by the artists had prevented you from becoming weary or hungry, you felt refreshed if anything, and the two of you walk hand in hand with your parents in tow to the main castle entrance.

Geto is there at the open doorway, and past him you can see the courtyard and the steps up to the entrance are flooded with the Iqorian people. This is it, the first step into the public eye, with your husband by your side. News travels fast, you’re sure the Itadori clan will hear of his tattoos before the sun has set, but a small part of you holds no remorse. “Are you prepared for the consequences?” Ryomen murmurs into your ear, “There’s no backing down now,”

You squeeze his hand and then tug him out into the growing sunlight, walking forwards until you’re at the edge of the steps. The reactions you can see are mixed, but there is an overwhelming amount of positive energy flowing up at you. Your emotions get the best of you, tears slip down your cheeks, you tuck yourself closer to Ryomen as he lifts an arm to wave. “Live in the feeling,” He whispers, seemingly to himself, “Savour the moment,”

You decide to do just that. Peace washes over you, and you find yourself once again thinking to the future, the countless possibilities and unknowns. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it with Ryomen L/n unapologetically by your side.

Might start putting a 'fanart of the day' at the end where i link a fanart of the character in question (in this case sukuna) for you all to enjoy if you haven't seen it already lol

Part 4 here

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x you #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #yuji itadori #satoru gojo #jjk x reader #jjk x you

111 notes · View notes

yaoiboypussy · 5 months

Text

Recently I was on call with some transmasc online friends and one of them asked “what are y’alls opinions of people who say female socialization isn't real” - and it started a long debate. All the responses they gave made me realize they don’t actually know what people mean when they say “male/female socialization isn’t real”. A lot of them responded that they felt that saying female socialization isn’t real erased their trauma with being raised female/as a woman, or that it ignored the things pushed onto kids who are assigned female at birth.

I’ve seen similar things expressed by trans men/transmascs - especially on tumblr in transmasc/trans man circles. So i’m going to post the explanation I gave to my friends that made them understand. (this is word for word copy pasted from the message I sent, so there is refences to things people said in the group chat btw.) :

I want y’all to know that when people say “male/female socialization isn’t real” they aren’t saying “Transmasc/Trans men’s trauma from being sexualized and having societal rules and expectations pushed on them because of their agab isn’t real” they are saying “There is no universal experience based on sex. The way that trans people and cis people internalize and interpret the societal rules and expectations they are taught based on agab is different and socialization is a life-long thing. As trans people discover their gender, come out, and transition they are still experiencing socialization.” Like i get y'all have histories with people ignoring the trauma y'all got from the rules, expectations, and ideas forced on you by society bc of your agab, so I sorta understand the jump to hurt and anger when you think that's happening. But y'all need to be listening to other trans people - especially trans women - when they tell you certain ideas are transphobic/transmisogynistic.

Half the stuff y’all listed as examples of 'female socialization' like being sexualized, having your experiences being ignored by men, having your autonomy being taken away, being forced to over perform femininity, and having to be careful about your words or else you’d be labeled as a ‘crazy bitch’ are all things trans women experience too, it's not 'female exclusive'. That stuff is just misogyny. The other stuff y’all listed aren’t ‘universal female experiences’ but very specifically trans experiences. Cis women don’t hear “in the future you’ll be a beautiful woman and be married to a husband” and start thinking something is wrong with them because they don’t want to be a woman, and start fearing their future because they think they will be forced to be a woman - that's a trans thing. Your relationship with your sex and the expectations forced on you because of your sex as a trans person is wildly different then a Cis person’s. Also saying ‘female socialization’ is real is saying ‘male socialization’ is real. The whole idea of 'male socialization' is terf BS abt how trans women being 'raised as male' means they are just as violent, misogynistic, and bigoted as cis men. Which isn’t true, just as the things y’all were taught affected y’all differently than cis women, the stuff trans women were taught growing up also affected them differently than cis men. 'male socialization' Ignores how trans women experiences with gender, misogyny, and transphobia causes them to have different experiences with socialization then cis men. Plus trans women, just like us, also have trauma related to being forcibly raised as their agab and the expectations of their agab being forced onto them. They aren't ignoring our trauma when they say "The idea of male/female socialization is transmisogynistic." - they are saying the lens which y'all interpret your experiences and trauma is a flawed one.

Socialization is life long, y’all have talked about how you have had to change your behavior around cis people when you came out as trans - thats socialization!! “a continuing process whereby an individual acquires a personal identity and learns the norms, values, behavior, and social skills appropriate to their social position” <- dictionary.com. Y'all are experiencing socialization that Cis women never get, so y'all's experiences with socialization aren't 'female'.

Y'all's experiences and traumas are real, but they aren't 'female socialization'. It's being a trans person raised in a misogynistic, transphobic, and cisnormative world. Your experiences with being forced to fit into a box based on your agab is something that Cis women don't experience. And if you spent some time around trans women you'd realize they have some similar experiences and trauma.

#transphobia #trans men #transmasc #trans women #transfem #transmisogyny #.txt

104 notes · View notes

lovesuhng · 9 months

Text

Inseparable Friend - Johnny Suh

couple: ex-best friend johnny x fem!reader gênero: angst; fluff; friends to strangers to lovers wc: 2.9k summary: johnny was your best friend and platonic love during his high school days, but he left without even saying goodbye. 10 years later, you meet again at the class of 2013 reunion. do you still feel the same way about your former best friend? how about giving him another chance? a/n: i wrote this plot on twitter because i saw some beautiful photos of johnny (which are these photos) and i promised a friend that i would write it. the main is a mcfly fan (like me), so if you don't know the band, give them the opportunity!

Your cell phone was shining, you knew it was Doyoung asking if you were ready for the class of 2013 reunion. All you wanted most was to stay at home, in your bed, watching any nonsense on the internet, but you promised him you would go to this reunion. It wasn't like you had any enemies or hated your senior year at school, you just didn't feel like leaving home, besides the fact that they would definitely ask about your “inseparable friend”, who you hadn't had contact with in years.

As soon as you arrived at the place where the reunion would take place, you soon saw Doyoung, accompanied by his girlfriend Sejeong, talking to Jaehyun, his former high school classmate and best friend of your “inseparable friend”. After talking to a few people, you finally managed to get to where your friends were.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” Sejeong asked, seeing that her friend wasn't very excited to go.

“I actually considered not coming, my bed was much more inviting, but you have a boyfriend who disturbed me the whole time.” You gave an almost deadly look to Doyoung, who shrugged. “Hi Jaehyun! Long time no see!” You smiled kindly at him, he returned it and seemed happy to see you.

“It’s true, how many years have we last seen each other? About eight?”

“Yes, I think the last time we saw each other was at a college party.”

The conversation between you was flowing naturally, as much as you wouldn't admit it to Doyoung, you were having fun remembering some funny things that had happened in high school. For some reason, you felt that Jaehyun avoided talking about his best friend so as not to cause some kind of discomfort in you, but it was okay, since this was something you had already overcome a long time ago.

Or maybe not.

You couldn't quite explain what you were feeling when you looked at the entrance to the place and saw him there. John Suh, or rather Johnny. Also known as your “inseparable friend” from high school, as well as being your first love. Time had certainly been kind to him. Johnny was always popular and handsome, but now, it was a crime. He was a little taller and definitely went to the gym often, he wore a simple white blouse, a leather jacket, jeans and a white all-star. The hair was a little longer. For you, that was the definition of a perfect man. Noticing that he was coming in the direction where you were, you quickly looked away to Doyoung, who was just as surprised as you and just whispered “I had no idea he was coming.”

To explain better, Johnny and you were inseparable since elementary school, you grew up together. You two went to your first parties together, you shared secrets, the small achievements of the time, like your first kiss and you were by your side at all times. As a consequence of being a super cool, funny guy and his popularity being great due to the fact that he was one of the most popular players on the school's volleyball team, Johnny was attracting people's attention, especially girls who saw themselves in love with him, as well as You fell in love with him too. However, you didn't have time to talk about your feelings to him, because on the day of the prom, the day chosen for your confession, Johnny didn't show up, he didn't give any explanation, he didn't say goodbye. He just moved far away to fulfill his dream of attending his much-desired photography university. You cried for nights, tried to understand what had happened, you knew that Johnny hated goodbyes, but you weren't just anyone, you were his best friend forever and you didn't even know about your approval on the course of your dreams.

You were trying to deal with this absence that hurt so much in your chest, the subject of Johnny Suh was still very sensitive, almost everyone knew that. You thought that someone would bring up the subject, but you didn't expect that the “subject” would appear in front of you, greeting each one, with that smile that kept you awake at the same time as it warmed your heart, until he looked at you. For a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, it seemed like nothing had changed. And that's what Johnny thought too. You were no longer that little girl he had left behind. You were a woman, a beautiful woman. He remembered all the special moments he had spent with you, the many times you ate pepperoni pizza on the floor of your room, played uno, walked in the park near the school and he insisted on taking photos of you that he never were shown.

“Hi” Was all he could say, breaking that exchange of glances.

“Long time, John. Nice to see you." You were trying to be as polite and strong as possible, but you wanted to run to your room and cry.

The night went by, you tried to distract yourself by talking to your friends and old schoolmates, but it was difficult to ignore Johnny when you felt his gaze at times. You were already tired, you thought you stayed there long enough and told Sejeong that you were going home, she even offered to go with you, but you refused. You said goodbye to everyone, went towards your car that was in the parking lot and when you were about to open the door you heard that voice that, even after years, you recognized so well calling your name.

“Hi John.” You said as you turned around and saw him nearby. "Something happened?"

“No, it’s… I… wanted to know how you are. We didn’t talk today.” Johnny said, putting his hands in his jeans pocket. You knew he was nervous, but why? Wasn't he the one who left you without saying goodbye? This was no time for these thoughts and questions.

“Ah, I'm fine, just a little tired from work. If you don't mind, I'm on my way now. Goodnight"

“But…” He again stopped you from getting in the car and leaving. “I would like to know if we can go out one day, I really want to talk to you” For the thousandth time that night, you looked into the honey-colored eyes that you once liked so much. You saw the truth in Johnny's eyes and words, who was anxiously waiting for your answer. "I do not want to talk! You had the chance to explain yourself for 10 years and you did nothing.” That's what you wanted to answer at that moment.

"Okay." It was the only word that came out of his mouth. You exchanged cell phone numbers and you could see that Johnny had a goofy smile on his face, but you couldn't let that fool you.

“I'll send you a message so we can schedule everything correctly, okay? It was great to meet you again. I missed you."

Watching Johnny say goodbye, you were sure of one thing:

Johnny Suh still made you feel like a silly teenager in love with your best friend.

That same day, Johnny had sent you a message, which was followed by several others daily. You couldn't deny that Johnny was trying hard to earn your friendship and trust once again. He asked you about your work, your new hobbies, if you had heard from friends at school, in short, he wanted to know what had happened during those years. You also couldn't deny that you were enjoying the attention you were receiving from him.

But something still bothered you: Johnny never talked about his life and why he left without saying goodbye. You wanted to ask, you felt like he owed you an explanation, but you were still afraid to bring up the subject, after all, you didn't want to pressure him.

It was Friday night, after a long week of work, you were home. you had just taken a hot shower and were looking at your phone while eating something. Johnny had sent a few messages, including an invitation to have coffee the next day, he said he wanted to talk to you, as well as see you.

And there he was, in front of the agreed cafe, waiting for you. Johnny was pacing back and forth visibly nervous, constantly looking at his watch, why had he decided to arrive so early? He only stopped when he saw you walking towards him, wearing a dress that went to your heels and white converse. He could have sworn you were an angel who had come to get him. You didn't want to look nervous seeing Johnny again, especially when he was wearing a white tank top with a striped shirt over it, looser jeans and a cap, which only left the ends of his long hair showing. Once again, Johnny was the personification of your 'ideal type', but you would do everything you could to not show that. The man welcomed you with a beautiful smile, followed by a 'you look so beautiful' that left you completely blushing, then you chose what you would drink. Johnny was surprised when you didn't choose a latte, preferring an ice coffee, from what he remembered, you hated black coffee, so you explained to him that you had changed some habits for health reasons. After a few moments of talking, you finally said:

“What did you want to talk about?” Your voice revealed that you were nervous when asking this question, no matter how much you expected what Johnny was going to say.

“I think you must be curious that I went to the other side of the world without saying goodbye.” You just nodded. “And I also think you deserve an explanation. I was just scared.” Your face showed that you were confused by that. “Many things went through my head when I received the news that I had been approved to study at the university I always wanted. In addition to happiness, I was insecure, afraid of everything going wrong and disappointing my parents, of being away from the people I love and especially you. You know I hate saying goodbye to people...”

“But I wasn’t just anyone, John.” Hearing you call his name, Johnny knew you were upset and serious. “We were best friends, we shared everything. You disappeared on our graduation day, you left me without caring how I was feeling. If you had said you were going far away, of course I would have been sad, but I would understand that it was for the best, but disappearing without even saying goodbye broke my heart. Your explanation doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s one more thing.” You encouraged him to continue. Then, he took one of her hands that was on the table and began to caress it. “I ‘ran away’ because I was also trying to run away from my feelings because… I was falling in love with you.”

You didn't know what you were feeling at that moment. It was a mix of disbelief and relief, anger and joy. You wanted to throw yourself into Johnny’s arms and run away from him at the same time. So, does this mean that your teenage love was reciprocated?

“I know you will hate me for this, but if I were to lose you, it would be because of distance and not because of my unrequited feelings.”

“You know that doesn’t make any sense, right?” You let out an indignant laugh at that and separated your hand from Johnny's. “I was also in love with you. That graduation night, I was going to tell you and that's why I was so sad. I loved you Johnny, very much. As angry as I was at the time, I'm not anymore. We are no longer the same teenagers, we are adults and we are learning to deal with our feelings.” At that moment, Johnny realized that you had become a wonderful woman, that you were moving away from the insecure teenager of your school days and her confession took him by surprise.

“So, will you forgive me for all the shit I did?”

“Dude, you show up 10 years later, admitting all your mistakes, apologizing and on top of that looking so fucking hot, of course I forgive you.”

Johnny's laugh echoed through the cafe and you finally felt like you had healed from a wound that had been open for years.

At the beginning of the evening, Johnny made a point of accompanying you to your apartment on a walk full of stories and memories of old times.

“Good, we’re here.”

“I confess that I was so nervous for our date today, but it was very pleasant. Thank you very much for this wonderful afternoon.”

“So this was a date?” Johnny said raising one of his eyebrows and in a tone that made you blush a lot. He had this habit of flirting with you since you were teenagers.

“Ah, it wasn’t much of a date… but you understood what I meant, so stop making jokes!” Once again the man laughed and when he saw that you were about to say goodbye, he interrupted you saying:

“Could you give me a hug before you go?”

You just stood on your tiptoes, put your hands on his shoulders and pulled him into a hug, you felt his hands grab your waist, lifting you off the ground. Her little screams in the middle of laughter made Johnny laugh too. When Johnny put you back on the ground, he slowly moved away until your faces were very close. Johnny's intense gaze, his eyes covering every part of his (no longer ex) best friend's face as if he wanted to decorate that new version of him. Then your gaze fell on his lips and Johnny took it as a sign. It was just a long peck, but it was enough to move his entire body and Johnny's heart. That was proof that he was not only willing to be your friend, but to be something more.

“Can you tell I’m still in love with you?” He said as soon as you separated.

“I think so” You let out a small laugh, still holding hands with him. “Johnny, I know you’re not asking me for anything right now, but let’s take it easy? You came back recently and, as much as I loved that kiss, I wanted some time to get to know more about adult Johnny.”

Johnny gently caressed your cheek, which automatically made you close your eyes, as you missed his touches, now with another meaning. “I will give you as much time as you need. I waited 10 years and I don’t mind waiting a little longer.”

And you wouldn't imagine how determined Johnny was to win you over. He called you almost every day just to hear your voice, whenever possible he would pick you up from work, he loved watching movies just to cling to you, he called you for some dates that you loved, ranging from having ice cream on the corner to in go to the most expensive record store in town. You loved every moment you spent with him and you loved even more the fact that he was respecting your space.

Another Friday had arrived, you had sent a message to Johnny asking to come to your apartment because, in addition to wanting to see him, you were upset about not being able to get a ticket to the concert of your favorite teenage band, McFLY, and you wanted do something to distract yourself. Johnny was already in his apartment, you were lying on the couch, drinking wine that he had brought and he noticed how upset you were, he knew that this band was very important to you, besides being their first show in years.

“If I had known you were going to be this sad, I wouldn’t have even come.”

“Ah Johnny, understand me, it’s McFLY! They were very important in forming my fan personality, you know that.”

“I know, so I won’t let you be sad about it.” Then, he took an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to you. You didn't understand what was happening, as it always is when you're with Johnny, but you jumped up from the couch when you opened the envelope: they were two tickets to the show you wanted so much.

"But how? Tickets sold out in minutes!”

“Let's say I have a photographer friend who will work on the show and he owed me a favor” Johnny said with a shrug, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, you were about to give him a hug, when he stopped you. “I know you’re really excited about the tickets, but could you take a look at the ticket inside?”

So that's when you got the second and biggest surprise of the night:

“You once told me that you had the dream of going to a McFLY concert and living the cliché of dancing and singing ‘All About You’ with your boyfriend. You already have the ticket.

Can I be your boyfriend?”

The man in front of him was nervous, but he was smiling, calmly waiting for his answer.

“There is no better person to be my boyfriend. Of course you can." It was then that Johnny hugged you with all the strength he had and kissed you, as he always wanted, full of a love saved for so many years.

They say love is patient, it happens at the right time. Maybe it wasn't meant to be at that time, but I knew that now it was right to give Johnny that opportunity, that no one would make you happier in this world than your inseparable friend.

191 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

starlink-installer-uk

STARLINK INSTALLERS

doseofarabic

Let's study Arabic!

radiantsims

Radiant Sims

iraqimo

mohammed

spicywatch-works

Spicy Mhmm