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#isn't really an explanation people want to hear

dmclemblems · 2 years

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man, imagine just... letting people have their own opinions of gw and not making fun of people who did or didn’t enjoy it.

people in this fandom are so aggressive.

you can talk about your opinions and even hate or love as strongly as the human heart allows! just... don’t say things like “people are stupid for thinking xyz”. you do realize you may have mutuals or even friends following you that see that and are now apprehensive to talk to you, especially about this game, right? that you might be offending your own friends and acquaintances with insulting terminology and you don’t know a friend feels that way because they’re too anxious to even tell you now because you’ve made it clear that you think everyone with xyz opinion is some insulting and hurting term?

it’s one thing to say things like “this is the best/worst route between both games and I love/hate it more than anything”. it’s another to say something like “everyone who loves/hates gw is an absolute retard who didn’t understand claude’s character in houses in the first place if they loved/hated gw”.

no, I’m not quoting anyone specifically, but I’m trying to iterate to you an example of the sorts of things I’m seeing people saying as if under the assumption that every single person in their space agrees with them and that they’re not risking hurting someone with their words.

yeah, you can hate the route or love the route with every fiber of your being. I’m just personally not sure that’s worth being hateful toward every single other human being who has the opposite opinion as you, or worth making people apprehensive about checking their social media every day because they follow people who are very likely to insult entire groups of people based on their likes/dislike in a fictional universe.

like, yeah, I didn’t enjoy the second half of gw... but you know what’s cool? I’m still close friends with someone who liked it and feels the opposite way that I do about the writing and about claude.

#it sucks too bc I have mutuals on Twitter who will NOT stop talking about it #and going out of their way to point out every instance of their opinion while like #degrading the people who don't agree #at that point like mind your own business and talk about things that are fun??? stop getting mad at people for their opinions???#it's really easy to go find something you enjoy on the damn internet it's like the easiest way ever lol #even when I just check regular tags for characters nowadays it's the same arguments #half or more of the content isn't the characters or fanart or anything like that anymore #it's just people arguing about stupid shit like okay we get it you do or don't like the writing in it #it doesn't mean you have to go out of your way to make other people feel bad about their opinion #it's one thing to discuss with people in your space (depending on which social media you use etc)#but to go out of your way or to outright insult people with the opposite opinion just makes you look like you're trying to start fights #when this game came out I wanted to remember it by being Billy's final work for his job and he did so so so good #and now it's hard to look at this game and think of it that way because I keep thinking of all the drama #it's still hard to listen to Ferdinand's lines and some more than others bc I was in Billy's streams a lot #so when I hear those things I tend to picture his face and it's still difficult for me. I still can't wrap my head around him being gone #and for two months at that now. I want to look at this game and think of the work he did and you know? if you don't that's fine #but it's hard for me to see it that way now when I just can't log on to ANYTHING on ANY day and see ANYTHING but arguing or like #people straight up insulting others and using offensive terms about people who didn't like something #like cool you loved/hated gw. wanna explain why you're tagging your hate for other people to see? would love to hear THAT explanation #it's kinda like how on Twitter I've had to block an obscene amount of people in the dmcl tags #bc they post the ship name i.e. a keyword in searches that will come up when fans look for content #and it's a bunch of offensive shit about the entire fanbase and how we're all disgusting people with shit opinions #and who don't enjoy the ship for actual context but apparently bc we just want to see two guys bang #imagine lumping an entire fandom of anything (ship character series etc) into an insulting and offensive box just bc YOU don't like it #or you had ONE bad experience with a fan of it so now you post hate in their search keywords instead of censoring it #so that it doesn't come up in someone's searches #literally how are you going to be prejudice about an entire group of shippers or character fans full of ppl you don't even KNOW?#and instead of talking to some of them to understand their reasoning you just post offensive shit in their searches/tags #this is the kind of shit I'm seeing with Hopes too which is why I'm mentioning it here

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capslocked · 3 months

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PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

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

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hyperfixatedbastard · 3 months

Text

one must grab the titty

Soft!Adam x AFAB!Reader

It's no surprise that Adam's big on physical touch, but you expected it to be - well, sexual. Turns out that this clingy, hypersexual douchebag actually likes innocent, nonsexual intimacy. Like holding your boobs just 'cause they're nice to hold.

Word Count: 926

WARNINGS: SFW (I think?), AFAB!Reader with gender neutral pronouns, mentions of sex, no sexual content, nonsexual intimacy

A/N: I kinda hate this but I'm tired of working on it, so here ya go! Apologies if you have no tits, but let's be honest, that wouldn't stop this bastard.

Dividers

Adam has some… odd habits, at least by Heavenly standards. Sometimes you wonder just how exactly he’s an angel, but you’ve learned to not question it. He may be a douchebag and an asshole, but he has his moments. He’s sweet with you, at least. You never expected him to be a doting, clingy boyfriend, but he certainly proved you wrong.

No matter where you are or what you’re doing, he’ll have an arm around your waist, or one of his wings loosely wrapped around you. Adam is a possessive guy (after hearing about the whole Lucifer debacle, you can’t really blame him), and he makes it clear with the way he interacts with you in public. And in private, he’s arguably worse—you’re lucky to sit down without him draping an arm over your shoulders to pull you in close, or practically pulling you into his lap. He’d never admit it, but you think he needs the reassurance that you’re still there, that you haven’t left him.

You’re not so sure about that theory once the touches go past cuddling.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"Adam," you begin in a suspicious tone. "What are you doing?"

The angel in question blinks back at you owlishly. His mask and robes have been traded out for some sweatpants and a t-shirt that reads ‘I Got ADHD’ with the subtitle ‘A Damn Hard Dick.’ The two of you are cuddling on the couch in your shared apartment, with some shitty action movie playing on the TV as you sit wrapped up in his arms and wings with your back to his chest (you didn’t think that action movies would be allowed in Heaven considering the murder and whatnot, but once again, you don’t question it).

"Hm?" he hums innocently. "I'm watching the fuckin' movie, babe."

You glance down to where his hand is shamelessly groping your boob over your shirt. You debate whether or not to even confront him about it, considering he isn't actually doing anything other than just holding your tit, but you ask anyways.

"Why is your hand on my boob, then?" you prompt, your eyes shifting between his face and where his hand is idly groping your chest.

Adam chuckles and breaks out into a smug grin. "What? Can't a guy hold his partner's tits?" He gently squeezes your boob for emphasis.

Your face heats up at that, and your eyes narrow in confusion. "Why do you want to?"

"Uh, because they're fucking great," he answers incredulously, like you're the weird one here. He then brings his free hand up to hold your other boob. He gives them both a gentle squeeze, but doesn't do anything more than that. The lack of a sexual innuendo, joke, or proposition doesn’t make sense to you—it feels out of character for Adam, even after learning about his love of cuddling.

You just look at him, confused. Sure, you've always known that he's a boob guy, but this doesn't strike you as Adam's usual horny antics. But if it’s not sexual (which you still find hard to believe), what the fuck is it?

He seems to realize that his original explanation isn’t good enough. "Look, hot stuff, boobs are just nice to fuckin' hold, y'know? All soft n' squishy n' shit."

You raise a brow at that. It’s a fair point, you suppose. "So, what, my tits are like stress balls for you?"

Adam laughs—not that loud, boisterous laugh he does when pranking some poor soul, but that more genuine, softer one few people ever got to hear. "Yeah, pretty fuckin' much, babe. They're comforting!"

You roll your eyes at him, albeit fondly, as a smile pulled at your lips. "Whatever works for you, I guess."

His smirk grows, and he squeezes your boobs a little firmer this time. "Oh, these beauties are fucking workin' for me, sweet cheeks."

You scoff, albeit lightheartedly, and swat at his shoulder. "Shut up and watch your damn movie."

Adam doesn’t respond, but he pulls you a little closer and gives your tits one last good squeeze before returning his attention to the TV—for the most part, at least. His hands don’t leave your chest, but they don’t really do much either. They’re just resting there, occasionally groping or giving a light squeeze. Damn, this really isn’t a sex thing for him, is it?

You’d already been shocked when you’d first realized how clingy Adam is. You were even more surprised to discover that he’s a fan of nonsexual intimacy in general, like cuddling and hugging without it leading to something more. And here he is, surprising you once again by doing something that should surely be sexual in his mind, yet treating it casually and barely even making sex jokes about it.

A few more minutes into the movie, you can’t hide your curiosity anymore. “This really isn’t a sexual thing for you?”

Adam’s eyebrows raise, and he looks puzzled at your question before breaking out into a smirk. “Why, do you want it to be?”

You scoff and shake your head. “No, I’m just… surprised, is all.”

“Hey! I can appreciate some nice boobs without it being sexual,” he protests, and he sounds at least partially serious.

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” you assure him with a soft laugh. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

“Good, ‘cause I fuckin' like this,” Adam remarks, once again squeezing your boobs for emphasis. You just fondly roll your eyes at him and go back to watching the movie.

Having a clingy boyfriend is pretty nice, actually.

Taglist: @3sire-777

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel adam x reader #adam x you #adam hazbin hotel #adam x reader #hazbin adam x reader #hazbin hotel fluff #hazbin hotel oneshots

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suuuupernovaaa · 1 year

Text

sayrìp

sayrìp [ˈsaj.ɾɪp̚] adj. handsome, good looking

Anonymous Request: How about Neteyam getting jealous of his best friend calling his dad hot/attractive? friends to lovers ofc.

You jokingly admit that you find Neteyam's father attractive, and he reacts with surprising jealousy.

1,101 words

Today feels like a really good day for a long ride. The sky is clear, it's warm but not too hot, and the wind is mild. Plus, you really don't have a lot going on today; you went hunting early that morning, and that was kind of your only to-do today.

So, a long ride it is.

On your way to the forest, you spot Neteyam Sully, walking by himself. What an unusual sight! Usually the son of Taruk Makto is surrounded by people; family, friends, admirers. Even though you are what you would consider a close friend to him, maybe even his best friend, you rarely get to spend time with just Neteyam.

"Neteyam!" you jog over to him, and he glances over your shoulder. "I'm going for a ride - do you want to join?"

He shrugs. "No, not really."

You stop in your tracks, but he continues walking without another glance back towards you.

His response was cold, almost harsh, and probably the least he's ever spoken to you in one encounter.

You try to think back to your last few interactions, but there's nothing you can pinpoint that might explain such a display towards you.

Neteyam is getting further and further away, and you must decide - follow and demand an explanation, or continue on with his day and hope his tantrum is finished when you return.

But, ah, the weather is so nice - so you decide to take your ride and hope that whatever has upset Neteyam, he's over it by the time your done.

Though you left near midday for your ride, the sun is almost set when you return. You feel refreshed, maybe a little wind-burnt, and you know your hair must be a mess, but it was so nice to spend the afternoon doing something you love.

Of course, at the back of your mind the entire time was your interaction with Neteyam earlier. You can't stop wondering, what could possibly be wrong with him?

After you eat with your family, you decide to seek him out and demand an explanation for his attitude.

He isn't hard to find. He's with his family at their home - his parents and youngest sister, Tuk. Lo'ak and Kiri are nowhere to be seen.

"Y/N," Neytiri greets you with a smile. "Have you been riding all day?" She reaches out, grabbing a strand of your hair.

"I have," you reply.

"Tomorrow, I braid this," she says, patting the side of your head. "Come early, it will take a long time. Tuk will help - right, Tuk?"

Eagerly, Tuk agrees, and you're grateful for their help. Neteyam sits by his father, tearing apart his dinner.

"Neteyam, come with me," you say, walking over and extending a hand to him.

He doesn't look up.

"Neteyam Sully! You are going to stand up right now and follow me out of here."

With a nudge from his father and a big huff, Neteyam stands up and walks by you, ignoring your outstretched hand.

Jake raises an eyebrow at you, and you shrug and turn to follow Neteyam. He's already halfway to the forest, and you catch up with him just beyond the tree line.

"Neteyam, stop!" you holler, feeling very frustrated and a little angry yourself, and finally, he listens to something You have to say. Standing in front of him, you throw your hands out to the side. "You are going to tell me why you are so angry with me, right now!"

Neteyam rolls his eyes, looking anywhere but at you.

"This is mean, Neteyam. I don't even know what I did, and you are hurting me."

This seems to finally catch his attention, and he looks down at you. "Maybe you could go and talk to my dad about it."

You furrow your brow and purse your lips in confusion. "Why... would I do that?"

Neteyam crosses his arms, and stares at you silently.

Realization dawns on you, and your cheeks heat up red.

"Did you hear me teasing Kiri about your father being attractive?" you ask. "Oh, no, Neteyam, that's why you're made at me? A joke I made to embarrass Kiri?"

"It didn't sound like a joke," he replies, his tone still cool.

"Of course it didn't, I was trying to embarrass Kiri! You know all the girls her age talk about how handsome and strong Taruk Makto is! I was just teasing her. Do you think I could actually be attracted to your dad?" You throw your arms out in exasperation, but Neteyam remains unmoved. "You are being an idiot! I have grown up near your family, your father is like family to me. You all are."

"Family?"

"Yes!"

"So you don't find any of us attractive?" He uncrosses his arms, and takes a step towards you.

"That's not what I'm saying." You sigh in exasperation. "I have always found you beautiful, Neteyam, and I'm sure you know that."

Though... you're not sure why he would know that. Even though, when you were sure he wasn't paying attention, you would steal glances at Neteyam to admire just how beautiful he was, you'd given him no indication that you'd ever thought of him that way.

"Beautiful?" he asks, raising his brow. His face is softened now, no longer stern, and a hint of a smile plays at his lips.

"Yes, I... well, you are." You wave your hand in front of your face. "Just tell me you are no longer mad at me. And apologize for your behavior earlier."

You hardly have the sentence out of your mouth before Neteyam wraps one arm firmly around your neck, and pulls you to him, stopping when your lips are less than an inch from his.

"I am sorry," he whispers.

You can't help but notice how quickly your heart is beating, and how weak your knees feel - has your best friend always had the ability to make you feel this way?

"I forgive you," you whisper, and close the gap, pressing your lips softly to his in a tentative kiss.

He turns your tentative kiss into something ferocious, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him as close to you as he can possibly get - and it still isn't close enough.

Neteyam leans back against the tree behind him, pulling you with him, deepening the kiss, sighing into your mouth.

He pulls away, just for a moment, to smile down at you. You see stars dancing before your eyes.

"You're very beautiful, too," he replies, half-teasing.

"Just kiss me," you reply in a breathy voice.

He happily obliges.

#neteyam #Neteyam x reader #avatar #avatar 2 #Neteyam fic

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frogdisco2021 · 4 months

Text

How much better would it have been if instead of saying "shut up emo nerd no one ever pushed you away, you imagined all the rejection" Will said something like "listen, those people are judgemental jerks, but there are people here who want to be your friend! *I* want to be your friend, if you'll let me! There are people here who would be happy to see you stay, myself included!"

Cause him saying that no one ever pushed Nico away is literally just not true, we see from other characters perspectives that they see Nico as weird and untrustworthy. He has no cabin to stay in before the Last Olympian and many people are disturbed by the sheer fact that a child of Hades is walking around. There's literally a scene where the seven, including Jason who later becomes one of Nico's closest friends after he begins to understand him better, debate on leaving him to suffocate to death alone in a jar. For real I don't know how it was seen as a good idea to make Will borderline gaslight Nico and have that be seen as like....tough love??? What Nico needed to hear???

Isn't a better explanation that Nico WAS rejected by some people at camp, but there were others (including Will) who tried to befriend him but Nico always thought they were just trying to mock him so he'd respond by being mean aka "pushing himself away"? That's a really common thing with kids who are bullied or feel rejected, if someone is suddenly nice to you, you don't trust it. You think they're just trying to get close to you so they can make fun of you.

It would be especially fitting since Nico along with all half-bloods have ADHD, the fact that ADHD also often comes with rejection sensitive dysphoria could've been leaned into. Nico WAS rejected, and because of that, any time someone would make a legitimate attempt at befriending him he'd push them away. That actually makes sense and validates the feelings of the most depressed and isolated character in the series instead of turning it into him just imagining the years of people acting like he has the plague.

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #nico di angelo #heroes of olympus #pjo #the heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #solangelo #hoo crit #rr crit

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imyourbratzdoll · 1 year

Note

Hello my beautiful bubs💗 so I see you added Max Burnett to your list and like to request a little angsty and fluff.

So Maybe him and reader get into a ugly and heated argument or he leaves her with no explanation like he does in the movie but then they End up fixing everything after awhile.

hey baby! I hope you like what I wrote!

summary - max left you with a word, causing you to go through many stages of heartbreak until you finally meet again after 5 years.

warning - angst, swearing, heartbreak, no happy ending.

the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips and @firefly-graphics

He told you to meet him here. You were sure of it. You had reread the address and time he sent, not wanting to disappoint him. You waited anxiously on the bed, gnawing your bottom lip as you whipped your head from the door to your phone. You turned it on and went to the messages, opening his contact.

Max❤: Meet me at our spoken place, you know what room. No, later than 12.

You looked at the time, noting it was now an hour past 12, and you were all alone. You scrolled through the messages you had sent him.

You: I’m here. 12:00 seen

You: Max? Where are you? 12:05 seen

You: Max? 12:15 seen

You stared sadly at your last message.

You: I see… You’re not coming… 1:00 message could not be delivered

You blinked back the tears, wondering if you would’ve seen the signs beforehand if you weren’t so stupidly in love. You would’ve rathered him break things off face to face instead of leaving you like this. Did he even care about you? Were you nothing to him? All these thoughts ran through your head as you stared at the wall, not bothering to wipe the tears that rolled down your cheek away. You must’ve been there for a long time because you were only brought out of your zoned-out state when someone entered the room, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay. You painfully smiled, nodding your head before leaving. You made your way home, feeling drained of all emotion, not knowing if you’ll ever feel okay again.

You slowly stripped from your clothes, turned the shower on and entered. Your head rested against the cool tile, letting the water run down your body as tears fell from your eyes. Your heart hurt more than ever, squeezing harshly inside your chest as if someone had reached inside and begun to squeeze. Your sobs filled the quietness of your apartment, showing you how alone you really were. Once you were finished with your shower, you slowly got out and dried yourself, dressing in your comfy clothes before crawling into your bed, ignoring the harsh rumbles in your stomach, begging for food, ignoring the dryness of your throat. You just wanted to close your eyes and never wake again.

It had been about five years since Max left you without a goodbye and a shattered heart. You spent the first year numb, barely living or feeling anything. Your friends and family didn’t see or hear from you, and when they did, they noticed that you barely took care of yourself. They tried convincing you to go to therapy, but you stared at them blankly. Barely even hearing a word they spoke to you.

The second year, you spent grieving. Your feelings came crashing down on you one day, and you couldn’t stop the dam from breaking. You’d cry whenever you saw something that reminded you of him, and you’d cry if you saw his name or someone who looked like him. You’d cry when you came home and saw things he had gifted you or the jumper he had left behind. The people in your life were still worried, but they were relieved you were at least feeling something now, taking more care of yourself than the previous year.

And now we are here. For the remaining years, you became cold, heartless, and mean. You had built walls so damn high around your heart that no one could penetrate it. This is what caused the meeting you walked into. Your friends and family sat in your loungeroom as you walked into your apartment, staring at you worriedly. Throwing excuses that they care about you, they're worried about your well-being, and that you need to get help. You left, slamming the door behind you and heading to the closet bar. You sat on the stool and ordered a whiskey, needing something strong. You barely took notice of the man sitting beside you, rolling your eyes as other seats were available.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you drink whiskey.” You scowled, knowing who was now sitting beside you by the voice. Max smirked, leaning against the counter. “What, no hug?” You skulled the rest of your drink, slamming the glass down before slowly turning toward him, noticing the smug look on his face.

You smirk, causing his brows to furrow as confusion takes over his features before you raise your fist and slam it into his face, hearing the crunch of his nose. You slam some bills down onto the counter and begin to walk off, exiting the bar to get as far away from that asshole as possible. You rolled your eyes, clenching your jaw, when you heard him following behind you. “Hey! Wait up!” You don’t. You just pick up your pace until he grabs hold of your arm and spins you, quickly raising his hands as you go to punch him again. “I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” You growl, stepping closer to the man. “Now you just want to talk? After five fucking years, you finally want to fucking talk?!” You scream, punching his chest until he grabs your wrists and stares at you. You huff, glaring at him. “I don’t want to talk, Max. I want you to fuck off. I want to return to five years ago and get the shattered pieces of my heart back.” You lick your lips, “I want to go back to before I met you so that I could have never met you and fallen for your stupid words and your stupid face. I want to be me again, but guess what? I can’t! Because I fell for you.”

He raises a brow, gulping as he continues to stare at you. He took in how beautiful you had gotten and how your sweet scent wafted through the air and into his nose. He missed you and feels it’s too late to make it up to you, but god, he will try his hardest too. “Are you done?”

“Let me go, you asshole.” You growl. You wouldn’t let him back in. You couldn’t. You don’t know if you’ll survive another heartbreak and aren’t willing to try.

“Just listen to me, okay? I’ve been looking for you for five years.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at his words. “It’s true, goddamit, Y/n! Will you just fucking listen to me.”

“Or what? What are you going to do, huh? What’s worse than you pretending to fucking love me and then leaving me without so much of a word?” Your glare sharpens, desperately wanting to get far away from him.

“For fuck sake! I didn’t pretend to fucking love you! I still fucking love you! I didn’t have a fucking choice, okay?!” Your brows furrow, wondering what the fuck he means by that. Max sighs. “They were onto you and me. They threatened to hurt you if I met or even spoke to you. It took me four years to get away from them, to get them off my radar. You disappeared. I’ve been looking for you to ensure they didn’t do anything. Fuck! I didn’t want to fucking hurt you!”

You shake your head, not wanting to believe him. You couldn’t. Sure, you still had some love for him, but you couldn’t put yourself through that again. Max cups your cheeks, looking into your eyes with his tear-filled ones. “Please, just give me a chance… Even as a friend, I just… Please, I need to have you in my life.” You shrug against him, stepping back and away from him.

“I don’t know… Maybe in another life, but I don’t know if I can put myself through that again.” You swallow the sob that tries to pass your lips before turning away from him and walking away, holding back the tears that want to fall.

“Y/n! Please!” He cries vision blurred with tears as he watches you leave him like he left you.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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katsmtmsdoodles · 5 months

Text

in-universe explanation under the cut 😘

Lloyd:

- On the news CONSTANTLY

- Whenever the ninja are talked about, it's Lloyd's picture thrown up there

- He does all of the official public speaking for the team, so of course

- He's notoriously the sweetest to his fans

- Compilations of him being the nicest person ever are all over YouTube

- He doesn't ever post anything on Instagram, but he has the most followers anyway

- Isn't and doesn't want to be verified on TikTok, he's just a scroller, but trying to find his account has become a huge internet conspiracy

Kai:

- Posts on TikTok & Chirp DAILY, he has huge followings everywhere

- Everything from charities to his work out routines to Q&As to thirst traps

- Even has some vulnerable inspirational videos that are like "keep going. you'll be okay, i believe in you" that are honestly tear-jerkers

- Interacts with fans the most

- If anyone is curious about what the ninja have been up to, Kai's pages are the place to go

- Also attends the most events bc he's an attention whore

- But has also raised the most money and attention for said charities as a result

Jay:

- He doesn't host Ultimate Ninja Warrior anymore, but it kept going with his permission and a contract, he visits as a special host during the finals every year

- He's also on the logo of the show lol

- Occasionally posts stuff on Chirp when it means a lot to him

- He's bad at ignoring haters tho so not online as much as Kai

- At the same time, he gets really emotional when fans tell him how he's inspired them

- He's the funniest at interviews and really likes doing them with the other ninja

- His compilations are either "the blue ninja being HILARIOUS" or "the blue ninja secretly being a genius for 10 minutes"

Nya:

- She's only on social media to bother Kai during his livestreams and talk shit on his posts. also gives Jay's haters nasty comments

- But she does have a few workout tip videos to empower girls who look up to her

- Everyone has a crush on her

- Does volunteer work for publicity to the organization

- She's lowkey aggressive on her social media though, like, half of her posts are going after terfs and nazis to get them canceled

- The ninja's social team has a heart attack every time they hear that she posted something lmao

Zane

- The most Memed Ninja, like it's ridiculous

- He's every reaction image

- You know how supernatural has a gif for everything? There's a Zane gif for everything thanks to his interviews, media, fan events, etc

- His fan base is AGGRESSIVE for some reason, though

- His fan base is the K-Pop fans of the ninjago world, even though there's not as many of them.

- Maybe that IS why though. The few. The strong. They're the ones who, like, solve crimes through the internet and shit

- There are compilations of "every time the white ninja remembers he's a robot" that's just Zane, like, being shook when fridge magnets stick to him and when metal detectors go off around him

Cole:

- He has zero internet presence

- A whole ass mystery

- There are conspiracy theories that he's not even real and its a running gag

- There are accounts dedicated to posting blurry pictures of him like he's a cryptid

- They were clear pictures before, but they were edited to be blurry lmao cause it's a joke but some people have genuinely began to wonder

- Like some of them will literally be a blurred picture of him sitting with everyone else at an interview

- Cole isn't in on the joke though and is confused every time people meme at him (he's not an internet kid TuT)

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triassictriserratops · 1 month

Note

I think if peeta even got a sniffle Katniss would go fucking feral, drop everything and take care of him (and get sick herself)

ABSOLUTELY SHE WOULD.

She'd call her mom like, "he's dying, what do I do?"

Peeta's in the background like, "Hi Mrs. Everdeen, I just have seasonal allergies, I took some Zyrtec, everything is fine!

"YOU'RE DYING, SHUT UP AND GO TO BED BEFORE I KILL YOU."

BUT NOW

Now, Anon? Now i get to talk about what I think happens when KATNISS gets sick. And spoiler alert, it's GREAT.

The first time Katniss gets sick after the war, she doesn't tell anyone. She just locks herself in her house, puts a note on the door saying that she's fine and to come back tomorrow hoping that Sae sees it and doesn't bother with cooking anything for her. She grabs some remedies, a box of plain crackers, a blanket, some water, and trudges her way upstairs back to bed.

A few hours later she hears a loud crash in the kitchen. She waddles and sniffles her way downstairs to the sight of a cursing Peeta, sprawled on the kitchen floor, while his prosthetic is dangling from the open window above the sink.

"What are you doing?" she says in a congested voice, "I left a note on the door." She moves over to the window to unlatch his prosthesis from where it got snagged on the windowsill.

"This," he says, brandishing the crumpled paper in the air, "is NOT enough of an explanation. People were worried. Haymitch was worried..." He glances away at that.

"Haymitch? Bullshit." she snorts as she bends down to reattach his leg. She stays down when she's done, realizing that she's feeling a little unsteady on her feet.

"Fine. FINE! I was worried. What's going on? Did I do something wrong?"

"No! Of course not. It-it's fine. I'm fine. I'm just sick. Thanks for stopping by. I'll see you tomorr-." She's struggling to get back up when she feels the air whoosh around her and realizes that Peeta has picked her up to carry her over to the couch.

"Sick? What's wrong? Have you taken anything? Let me make you some tea, or do you want soup? I can make soup." he's rambling as he presses the back of his hand to her clammy forehead.

"I really am okay. I got this. I'll be fine, Peeta." she says, pushing his hand away from her face and regretting it immediately at the loss of contact.

"Katniss. Please let me do this, okay? This is what you and I do, right? That's what you said. Now, tell me where you keep your bouillon. I'm making some chicken stock and a good soup for you."

That's when it hits Katniss. She hasn't really been taken care of like this in years. Maybe since she was 11.

For years now, her mother would do her best to take care of her during the occassional cold, of course. But for the most part Katniss struggled to accept any softness or warmth from her mother. Feeling caught between that desire to be held and comforted and the anger she still felt towards her - they instead both settled for the distant, clinical detachment her mother had with her other patients.

But, really, the last nearly 7 years of her life have been dedicated to the care of her family and her loved ones. She learned to stop asking for things and began instead to meet all of her own needs, without relying on others.

After the games she'd begun the process of extending that branch and allowing herself to lean on her mother a little more. But now? Now her mother isn't here. And here she was right back to what she knew. Taking care of herself.

Looking up at Peeta, blue eyes shining in earnest. Ready to do and be anything that is needed of him. Anything that SHE needs of him. She wipes her nose on her sleeve and smiles.

"Pantry. Top shelf. On the right. Thank you, Peeta."

#katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark #hunger games headcanon #thg headcanons #thg #thg series #the hunger games #thg fic #thg fanfiction #love is a verb #hunger games sick day

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boredmadamoiselle · 1 year

Text

Much Ado About Nothing

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Synopsis: When rumors about Charles cheating on you spread across the world and he can't find you anywhere, Charles thinks he has lost you. But has he?

Warnings: A little smut. Rumors of cheating. Fluff. Angst. English isn't my first language, it probably contains some mistakes. I tried my best but if you want to correct or help me, you are welcome.

Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is always appreciated and is important for me. If you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to write them and I will take into consideration.

Cancun, Mexico

It was 10am and after returning from his morning run and his usual work out with Andrea, Charles was on his way to breakfast.

While waiting for the elevator, he checked his phone and ignoring the numerous notifications coming from his social medias, he directly opened the chat with you.

He hadn't had much time to check his phone that morning but as soon as he had woken up and like so many times when you were away from each other, he had texted you wishing you a good day. By that time and given the time zone, he knew you must have been awake already but to his surprise, Charles found out that you hadn’t answered him yet. You hadn't even visualized his texts, Charles noticed. It was weird, sure, but you must have been working, he thought.

As he was entering the dining room of the hotel, he put his phone away. The room was crowded with people eating their breakfast. He crossed the room and took a seat at one of the vacant tables, while people around him had recognized him and followed his every single move. Since it was nothing new to him, he didn’t pay attention to them. He was a F1 driver, so he was used to people looking at him and talking about him pretty much all the time. In the end, it was part of the job.

Even though he was eating his breakfast, he could still feel their eyes on him while they whispered. They were more insistent than usual, he had to admit. Even though it could be frustrating sometimes, it was something he could handle and in the end, it was worth it. He ignored everyone and focused on his food; he was starving after all the physical activity he had done before.

He kept eating until hearing someone say your name caught his attention. He immediately stopped eating. Why someone was talking about you, his girlfriend? Although the voices weren't very close, Charles tried to focus on them and hear what they were saying.

“How can he act as if nothing had happened, as if he had done nothing?”

“Y/n deserves better! Poor girl, she must be heartbroken”

“Such a disappointment!”

“What did you expect? Men are all the same!”

“Do you really think he did such a thing? Especially under the eyes of all?”

The more Charles listened, the more confused he was, so he stopped listening. He couldn't understand anyway. What were they talking about? Did what? He didn't understand any of this.

He was picking his phone hoping to get some answers when a voice behind him called him.

“Charles! Here you are!” Charles turned around and saw Carlos. Charles noticed he looked pretty nervous and that made Charles agitated. What the hell was happening? At the same time, he was relieved to see his teammate who seemed to have more answers than Charles did, so maybe Carlos could explain to him what was going on.

He went to Carlos and without giving him time to speak, he asked the Spanish driver for an explanation. Carlos knew instantly that his friend had no idea what was happening.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. The others and I have been trying to contact you for hours. Haven’t you checked your phone today yet?”, the driver asked. Charles noticed he was whispering as if he didn't want to be heard, so he did the same even though he had no reason to do it and surely, nothing to hide. Or did he?

“I was about to when you walked in. Why?”, he asked, curious to have some answers.

Noticing that everyone was staring at them, Carlos took Charles by the arm and dragged him away from the room to go to a more private place.

“Come with me.”

Charles followed his friend, even though the whole situation was getting on Charles's nerves. Why all this mystery? What did Carlos have to tell him that couldn't be said in front of everyone? But above all, what did the others think they knew that he didn’t know yet? Charles was looking forward to some answers.

When they were away from indiscreet eyes and ears, Charles hoped Carlos was ready to speak but he just pulled out his phone and showed his screen to Charles.

“Do you recognize it?”

Charles looked at the picture Carlos was showing him. There was a table apparently set for two in a restaurant at night overlooking the sea. Of course Charles recognized the place, it was the same restaurant where he had dined the night before. He himself had posted a story by tagging the place. But still he didn't understand what it had to do with whatever was going on. Why was Carlos showing him that picture? Charles was starting to lose his patience.

“Yeah, I went for dinner there last night. Why?”

“Ok, I'll make it short. Apparently, a girl, who was at the same restaurant while you were there too, must have seen you and tagged you in her Instagram stories…”

Charles looked at his friend thinking he was crazy and didn't let him finish. “Carlos, we are Formula 1 drivers. People recognize us and ask us to take pictures with them or tag us all the time. A girl had seen me and tagged me in a story? So what? I don’t think it’s a problem”, Charles sighed.

“It isn’t a problem, of course it isn’t. You didn’t let me finish talking. The problem is what she wrote on the story.”

He picked up the phone from Charles's hands, quickly searched for something and as soon as he found it, he returned it to his teammate. “Here, look”, he said pointing to something on his screen. It was another photograph taken inside the restaurant, this time from another perspective. Charles looked better at the picture. He noticed it was a screenshot of an Instagram story probably posted by the girl Carlos mentioned before. He took a quick look at the name and had absolutely no idea who she was. There was also the location tag and then someone had written “date” followed by a white heart and his tag.

Charles was more confused than ever. Date? Why had the girl written something like that? Not only he didn't know her, but he hadn't even seen her the night before, much less gone out with her. Yes, he had gone to that restaurant and dined there but with his friends. But whoever had seen those stories didn’t know that and they could think that... It was all true. Oh no, Charles thought terrified. It couldn’t be.

Carlos' next words confirmed his fears. “As you can imagine, the story has gone viral. Now many people think that you had a date night with her and that you have…”

“Cheated on Y/n”, Charles ended the sentence.

Carlos just nodded. Saying those words was enough to make him feel sick and suddenly he felt the need to throw up. Charles loved you too much to do such a thing to you. But now the entire world thought he had betrayed you, putting you in a difficult position and maybe…

“Oh my God. Y/n!”

In that instant, Charles realized that if the pictures had gone viral and the rumors had spread, it meant that they had probably reached you too. And maybe they made you doubt him. Was that the reason why you hadn’t answered him yet?

He needed to explain to you that everything was just a big misunderstanding, that he loved you and you only. He immediately took his phone from his pocket, hoping to find a message from you but nothing had changed since he last checked. There were no missed messages or calls.

Given the six-hour difference, you must have been awake a long time ago. Even though you were very busy with work those days, you always found a moment for him, even just when it came to say good morning to him. Even if that silence from you wasn’t at all like you, Charles tried to stay calm and think straight. Without thinking further, he dialed your number and called you. Again and again. Hearing your voice would have calmed him down and if you had answered him, it must have been a good sign, it meant you still wanted to talk to him. But unfortunately, you were unreachable at that moment. He tried again and again but nothing. You didn’t answer him.

“Fuck!”, he screamed as he tried to contact you again. Apparently, your phone was off. But why? During the day, even when you were working, you always kept it on. Unless the whole situation had led you to switch it off, Charles thought. It was understandable given you must have gotten thousands of messages and calls in the last few hours asking you about the rumors. Minus the fact that you didn't want to talk to him, Charles thought. Was that? Were you actually ignoring him? Were you furious with him and didn’t want to talk to him? If that was true, it meant that you had believed the rumors. No, it couldn’t be. There had to be another reason.

Hours before, Charles de Gaulle Airport

With your face resting on the window and looking outside, you were waiting for the jet to take off. Seeing the cloudy sky, you were looking forward to enjoying the warm Mexican sun while drinking margaritas at the beach. Most of all, you couldn’t wait to hug your boyfriend. Fortunately, you still had a few days to spend together before Charles’ duties and the Mexican Grand Prix absorbed him.

You hadn’t seen him since he had left for Austin after his birthday, a week ago and as originally it wasn’t scheduled you went to Mexico, another week would have had to pass before you saw him. The more the races moved away from Europe, the harder it became for you to accompany Charles and support him. As much as you really wanted to, you had a job, deadlines to respect and other responsibilities to face. Recently the work had increased, and several paperwork had been waiting for you in the office. Therefore, you stayed home. However, motivated by the fact you terribly missed Charles and you wanted to see him, you had worked hard for the last weeks and carried out much of the work. So, without saying anything to your boyfriend, you had decided to join him in Mexico and work from… well, from the beach.

As you imagined the face your boyfriend would have made when he would have seen you, the jet was finally ready to take off. You checked the time and doing a quick calculation, you realized you would have arrived for lunch, and it wouldn't have been long from the moment Charles woke up to your arrival, so you had plenty of time to arrive without him suspecting anything. You checked your phone one last time before turning it off.

When the jet was several meters above the ground and after admiring the view for a few moments, you got ready to rest. A long flight waited for you but it was worth it, and you wanted to arrive already fresh and rested so that you could enjoy the time you had with Charles.

With the lights all out and the window down, it took you a few seconds to fall asleep, unaware of what was about to happen on the other side of the world.

Cancun, Mexico

The whole situation was driving Charles insane. He had tried to call you repeatedly but you still didn't answer him. He had also asked the other drivers and their girlfriends to call you because maybe you would have answered them, at least. But it hadn't worked and that freaked out Charles even more.

Your parents, friends and co-workers didn’t know where you were or didn’t want to tell Charles the truth. He didn't know what or who to believe. Apparently, you weren't in the office and had taken a few days off. You weren’t even in your shared apartment. He had sent Lorenzo – because even Arthur wasn’t answering him – to check. That wasn’t a good sign, Charles thought.

Under the gaze of the other drivers, he paced up and down the room while he thought about what to do. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the same conclusion every time: there was only one thing he could do.

He went to the closet; took the few clothes he had placed inside and threw them inside the suitcase without bothering to put them in order. He had no time to waste.

“What are you doing now?”, a confused Pierre asked.

“Can't you see? Packing. I'm going home”, Charles just said.

“You… what?”, the drivers exclaimed in unison. They were visibly panicked.

“Are you out of your mind? And the race?”, Carlos asked.

“Y/n is more important than racing, than anything.” Charles didn’t hesitate to answer, and everyone fell silent at those words. Charles had never believed so much in those words as in that moment. From an early age, racing had been everything to him, his dream. He lived to race and win. But then, one day you came into his world, and everything changed. You had given a new meaning to his life. You stole his heart and he won yours. Now he couldn't accept the idea of losing you. He had to see you and talk to you.

He looked at Max and had an idea. “Max, can I take your jet, please?”, he questioned his friend.

Charles still had a few days left before the Grand Prix and he could also skip his media duties and if Max lent him his jet, he had plenty of time to get home and back in time. It was crazy, Charles knew it, but he didn't care, for you it was worth it. For you he would also have missed the race if it were necessary.

“I’d like to, but…” Max seemed visibly in trouble like he didn't know quite what to say. “It won’t be possible, Charles. I lent it to a friend, sorry. And sincerely I don't think it's a good idea", he continued.

“Thanks for the help, mate”, Charles replied more sarcastically than he had intended. He knew it wasn’t Max’ fault and that he was saying it for Charles’ own good.

Without Max’ help, he could still do it. He would have rented another jet or taken a regular plane.

“Charles, Max is right. Try to be reasonable or at least wait a little longer before doing anything”, Pierre said.

“If I wait, I’ll lose her.” Charles took the last things and closed his suitcase. He was ready to go but Max’ words stopped him from leaving the room. “It won’t happen. Think about it. What if she tries to contact you and you don't answer her because you are flying? That could even make things worse. You need to be patient and wait for her to contact you. In the meantime, you could send your brothers to find her.”

Charles sighed. Max was right too, he had to stay lucid. Maybe you just needed some time to think. Even if he didn’t want to, he could wait a few more hours.

“Okay, but if I don't hear from her soon, I'm leaving tomorrow anyway and you couldn't stop me”, Charles said after an eternity, and he really meant those words.

He put the bag on the ground and went to sit on the bed with the other drivers. He picked up the phone and as he contacted Lorenzo to ask him to look for you, he didn’t see the complicit glance his friends exchanged.

A few hours later, Cancun International Airport

After a long journey, you had finally landed in Mexico and now you were in the car with Arthur on your way to the hotel, the same one where Charles and most of the drivers were staying.

Just before landing, you had freshened up a bit and changed. Instead of the comfy and warm outfit you had worn throughout the trip, you had opted for a top, a pair of white linen trousers and gold sandals. An outfit that was more suited to Mexican temperatures. In fact, it was a beautiful day; the sun was shining high in the sky and it was definitely hot, more than you had thought. You had already put on your swimsuit underneath and you couldn't wait to enjoy the day with Charles.

“We should warn the others that we have arrived”, you said as you saw Arthur turning on his phone. You did the same. As you waited for your phone to finally turn on, your attention was drawn to the incessant sound of notifications arriving on Arthur's phone. It seemed to go crazy. Intrigued by it, you looked at Arthur and saw his eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly he seemed worried.

“What’s up?”, you immediately asked.

He tried to assume a calmer expression. “Don’t panic but apparently Charles called me several times in the last hours. And Lorenzo too”, he said showing to you his phone.

“Oh no! Do you think he found out about the surprise?” Maybe one of the drivers had said a word too many, you thought. But if he knew, then why call Arthur so many times? It doesn’t make sense, you were thinking when your phone turned on and you noticed a series of missed calls and meaningless messages from your boyfriend. You quickly scrolled and read his texts. He was telling you not to believe anything, meanwhile another one was saying that he did nothing. You were confused. Don’t believe what? What didn’t he do? You showed them to Arthur. Something definitely must have happened. But what? You were starting to panic and Arthur could see that. You hated not knowing.

“Okay, let me call Lorenzo to see what’s happening. Surely, he knows something”, he said. You nodded trying to stay calm and understand what was going on.

Charles was in his room lying on the bed while he was impatiently waiting for your message or your call, anything that could tell him you were fine. Every minute that passed without hearing from you was a torture. Where were you?

He checked his phone for the hundredth time in the last hour but still nothing. He put it on the cabinet and sighed.

His gaze fell on the suitcase. It was tempting to stay in that room. The more Charles looked at the suitcase, the more he wanted to take it and get into the first taxi to the airport.

He could have gone out for a walk, got some fresh air but he had no desire to face people's scolding looks and hear the nonsense they had to say about you. The last thing he needed was to get any angrier, so it was best for him to stay in his room.

He was about to fall asleep when his phone rang bringing him back to reality. He jumped out of bed and immediately checked to see who was calling him hoping it was you. His face darkened when he saw the name on the screen. Arthur. Not the name he had hoped for but he still accepted the call, at least his brother was finally calling him and maybe he could have helped him.

“Arthur! Finally! I've tried to talk to you several times. Where have you been?” Before Arthur could answer, Charles kept talking. “Nevermind! I can't explain to you now but something happened. I just need to know if you have seen or talked to Y/n recently.”

Inside him, Charles prayed that the answer was yes.

After what seemed like an eternity to Charles, Arthur finally spoke.“Yeah, I know everything. She’s fine, Charles.”

Those words were a sigh of relief for him.

“Oh, thank God. Where is she? I need to talk to her as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry, big bro. She’s closer than you think. And open the door. See you later.”

“What the hell?”, Charles exclaimed. Incredulous, he looked at his cell phone. He couldn't believe, his brother had hung up on his face and that only made his mood worse. Arthur must have gone crazy, his words didn't make any sense. Charles thought about what he had said. She’s closer than you think. And open the door. See you later. What did he mean?

He was about to call Arthur again to ask for an explanation when someone knocked on the door. Who the hell was that now?, Charles thought.

He put the phone back in his pocket and went to open the door.

As he went from confusion to surprise, Arthur’s words played on repeat on his mind. Even if he couldn't believe his eyes, now their talk made sense because you were there in front of him. Beautiful as always. And smiling at him as if you wanted to reassure him. At that momen, Charles knew that everything was ok between you.

Your heart filled with love and happiness at the sight of him. He was visibly surprised but you could see how exhausted he was too, even though it was still relatively early and he must have only been awake for a few hours.

Wordlessly, your bodies met in a tight hug, your arms always feeling like a safe place to him. Charles could feel that weight hanging over him in the last hours became lighter with every second that passed.

As much as Charles wanted to stay in your arms, he knew he had to face the subject with you sooner or later. What if you didn't know anything yet? After all, if you had just arrived, it meant that you had been on a plane until recently without any internet connection.

Reluctantly, he broke away from your arms and invited you to enter the room.

“Mon ange! You can't imagine how happy I am to see you. But how? Why didn't you tell me anything? And I thought you couldn’t because of work”, Charles said all in one breath sitting on the bed and pulling you along with you to make you sit on his lap.

“Thanks to Max.” You saw him frown. “I missed you and wanted to be here with you... You know, to support you, so I moved forward with my work and decided to surprise you. Max was kind enough to lend me the jet and I can work remotely”, you continued never stop looking at him.

Suddenly everything was clearer in Charles's eyes. Many of his questions were answered, like why you hadn't returned his calls. “You are therefore the friend to whom Max would have lent the jet”, he said.

You nodded and smiled. “Guilty, your honor.”

At that moment Charles loved you even more. He sighed. There were so many things he wanted to do with you but he had to talk to you first and warn you about what had happened. The more time passed, the more Charles thought you knew nothing. As much as he didn't want to broach the subject, the sooner he did, the better it was.

“C’est magnifique, mon ange, and I can’t wait to spend some time with you. But I need to tell you something before”, he started to say without ever taking his eyes off you. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you. “I swear there is nothing real but a girl…”

“Charles, I know everything, about the girl and the stories she posted, just as I already know that none of it is true”, you said taking his hands into yours.

At those words he breathed a sigh of relief. “So, you're not angry?”, he asked almost in a whisper as he feared your answer.

You couldn't help but laugh. “Of course not. Why should I be? If anything, I’m angry with that girl, even if I imagine, indeed I hope, that she didn't do it on purpose. And sure I got scared seeing all those missed calls and texts from you and I don't like people talking about us without knowing, but I never thought for one second that you did what they said. For me, in fact, it wasn't even worth talking about. I know who you are and I love you, Charles Leclerc.”

He could really breathe a sigh of relief. You could only imagine how worried he must have been for the past few hours. He had feared losing you but you were stronger than anything and it took more than that to make you question him and his love and loyalty for you. Despite this and the fact you loved him, however, you wanted to tease him a little.

“Thinking about it, though, I'm actually a little angry with you”, you teased him, letting go of his hands and trying to hold a straight face so that he knew you were serious.

Already missing your touch, Charles immediately stiffened and panicked at your words. He could swear his heart had stopped beating for a moment.

“Why? What have I done?”, he said wondering what could have been.

As much you were enjoying making him grovel a bit too much, you were dying to turn around and kiss him and tell him you weren't mad at all. “I've been here for... how long? 10 minutes? And you still haven't kissed me”, you told him without looking at him.

You were about to burst out laughing, unable to resist when Charles took your face in his hands and pulled you towards him. His lips pressed against yours, it felt like the whole world stopped. Nothing mattered anymore. It was just you and him. Against everyone and everything.

"Let me fix it then", he whispered between kisses, your forehead leaned onto his.

After that, things escalated pretty quickly and instead of spending all day at the beach, you ended up spending all day together in bed away from everything and everyone. You had to make up for lost time and the rumors had already stolen too much time.

A few hours later, you and Charles finally left your room to go to dinner and it was your turn to post an Instagram story to silence all the rumors. It seemed right to you. That story had to end the same way it began.

You were at the restaurant waiting for your food and while Charles was distracted on his phone, you took a picture of him. The sky behind him seemed to be on fire while the blue of his linen shirt matched his tan perfectly. He looked too good for you not to photograph him.

You looked at the picture you had taken and happy with the result, you started to think what you could possibly write on it. Only one thing best expressed the message you wanted to give at that moment to the entire world.

Even though, you were hesitant that it might have been a bit too much and that others might have thought you were possessive, you ended up posting the story anyway. Fuck them and what they think, you thought as the story was loading. They had talked way too much already. Now it was your turn to speak.

You glanced at Charles waiting for his reaction. As you saw him raising his eyebrows and then smirking, you knew he was looking at the picture.

You weren’t the possessive type but Charles liked when you acted like that and the same was for you.

When he glanced at you, you blushed a little and looked away. He approached you and showed his phone to you. You didn’t need to look at the screen to know what it was. You already knew.

“What would I be, chérie?”, he whispered into your ear. You closed your legs as just the sound of his voice was making you wet already. Each time you were surprised to discover the effect this man had on you. But there were two of you playing that game.

You turned to look at him, your face a few feet from his and your lips almost touching. You got close to his ear and put an hand on his thigh, gently stroking it. “Mine. And if I wasn't clear enough, I can show you later if you want”, you whispered and then kissed him.

Your hand began to move upwards slowly, you could feel his hardened bulge. Your mouth watered at the mere contact.

“Y/n...”, he moaned as you lightly stroke your fingers over his bulge a few times.

A wicked smile appeared on your face. “Uhm? Something is wrong?”, you teased him.

“Yeah, actually, I'm not that hungry”, Charles whispered as he tried to contain himself from moaning.

“Too bad because I'm starving instead”, you joked and stopped rubbing him. You were hungry but not for food.

But Charles wasn't ready to give up. “How about we ask for room service and while we wait for the food to arrive, you show me what you were talking about earlier?”

Ten minutes later you were back in your room, kneeling on the floor while sucking him off and showing him he was yours.

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steddiealltheway · 1 year

Text

Idk where this came from but anyways

It's May 28th, and it's pouring outside. It's the type of rain that makes the housewives of Hawkins want to curl up and read a book, but instead they're yelling at their children to stop playing in the puddles and come inside. At least that's what Eddie imagines as the rain soaks through his clothes, drops clinging to his eyelashes and falling down his face - he desperately wishes they're not tears.

He doesn't know where he is if he's completely honest. He's been walking for a while now, trying to avoid those puddles but giving up when his socks become soaked just from being out in the storm. He kind of wishes he was home, but simultaneously wants to be anywhere else.

A car drives by him on the backroad and comes to a stop a few meters in front of him. It's almost comedic, the way the car comes to a stop then very slowly starts to reverse, as if the driver is talking themselves into whatever they're about to say to Eddie.

"Need a ride?" the driver asks.

Eddie brushes the wet hair out of his eyes and finds Steve Harrington of all people looking at him in concern. He scoffs. "I'd rather take my chances out here." Which is the exact moment that lightning strikes close enough that Eddie can feel the ground shake. It would be kind of metal if he wasn't shaking.

"Get in the car, Munson," Steve insists reaching over to push open the passenger side door. Eddie keeps walking. With the way the rain is pouring, he's surprised he's able to hear Steve curse under his breath.

The car slowly drives next to him, right window down causing the rain to likely soak the interior of the car. He doesn't know why Harrington cares so much. "I'm not going to leave you alone until you get in."

Munson raises an eyebrow. "That sounds pretty creepy, Harrington. You're not exactly helping your case." He treks on forward, hoping that Steve might take the hint and leave him alone. He hears the car come to a stop, and he's prepared for Steve to turn around and come back from wherever he came from.

Instead, his car door slams shut. Eddie glances to see Steve walking towards him. Eddie backs up. He's not threatened per say, but it's a natural response to whenever he sees a jock stalking towards him.

"What are you doing?" Eddie asks.

"If you're not going to take up my offer on a ride, then I'm walking with you."

Eddie doesn't know what to say, but he lets Steve walk alongside him. It's... weird, but weird in the way that it doesn't feel weird. It's almost like it feels... right. Eddie shakes his head. "Why are you doing this?" It's not like he knows him. He doesn't think he's exchanged a single word with the man until now.

"Maybe I needed the company, too," Steve replies. Eddie wants to argue that he doesn't want company, and he certain doesn't need it, but saying that feels like a lie even in his head.

They get a few more steps in before Eddie comes to a halt. Steve turns to him and waits. Eddie gives in with a sigh, "Let's go to the car."

When they get in, Steve reaches into his back seat and snatches two towels, handing one to Eddie before he wraps one around himself. Eddie is too afraid to ask why he had them in the first place.

They drive for a couple minutes without talking, but Eddie isn't one who can sit in silence for long so he asks, "Shouldn't you be at Tommy's end of year party or whatever?" He's certain he had heard people talking about it for weeks falling on this particular day.

"He and I aren't exactly friends so no." Steve doesn't give any further explanation, and there's no hint of regret in his tone. Eddie has no idea when that had happened but is glad to be out of the gossip loop of Hawkins High School.

"Okay, so go to Wheeler's place." Eddie wasn't far enough out to not know about the supposed power couple.

"She broke up with me, called our relationship bullshit, so I don't think that's really an option."

Okay, Eddie is officially not in the loop. This time he can hear the tightness in Steve's tone, and he tries not to dwell on the small voice crack that accompanied the word "bullshit." He glances over to see Steve's hand flex on the steering wheel, knuckles white. He feels almost bad for bringing it up, so he changes the subject. "Where are we going?"

Steve shrugs. "Anywhere that's not home." It's a simple statement but the weight of it makes Eddie want to ask a million questions about what could be so bad about the Harrington residence.

But everyone has their own shit they're dealing with, so Eddie agrees, "Anywhere that's not home." But a few minutes later, he knows exactly where he wants to go, was probably walking there without even realizing it. "Turn left here," Eddie requests, and Steve follows without question.

A few turns later and Eddie is asking Steve to park on the curb. He hesitates to glance out the window, the image outside makes his stomach churn. Steve glances to his left and takes his keys out of the ignition. He climbs out of the car to Eddie's surprise and leads their way into the cemetery.

After Eddie finds his ability to accept reality, he leads the way to the tombstone he tries not think about. Steve takes in a sharp intake of breath next to him as Eddie freezes and stares at the grave.

Elizabeth Munson January 13, 1947 - May 28, 1973

"I don't know why I wanted to come here," Eddie says honestly staring at the name and thinking about how his Uncle Wayne has been locked up in his room like he is on this day every year - flooded with the thoughts of his baby sister. "It's not like I can talk to her," Eddie mumbles out.

Steve asks, "If you could talk to her what would you say?"

Eddie freezes at the thought. What would he say? He speaks without thinking. "I'd say I miss her. That I love her even though I've nearly forgotten what her voice sounds like. That I stole her bottle of perfume after they found her, and I need to ask her what scent it is because it's nearly run out." Eddie chokes on a sob, not realizing he had even started crying.

Steve reaches out and laces his fingers between Eddie's as he continues. "I'd apologize for flunking my senior year but insist that I'm trying not to be like Dad. I'm really trying. I'm trying so hard, but I feel like I fail every day. I'd tell her that Uncle Wayne misses her and was a wreck without her but still managed to raise me. I'd probably scream at her though. Ask her why she ever went back when she promised she would stay sober for me. She'd promised..." he trails off with a sob, and the next thing he knows is Steve Harrington is pulling him into his chest, cradling him as he cries.

It's fucking embarrassing or it should be, but Eddie needs this more than anything in the world.

"I remember her," Steve says softly, voice straining. "She used to read at the library before..." Before she went back to Eddie's dad once he got out of jail, and he gotten her hooked again. Before she broke the promise she had kept for years to stay sober. Before her body was found by her own brother after a young Eddie had told him she had been sleeping all day.

"She was so kind to me," Steve says breaking Eddie out of his spiraling thoughts, hand running through his hair and gently untangling the wet curls. "She would sneak an extra candy for me any time I saw her. And I would always beg my mom to stay longer because Ms. Munson was the only one who did all the voices right. And she would get so loud while jumping on the reading chairs with the biggest smile on her face, not caring that the librarian was shooting her the most annoyed faces... You remind me of her, really."

Eddie's stuttering breath evens out as he remembers being in that same library proudly watching his mom and her theatrics. She had always been so unapologetically herself, and Eddie has wanted more than anything to be just like her. He squeezes Steve tighter and chokes out, "Thank you."

They stay like that for a while, Steve holding Eddie while he cries until he can't anymore. Both of them reciting the tales of the great Ms. Munson recalling the time she had accidentally knocked over a bookshelf when imitating a ballerina in the children's book she was reading. Eddie had never known that Steve had been there almost the whole time, but it's nice to finally meet someone whose memories of his mom aren't from the last months of her life.

It has stopped raining when Eddie pulls away from the embrace. He's sure his eyes are puffy and red and there's definitely some of his snot on Steve's polo soaked in water and tears. But Eddie finds that Steve's eyes are similarly glossy and pink, and for some reason it's endlessly comforting.

Steve asks Eddie if he's ready to go, and Eddie looks at the grave one last time before nodding. Steve intertwines their fingers and leads the way back to his car. The drive back is relatively quiet, but Eddie relaxes in the silence. Steve reaches over and holds his hand again which makes Eddie's chest tighten.

He wonders what's back at home for him, and what happened to change King Steve and make him so overwhelmingly kind and caring. But he doesn't ask, not wanting to stir up the memories of what he's trying to run away from.

As Steve pulls into the trailer park, Eddie easily directs him in front of his home. Steve parks the car and gets out before Eddie can say goodbye and pretend like this never happened for Steve's sake. Instead, Steve pulls him into another hug, but he buries his head into Eddie's neck, and it feels like he needs this more than Eddie does.

So, Eddie takes his turn holding him. Running a hand through his extremely soft hair which has him relaxing further against him. He pulls back reluctantly after a few moments and says, "Thank you."

Eddie isn't entirely sure what he's thanking him for when Eddie should be thanking him, so he replies, "Thank you."

Steve lingers in his space for a few seconds longer before squeezing his arm and giving him a smile. Eddie waves goodbye and walks back to his trailer, finding Steve waiting to make sure he gets inside okay. As he hears the car drive off, he wonders if maybe his mother sent Steve Harrington for him that day.

#steddie #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #i sobbed writing this #screaming crying throwing up

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coupleoffanfics · 11 months

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Batfam and batsis y/n headcons

y/n's Younger Years

8-12 years old

y/n was brought to the manor for the first time when she was 8 years old. Often got lost in the place because of how big it is the first week. If she couldn't find where she was trying to get to and no one was around to help, she'd just slump against the wall. Silently cry until someone was passing by, it was usually Alfred.

Jason just became Robin when y/n rolls in. He doesn't have much of an option of her for the first few weeks. Thought she was annoying with how much she cried and how clingy she was.

She clings to anyone because she doesn't want to be left alone in general and especially not in an unfamiliar environment. Alfred became her favorite first because of his cooking and baking. Jason is the second person she clings to. The only reason Bruce is in third place is because Jason just looked less scary.

When Bruce and Jason come back from a rough mission, Alfred walks up to the both of them before handing them each a paper. "Miss y/n made this for you before going to bed." The two pieces of paper were drawings of their hero personas. Both written at the top, "My #1 hearo!". The misspell adds to the charm of the crayon drawing.

Sometimes if y/n and Jason happen to be in the library at the same time. She asks him what a word is, what it means, and how to pronounce it. It's kinda cute, until it happens every 3 minutes. He didn't think much of it, just thought that she was just a dumb kid being a dumb kid.

Later speculates that she might be dyslexic and lets y/n reads out loud to him. Helping her sound out the words and whatnot. Surprisingly he finds himself enjoying helping her and kinda looks forward to these readings. He notices how her reading gets more fluent as time goes on and he can't help but feel proud.

Before going off on a mission or patrol, y/n always hugs Bruce. If he's going on a mission she makes sure to hug him longer and tighter. Explaining, "To give you more power to be safe." Does not understand what the hell she's saying, but still appreciates it.

"Why don't you give Jason a hug?" Bruce asks after hearing the explanation. "Because Jason is already strong and protects you. You need as much strength." Bruce kinda just sits there more confused than ever and Jason is smirking to himself. He doesn't understand what y/n said himself, but what he does know is that she said he was stronger than Bruce and that's all he needed to hear.

Whenever Dick comes around to visit, he tries to make an effort to connect with y/n. She already has Alfred, Jason, and Bruce so she doesn't really feel the need to care about him on a deeper level. He's barely there and she already has enough people that she can cling on to.

He'll show off his acrobatic skills and y/n just drily says, "That's cool." Then runs off to find Jason. He's totally not hurt by the fact that his little sister likes Jason more than him. What? No.

It's not like he wanted a poorly drawn Nightwing that had, "#1 hearo", written on it. That he'd treasure and keep forever. No, he didn't care about that. Yep, not one bit. Though sadly he's not able try to bond with y/n as much as he'd liked since he's leading the Titans.

Barbara isn't around when y/n is usually awake. Often handle cams and technical things as Oracle. Though when they do interact y/n just in awe simply by the fact that she's still working in the hero field after what Joker did. Training hard, so that she'd live up to Barbara's legacy as Batgirl.

The two aren't too close yet when y/n is young, but they're definitely closer than y/n is with Dick. y/n totally didn't have a puppy crush on Barbara for the longest time. Okay, she did for a bit.

A year in the manor, Bruce begins to train y/n more. Taking note of how she's quick on her feet, but her punches are slower than her kicks. Is worried how much she looks up to Jason because Jason is rather reckless and doesn't mind putting himself in danger. Honestly he would have liked it if she just looked up to Dick or someone else.

Batman isn't about violence as ironic as it sounds. Violence is only to be used when there is no other way to stop one from harming others. So Bruce was kinda worried that y/n might take a more brash approach by following Jason, but it turned out to be the opposite.

Almost reminded him of Dick with her passive approach. Almost because she's just a bit too passive at times. It takes three years for y/n to be able to take on the Batgirl persona. Mainly because it's taken a while for her not just to dodge, but also take action by attacking.

Taking action probably wouldn't have come sooner if it wasn't for Jason's death. Hearing the news was hard for everyone. y/n was put to bed before it happened, so she was told of what happened by Bruce the next morning. Not saying any explicit details.

Everything around her seemed so much more somber. The man that was telling her what happened while looking away from her felt surreal. It was like losing her parents again.

She became numb. She heard the words and understood them, she just couldn't believe it. Not even when she watched his casket being lowered into the ground, she couldn't believe it.

Seeing how Bruce was putting on a straight face made things harder. It was like nothing had happened. She knew when she was older that was far from the case, but at the time it made her feel like that's what she had to do as well. He spent more time being Batman, that meant she'd spend more time training.

It worries Barbara and Alfred seeing how both of them are becoming closed off. Barbara takes note of how often y/n looks at Jason's memorial. When she tries to comfort y/n, the girl is quick to avoid the conversation. She might just walk away if Barbara keeps pressing on the subject.

Less time playing or drawing. More time in the batcave and avoiding the library. Months after everything Bruce allows her to pick up the Batgirl persona.

Putting on the suit for the first time didn't feel as grand as she thought it would. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted to rip it off because it felt like there was no point. It felt like all this constant training to be Batgirl was all for nothing. She came up with this fantasy that becoming a hero would free her from this numbness, that it’d make her happy just like it had Jason. Yet all it did was remind her that maybe if she tried harder to become Batgirl sooner that she could have a chance at saving him. She wished she could have hugged him before saying goodnight that night.

The only reason she didn't rip off it and burn the suit was because Bruce was waiting. There was no time to waste since Poison Ivy was on the radar tonight.

Jason's name is rarely said, but thought of more often than not. The only time y/n and Barbra openly talked about him was after dealing with the Joker and Quinn.

y/n didn't immediately leave the batcave like usual after every patrol or mission. She just stood in front of his memorial staring at the costume while Bruce left to do something that y/n didn't care about. It was just y/n and Barbara alone in the cave. "I miss him." Her voice echoed out nearly scared Barbara.

Barbara stopped what she was doing and responded with, "I do too." She waited for a moment to see if y/n would keep talking. She didn't want to push it since this is the first time y/n is even openly talking about him.

After the brief silence y/n asked, "He's in a better place, right? That means I shouldn't be sad, but I still miss him. I don't care if he's in a better place like everyone says, I want him back here with us." That's what opened the floodgates. The rest of the night was spent talking about the late Robin and helping y/n with accepting his death. Also giving her a new found eagerness towards being Batgirl and forming a strong bond with Barbara.

There was no chance of her saving Jason back then, but now she can at least save others from facing the same fate as him.

Then Tim crashes in and suddenly y/n has another brother. If Bruce thought he was good then y/n thought so too. Originally she thought that she wasn't going to be that close to Tim, but they just clicked. Tim thought y/n was so cool when she put on her suit and fought crime with Bruce. He couldn't wait to fight alongside both of them.

y/n saw Tim as a geekier and nerdier Barbra honestly. He may be smarter than Barbra, but she'll always be the best one in y/n opinion.

Tim would try to teach y/n how to hack or code since she showed interest in it, but she never got the hang of it. It usually just resulted in them goofing around. Lounging on the couch while playing video games. Tim was more into games that have sci fi themes, while y/n liked to play fantasy games, but they both loved RPGs. It's clear who was putting more thought in the game because y/n just spams attack and Tim is writing down the crit rates.

By the time Tim comes around, y/n is starting to babble in culinary. If she finishes making something, she'll wander around to find him. Makes him put down whatever he's doing to try what she made. She insists that she doesn't have a favorite when shoving food in Tim's face. "You're my lab rat. Testing if my cooking is edible before I give it to Pa, Alfred, or Barbara."

They used to have the same classes until Tim was able to skip a grade. y/n doesn't tell anyone that she's upset about it, but everyone can tell and Tim makes sure to reassure her. "It's not like we're going to never see each other again, y/n. We'll see each other in the halls and during lunch." She sighs, "I know, I know. Just let me wallow in my feelings and I'll be fine."

When there are low days for y/n that make it impossible for her to get out of bed, Tim sits in her room. Chatting about anything and not leaving her alone unless asked. It's nice that he does that, yet it still makes her feel bad for making him stay with her. It's not like she asked for company and she does need it during those moments. It made her feel like a liability.

Everyone is happy to see y/n and Tim getting along so well. y/n hasn't been as talkative or lively since Jason.

When Tim becomes Robin, y/n is put off by how much he resembles Jason. It kinda scared her. She never realized how similar they both look. It makes her wonder if that's why Bruce adopted Tim and allowed him to become Robin.

Catwoman has a soft spot for the newest Batgirl. She just watches her run around with Batman and Robin. There's just a sense of goofiness to the new Batgirl that she can't take seriously.

y/n's Teenage Years

13- 18 years old

The whole Red Hood ark left y/n with a broken arm, bruises, and wondering if this was what she wanted. It was nice to see Jason again, but it felt like she couldn't approach him. Also spending a lot of time in the batcave with Barbara and Alfred since she couldn't patrol with a broken arm. "At least he didn't break my dominant arm." y/n chuckled to herself humorously, Barbara doesn't laugh and glances at y/n. Barbara didn't find anything funny about it and she's sure y/n didn't either, she was probably still in shock.

Barbara is kinda mad at Jason, may or may not want to run over his foot with her wheelchair. Of course, she understands the betrayal and anger that he feels. She just thinks trying to take out y/n as well is a bit much, well everything that he's doing it a bit much. She just thought out of everyone y/n would be given the most mercy by Jason.

Jason may have forgiven Batman and everyone to an extent, but she just can't help herself from feeling guilty. Of course, she noticed that not only did he distance himself from the family, but her as well. He'd never be in the same room with y/n long enough for her to ask how he was doing. It made her believe that he was resentful toward her. It didn't matter if that wasn't the case, it just hurt that the person she's been missing for years doesn't want anything to do with her.

The thought of if there was even a point to any of this came up once more. Tim was joining the Titans for a bit, Jason was off on his own, Dick was in Blüdhaven or something y/n didn't care, and Bruce and Barbara were doing what they always do. It just wasn't as appealing as it once was. It almost became stale and she found herself feeling happier doing less action packed things.

Then one night y/n impulsively said that she wanted to quit to Burce. It wasn't a surprise to him as he saw her diverging from the path and let her drop the Batgirl persona. Honestly he was glad that she quit, he wished that his other kids would choose to live a normal life. That was one less child to worry about getting killed.

Of course, Barbara is the first to question y/n about her decision. A little while later Tim is the one trying to get an answer out of y/n. Jason is too ashamed to ask or even be near y/n. Dick doesn't find out until a month later after visiting the manor then starts asking if y/n was okay this and that. None of them got a concrete answer except for Barbara.

"It's something I'm not interested in anymore. I want to live a normal life, get married, and have kids. I'm not going to truly have that if I stay as Batgirl. And I'm not like any of you. I'm not good enough, I'm never good enough. Gotham never needed me anyway and they won't be losing anything because I quit."

Hearing that, Barara immediately opened her arms signaling for a hug. Feeling overwhelmed from spilling out her feelings, y/n accepted the hug. "I understand and I won't stop you. If being Batgirl doesn't make you happy, that's perfectly fine. You deserve happiness just like everyone else. The only thing I'm against is you calling yourself worthless. You were a good- no you were amazing as Batgirl and you are amazing when you aren't. Remember that."

Tears are running down the girl's [skin tone] face. Her throat was tight and she knew she couldn't talk without making a guttural sound. So she nodded her head. Barbara held y/n until she let go. Wiping the tears from her face, she turned to Barbara and said, "Please don't tell the others about this." Barbara kept this between them.

It's clear that out of the whole family that Barbara is the first and really only one y/n goes to for emotional support. y/n hates crying in front of anyone seeing it as her personal weakness. y/n is close to Tim, he doesn't know how to respond to y/n's emotions. Barbara seemed to always know what to say and y/n felt more comfortable being vulnerable around her.

The drift from the family isn't noticeable. y/n comes down to the batcave from time to time, but her time there is greatly cut in half. She starts hanging around her best friend, Norah, more often. Joins the track and fencing club seemingly not able to let go of some old habits.

When Tim leaves for the Titans the mark of when y/n and the family drift apart. There's small chat and not complete strangers. When Tim does come back he has taken on a new persona of Red Robin.

It's just a normal day, y/n is messing around in the kitchen when Tim comes up to her. There's just a strong air of anxiety around him that makes her anxious. "y/n, I need to tell you something." She puts down the cookbook and looks at him with a raised eyebrow. He takes a deep breath, "I'm bisexual." y/n's shoulders suddenly relax and she starts laughing.

He's confused and not sure what to do. She quickly explains through her laughter, "I'm sorry. I just thought you were going to say something horrible like you ran over a cat or something. I don't know." Taking a moment to calm herself she adds, "That's cool, I'm bi/pan. I also need to go to the bathroom, could you please watch the water and make sure it doesn't boil over? Please and thank you!"

She doesn't make a big deal over it because she just sees it as normal. It's nothing to celebrate about in her opinion, but she's glad Tim trusted her enough to tell her. Most of the family probably doesn't know her sexuality since she hasn't openly said it. It's just something that she doesn't feel the need to talk about.

Damian enters the picture when it's been almost a year since y/n quit. She is completely put off by how he behaves and has no idea how to handle it. He likes picking on his siblings, but when he picks on y/n it almost seems malicious. Whenever she tries to bond with him or get to know him, he just snaps at her.

Now she kinda knows how Dick felt.

Speaking of Dick, he starts coming around the manor more. Only for Damin of course and y/n can't help but feel almost a little jealous. He never took her out for bowling or anything when she was Damian's age. That jealousy then evaporates seconds later because she realizes how to stupid it is to be jealous over that. Damian needs a lot of help to be integrated into normal society.

Jabs made at her are brushed off as she believes that it's just him coping. He was in a new environment with new people, it was only natural for him to cope in some way regardless if it was healthy or not. His insults were never that bad. Often consisting of calling her worthless.

They were just jabs and nothing more. Not knowing that it was chipping away at her already fragile self confidence. Damian is part of the reason why she doesn't go to the batcave anymore or talk at the dinner table. Also always has something to say, something to nitpick. With how consistent it is, y/n goes to Bruce.

Asking if he could tell Damian to just knock it off just once. She thought that he'd talk to Damian and that things will cool down since she can't even get a word in without him saying something. It's not like he never listened to her anyway. Then Bruce tells her to bush it off. He's just a kid and he's going through a lot. Bruce doesn't even look up from his paperwork when saying this.

It was like y/n was smacked in the face. She wonders if he believes what Damian is saying. That she had no right to be living here with them or that just a freeloader. She felt like she couldn't go to Tim about this as she didn't want to emit that this kid's words were getting to her. She doesn't even want to go to Barbara about this.

Because maybe Damian is right.

y/n didn't deserve to be around heroes. All she did was waste their time when they could have been saving lives. They'd go to her fencing tournaments when they should be locking up villains. She was truly a waste of space.

Lowkey Damian wants y/n to fight him. He wants to see Batgirl in action and see what her fighting style would be like. To some extent he just wants her attention, but how he goes about it just pushes her away. He's seen her fencing a few times and is kinda impressed by her fast and fluent movements.

During her junior year at high school was when she started cutting off ties with the family. Never talking during dinner, never showing up at the dinner table. If she's not out of the manor then she's in her room. Everyone is so busy that no one notices her isolating herself. No one, but Barbara.

Barbara tries talking to y/n, but she is constantly shutting it down. Constantly running away from any conversion. Yet Barbara doesn't give up as usual. Unlike any other times y/n doesn't open up.

One day Barbara said something that made y/n let her walls down. "I'll alway make time for you." She stops walking, thinking to herself before looking over her shoulder and tells Barbara, "I have practice next monday, but after that we could go see a movie or something. If you want." The woman nods her head with a small smile.

Tim is no longer y/n's favorite. Not favorite, just no longer the one y/n hangs out with the most. Barbara is the only family member that y/n lets her walls down for. The only family member that she keeps in touch with.

When y/n gets a boyfriend. y/n makes a beeline toward Barbara for any advice. With how much she gushes over him, Barbara wants to meet him. It takes a while for the two to meet and when they do it's kinda awkward. Xander Jeremiah is every stoic and not sociable. Barbara doesn't know what to think of him, but if he does care about y/n that's all that really matters.

Seeing the two of them interact reminds Barbara of those dumb intj and infp relationship memes she saw online.

y/n Young Adult (Present)

19 years old

y/n doesn't really tell the family much of any and would not be surprised if they didn't know she moved out after high school. As much as y/n wanted to get out of Gotham, she ended up staying because of best friend and boyfriend. Going to college and majoring in art. Barbara and y/n spend a little less time with each other, but still text almost daily.

y/n is forced to interact with her family after Jerome becomes a prominent figure in Gotham and has some odd obsession with her. After an incident at a charity event, y/n is persuaded into staying in the manor. She planned on staying for only a week or so. At least until Jerome was caught and sent to Arkham.

Damian is more mellowed out and almost makes an effort to talk to y/n, but she just tries to get away from him as soon as possible.

Tim is concerned about the aloofness y/n projects around others. Also highly suspicious of that blonde lady that comes around to talk to y/n. She's never been so secretive before and it hurts that she doesn't come to him about anything like she used to.

Jason still tries not to interact with y/n, but he lingers around the manor. He can't bring himself to forgive himself for physically hurting her all those years ago. He promised himself that he'd protect his little sister when he was Robin and broke it again by letting Gotham's newest psycho kidnap her.

Dick acts like everything is fine or is going to be fine. That he and y/n had always been somewhat close. Not taking a hint that he's overstepped a boundary that he never had the right to cross.

Bruce is Bruce. Bruceing around or something, y/n doesn't really know what he does anymore. He's the one who suggests that y/n relearn self defense and she agrees. It's been awhile since she even fought anyone, so she is a bit rusty.

Damian would have offered to teach her, but Dick and Tim are fighting over the possession. Tim wants to reconnect with y/n, back to being friends that have each other's backs. Dick is trying to help y/n. He has the most fighting exprace, so that means he should be the one to teach y/n. Jason is not going near y/n. In the end y/n had Bruce reteach her self defense. It was just like old times.

The whole time there the family is awkwardly interacting with y/n. When at the dinner table there are questions thrown at her. She answers just about any question almost curtly. The only question that she seems to avoid is about the blond lady. "She's just a friend." y/n claims, "Everyone just calls her Echo. It is a childhood name." It was clear that she was lying, everyone knew it, but no one called it out.

They always talked in private. In hushed tones and "Echo" never stayed for long. Honestly Tim thought that Echo was y/n's girlfriend after walking by her room when Echo was in there, he swears he heard y/n say I love you. When Tim told the other about this, Barbara was rolling her eyes. There was no way that y/n would cheat on Xander. Even if they broke up Barbara would have known, she assumes that y/n meant it in a platonic way. y/n has always been quite affectionate in both platonic and romantic relationships.

When Jerome is caught and sent to Arkham, y/n goes straight back to her apartment. It doesn't matter how much they try to get her to stay, Jerome is locked up and there is no reason for any intense security. If they try to counter her argument, she'll just drop the act and lay almost everything out.

"I don't want to be here, I don't belong here, and there isn't anything that is going to keep me here now that Jerome is in Arkham." Her voice wasn't loud, just tired and almost upset.

The most affected by her words is Damian ironically. Her words echo the things he said a while ago. He never gave a second thought of how it affected her. Hearing y/n say that and walk out the manor without looking back left him stunned. He didn't know what to do, what to say. That night he didn't sleep.

The family will try to keep their distance. Except for Damian and Dick. Dick will hang around the college campus and try to drag y/n off somewhere, if her best friend is with her then they'll drag her away before Dick is even able to say anything. Sadly her friend isn't always there, so there are some days she spends the afternoon at the zoo or amusement park with Dick. Damian will just show up at y/n's apartment and walk in like he owns the place. She has no idea how he got a spare key, but she is too busy trying to get him out to think about that.

Damian finds out y/n is in a big sister program and he'll screeching at her. "Why are you taking care of them? You're my big sister, not theirs! They don't have the right to call you their sister!" He's having a mental meltdown in the middle of her living room. She has no idea what the fuck it going on and doesn't know how to handle it. When she tries to calm him down, he starts throwing things and that's when she dials Dick's number.

Dick is able to calm Damian down and drives him back to the manor. Before they go Dick talks y/n. "You know how Damian is, he is very protective of those he cares about. I am just disappointed in both of you. He should haven't reacted that way, but you shouldn't be in that program in the first place. You already have Danian and I think this just made him feel like he isn't important to you." y/n has a severe case of whiplash after hearing what he just said. She can't argue back because he already left.

The rest of the family isn't going to become full blown yanderes until y/n's boyfriend is gassed by Jerome. y/n doesn't want to deal with the family's bullshit, but she goes to them for help. Revealing Jerome's twin brother, but not explicitly stating that Jeremiah is her boyfriend and begs for them to help in finding a cure. Barbara is the one in the room who is the most shocked by this information.

Spoiler they don't find a cure and when Jeremiah is pushed over the edge, that’s around the time they are too.

I'm cutting it off here. I wrote so much and I might pick this back up. I’ve just been listening to FNAF ambience music while writing this. Have yet to proofread this, so sorry for any and all mistakes.

Part 2

#batfamily x batsis #batfamily x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #jason todd x reader #richard grayson x reader #dick grayson x batsis #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x batsis #yandere x reader #barbara gordon x reader

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sxcret-garden · 5 months

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HI ITS 🪐 ANON AGAIN, SO I FINALLY REMEMBERED WHAT I WAS ALSO THINKING ABT THE OTHER DAY so most likely of any of the the ateez members (i don't have a specific one you can choose BAHASHFKCNMXKD) with an s/o who is like pretty quiet in bed like bcs sometimes people take it as a bad thing but IDK i'm not super loud so it just makes me wonder :")

Aaaaaaa i'm finally getting to this as i try to empty out my askbox a bit!! Sorry for the long wait 😭 gonna answer this as an mtl, explanations are under the cut~

most

Jongho

Yunho

Yeosang

Mingi

Seonghwa

Wooyoung

San

Hongjoong

least

I put Jongho first cause I think even if you don't make noise at all he wouldn't mind, so long as you have other means to communicate whether you like what he's doing at the moment or if he should change things up a bit. Will definitely be more talkative in this case and fill the silence with praises and muttered "I love you"s, and always asks if you feel good. The type to hum in response when he does tickle a sound out of you, and if he manages to make you moan as he makes you cum, he will certainly tease you about it with a soft smile afterwards - don't be fooled though, this guy adores every single sound you make, and will figure out over time how to lure those sweet whines out of you

Yunho does like hearing your voice during sex, and even as you're making out and fooling around before getting to business, but I think he actually prefers a partner who's on the quiet side. Little whines and silent moans do so much more to him than if his partner is super loud, and you bet he'd get drunk on hearing your voice like this alone. Whispers all the things he wants to do to you in between kisses, and if all you can respond with is a weak whine against his lips he'll just feel that much more turned on (and this might lowkey make him want to ruin you....)

I think Yeosang is a bit similar to Yunho, in that he prefers a partner who isn't super loud. He does like having you talk to him during sex, because the communication makes him feel comfortable during the whole process, but if you're not one to moan a lot or to cry out when he hits just the right spot that's totally fine with him. Even just the way your breathing speeds up and becomes heavier as you're nearing your high is a sound he'll appreciate and that'll make him eager to keep going. Whisper praises into his ear about how good he's making you feel and the guy is melting under your words alone

I see Mingi as the shy type if he hasn't been with a partner for long enough, so I think he'd absolutely understand if you're not very vocal in bed - whether the reason is because you're shy about it or because it's simply not your style. However, he will encourage you to let out your voice a bit more when he's having sex with you, because he's just really really curious about all the sounds you might make while he's pleasuring you. Very patient and will do his best to ease you into the process, and whenever you let out even the most quiet of moans he'll be right there to tell you how beautiful your voice sounds to him and how much hearing you turns him on

Seonghwa would definitely be surprised if you're barely making a sound, eventually stopping what he's doing to question whether you're enjoying yourself or if you're just doing this for his sake (which he really doesn't want). It definitely feels a little unfamiliar to him at first to have such a quiet partner, but that isn't to say he wouldn't get used to it. Would definitely talk to you more than he would with a more vocal partner, and will naturally slow down a bit to make sure you're liking what he's doing. However, he would certainly also sometimes nudge you to make more sounds, because no matter how understanding he is, there are times where he's just desperate to hear your voice during sex

I put Wooyoung so low because I'm convinced he'd have sooo much fun with a very vocal, loud partner, and because I think he's very vocal as well. He too will be surprised when he learns that you tend to be very quiet in bed, and this will just instantly make him that much softer for you. Doesn't know what to do with himself when he gets to hear your soft whines and deep sighs at the way he's touching you, and will soon find himself addicted to luring those little noises out of you. He just can't stop himself and will go as far as to overstimulate you out of pure curiousity and because it's fascinating to him how you can make him feel so many feelings at once with a simple quiet mewl

Now San is one who needs the verbal communication, even if it's just you two moaning at each other's touches. Gets seriously worried if you don't make a single sound because he's scared you might not like being intimate with him or that he's set you off in some way. However, he will be soso soft for you in an instant once he hears you give him little whines and moans or even if you whisper a curse through gritted teeth - the latter especially is gonna be such a huge turn on for him. I feel like he'd naturally match your energy and sex with him is gonna be a lot softer if you're on the quiet side than if you're very vocal from the start (but that doesn't mean he won't be willing to be rough or more experimental if you ask him to!)

I feel like Hongjoong lives off of dirty talk and getting the most desperate noises out of you, which is why he's last in the list! Not to say I don't see him enjoying himself with a quiet partner, but sometimes this guy just needs someone to talk back at him and his teasing as he's fucking you, someone to whisper the dirtiest things into his ear and to let him hear the sweetest whines when he's going just a bit too slow on purpose, and sometimes also someone to shower him with praises while you're making love at the end of a rough day. Just loves hearing your voice so much and the way you talk to him during sex just turns him on the most out of everything, so he just thinks it's a shame he doesn't get to hear more of it! Though he will be the most understanding ever if you're not comfortable with the idea of being a little louder too

#ateez smut #ateez hard hours #ateez mtl #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #hongjoong smut #seonghwa smut #yunho smut #yeosang smut #san smut #mingi smut #wooyoung smut #jongho smut #hard hours #smut #mtl #🪐 anon #ask #answered

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arunswild · 6 months

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These kinds of comments really bug me because it's so clear how confused the person who wrote them is.

So let me clear this up for you, @nagashii

Israel has not stolen Palestinian culture. Of all the ridiculous claims you could make, this one is probably the most silly because it's absolutely meaningless. I'd love to hear what cultural things you think we "stole", but I'm just letting you know that whatever you think it is, you're wrong. I'm not gonna bother elaborating

You're making a very important distinction between Jews and Israel, which is great except you screwed it up. You are assuming that the existence of Jews is not dependent on the existence of Israel, while ignoring the fact that the REASON Israel exists is to protect the Jewish people. Even if there's a very Jewish person who has no interest in Israel, Israel has helped them in more ways than you can imagine. Israel gives money and aid to Jewish community and it's also gained the right to prosecute people who commit antisemitic hate crimes in other countries. So you can say that Jews are okay but Israel needs to die, but you're basically saying Jews need to die, which is, obviously, antisemitic and disgusting.

Israel doesn't have genocidal ideals, don't be idiotic. If Israel wanted to commit genocide, believe me, there would be no humanitarian aid, no warnings, no attempts to evacuate gazans. The IDF has absolutely no interest in harming anyone who isn't part of Hamas, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The fact that Hamas uses its civilians as human shields makes this incredibly hard. I know people who are currently fighting in Gaza. Trust me, killing more people is the last thing they want. Obviously there are some morons who want to kill everyone and take Gaza back, but they're idiots and nobody really gives a shit what they think because they're being childish and narrow. Those few people do not represent Israel.

The Jewish people are absolutely and completely entitled to have a country of their own, and the fact that Israel was the land chosen has not only Historical and Traditional but also Legal reasons. I'll reblog this with links to useful explanations. As I said, Israel is essential to the continued existence of the Jewish people which means that yes, we are entitled to it. Absolutely. Whether or not all the actions of the Israeli government are okay is a completely different story. The botton line is that Israel must and will continue to exist.

Hope this helps.

#@nagashii #jewish #israel #jews #am israel hai #war #ישראבלר #antisemitism #ישראל #jumblr #israel hamas war #absurd #don't be stupid #Facts #facts don't care about your feelings

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strangersteddierthings · 1 year

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Porcelain Steve - Part Nine

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six🦇Part Seven🦇Part Eight🦇Part Nine

Not a lot of talking actually takes place. Mostly Steve and Robin cry at each other while Eddie, and presumably Dustin, take turns holding down the button to talk. They don't even say full words half the time, yet still manage to have an entire conversation. (Eddie thought that was a trick that only worked face to face but apparently the telepathy transcends distances).

Eddie has so many questions but he can wait; he doesn't want to interrupt Steve and Robin. Of all the people who should get Steve's time now that he's back, Eddie's certain he falls at the bottom of that list. He's just as certain Dustin and Robin are tied for top, so it's good that Robin was here, anyway.

Steve does take the time to talk them out of going to the Hendersons' house immediately. Claudia is not in the know and they can't really justify the midnight visit otherwise. Steve's shown up and slept in the guest room on occasion, unannounced, so him being there isn't going to be questioned.

The talk ends with a promise from Steve, to let them know when he was home and they could go over.

Robin falls asleep crying on his chest. Eddie doesn't get much sleep.

Steve's back. He's no longer a doll. A full explanation was promised before the walkie's were put down for the night, but he needs to know what happened. Steve had wanted to talk to him and he's a little bit afraid of that. Steve heard him and Jeff, was made aware of his stupid, gay crush, and now- Steve's going to want nothing to do with him. He's going to let him down gently, but firmly, and probably slowly vanish from Eddie's life.

Morning comes slowly and with it, the realization he's not ready to face Steve. He does need to talk to Jeff as soon as he can, though. He pulls himself from bed and gets coffee going almost as soon as the sky starts to lighten. He nurses one cup for so long it goes cold on him three and he has to reheat it in the microwave. Robin joins him at the kitchen table after the third reheat, plopping the walkie on the table before slumping into a chair. A glance at the clock on the wall shows it's a little after eight.

"Morning," Robin says around a yawn, laying her head down on the table.

"There's coffee, but you'll need to microwave it."

"Bleh," Robin wrinkles her nose at that, "no thanks."

"Any news?"

"Yeah. Dustin woke me up. Steve just left, so should be hearing from him soon."

Eddie nods, then says, "I'll drop you off but I'm not- I won't be going in."

"What? Why?"

He feels himself tighten his grip on his mug but if he can tell this to anyone, it's Robin. "I... Jeff accidentally outed me to Steve, yesterday. It's why I was all-" he pauses, waving a hand in the air like that explains anything before continuing, "-falling apart yesterday. Jeff saw Steve, he was on my bed and just, one thing led to another, and Jeff was joking -he'd never have said anything if he knew Steve could hear him- but it. It was. I-I can't-"

Robin's hand falls on his arm, gives it one squeeze before retracking her arm but it's enough to cut off Eddie's words. "I get it. Do you want me to tell Steve anything for you?"

"Just tell him I'm sorry."

She looks like she wants to ask what he's sorry for, but she doesn't. He's glad for that but how can he even begin to explain all the things he's sorry for?

"I need to talk to Jeff. Come up with something to tell him. I was supposed to go talk to him last night but."

"But," Robin repeats with a nod. "What were you going to tell him?"

He shrugs. "I'm pretty good at thinking on my feet. I'll figure it out when I'm lying to his face."

There is silence after that as Robin plays with the walkie on the table, slight frown to her face. He lets the silence hang for a moment before needing to break it, but Robin speaks at the same time.

"You still awake?"

"You should tell him."

They blink at each other before Robin says, "You should tell Jeff the truth."

"I can't do that, Robin. I signed an NDA."

"Since when would something like that stop you?"

"It's not... he wouldn't believe me."

"Do you make a habit of lying to him?"

"No."

"Then he'll probably believe you. Besides, you don't have to tell him anything about what you did sign an NDA for. Steve turning into a doll isn't Upside Down related. I'll vouch for you, and I'm sure Steve will, too, if that's what it took to get Jeff to believe you."

"We already brought my uncle into the loop. We can't just keep adding people to it."

Robin sighs and sits back. "It's up to you, Eddie. You can make up your lie and it'll be fine. By your own admission he knows you like guys, and that's not something we share lightly. So, Jeff must mean a lot to you. I just don't want you to lose Jeff because of this."

"Jeff and I have a solid friendship. We'll get through this."

"Okay. I just-"

"Robin? Eddie? I'm home," Steve's voice comes through the walkie talkie, startling both of them.

"Be right there," Robin says back as Eddie stands to find his shoes and keys.

He drops Robin off at Steve's and pulls away before she's even across the lawn. If he sees Steve, he'll stay, and he can't. Not today.

It's barely 8:30 in the morning so he knows Jeff won't be awake. His mom will, though, and she'll let him in.

"We were expecting you last night," is the greeting he's given when Jeff's mom opens the door enough to see who's knocking this early. Her tone is light, teasing like she usually does, but Eddie's feeling a bit too guilty to joke back.

"I know. But, uh, I was- I'm here to apologize. For not showing."

"He's still asleep," she says even as she's stepping back to let him in.

"Not for long."

"I take no responsibility for any injuries that you may acquire for waking him up this early."

Jeff wakes up with a startled yell when Eddie jumps on him, attempting to use his blanket to trap his limbs in so he can't start swinging (or put Eddie into a headlock until he passes out).

"Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie," Jeff huffs, once his fright has settled and he glares up at Eddie, who is straddling Jeff, pinning the blanket down around him.

"Are you gonna punch me?"

"No."

Eddie signs in relief and flops sideways, off of Jeff and onto the bed. He realizes his mistake a second too late, when Jeff has already shoved him out of the bed with all his strength, so Eddie lands with a loud 'OOF' on the floor. He should have flopped to the other side, between Jeff and the wall.

No. Jeff would have just shoved him into the wall then.

"Why can't you just show up and apologize like a normal person?" Jeff's voice is muffled, like he's shoved his face into his pillow.

"Uhh, because that's what normal people do?"

Jeff just groans, long-suffering, and soon his head peaks over the edge of the bed to look at Eddie. "Apology accepted. So, are we gonna talk about yesterday, or do we both agree it never happened, provided you can keep your creepy Harrington shrines to, like, the back of your closet or deep in the woods, where I never have to see it again."

"I can one thousand percent guarantee you will never see what you saw again."

"Perfect."

They spend a majority of the day together, and Eddie feels himself settle. He and Jeff are good. Will always be good. He doesn't need to justify or explain to Jeff, not on things that don't involve Jeff directly. He's not going to tell Jeff the truth. Not today, or even in the near future. He can't say he won't, ever, finally tell him the truth about the murder accusations and the fallout of that, but Jeff doesn't need to know that to be his friend.

It's a great relief, honestly, to have friends none the wiser to the awful things that lurked in Hawkins. An even greater relief to have friends that know him.

Eddie heads home when it gets closer to dinner time. He's already bummed breakfast and lunch from Jeff and his family, so he tells Jeff they'll hang out later and heads home. He should get there with enough time to share dinner with Wayne.

His uncle is in the process of cooking what smells like seasoned meat of some sort.

"Eddie, come here a second," Wayne says, glancing over his shoulder. Eddie, who had been heading to the couch, instead steps into the kitchen area.

"What's up?"

"Steve is in your room."

Eddie feels a tinge of panic at those words. He does his best to keep his face neutral.

"We had a chat, he and I. He wants to talk to ya, but he's willin' to wait for you to come to him. So, the options are this. You go back to your room and have that chat, or you walk back out that door and hang out back while I let Steve know I'm takin' him home. The second option does come with the stipulation that you don't let dinner burn while I'm gone."

His first instinct is to run, so he does. Almost. He turns away and makes it to the door but when he puts his hand on the doorknob, he finds he doesn't want to turn it. Steve came to him. Wayne spoke to Steve, so if Steve had any intentions of just punching him in the face and leaving, then Steve wouldn't still be here at all. Wayne would have thrown him out.

"How'd he get here?" Eddie finds himself asking without turning around.

"I think he walked."

He can do this. He'll just go down the hall, look at a spot somewhere above Steve's head and tell him he's sorry, and can they please stay friends, and everything will be fine.

He'd followed Steve into Mordor, once. This will be nothing.

Wayne says nothing as Eddie heads down the hall, to where his bedroom door is slightly ajar. He pushes it open slowly, stepping into his own room timidly.

Seeing Steve knocks the wind out of him.

Steve is sitting at the end of his bed, hunched over so his elbows are resting on his knees while his hands hold Eddie's Walkman between his knees. Steve's got the headphones on, but the right side is pushed back on his head behind his ear. Probably so he can hear when Eddie arrives, but he's either lost in his thoughts or the music but he doesn't notice Eddie at first. So, Eddie takes him in. Gone is the outfit he wore as a doll. Instead, Steve is wearing what appears to be homemade Bermuda jean shorts, his Members Only jacket, unzipped, and a shirt under that that looks suspiciously like the Metallica tank top Eddie lost months ago. His hair looks flatter than usual, like he let it air dry after a shower and didn't put any product in it. It's ruffled though, like it always is when Steve spends the day running his hand through it.

"Hi," Eddie says, and watches as Steve jolts, like he's been caught doing something bad.

"Eddie," Steve breathes out. "Hi."

"It's, uhh, good to see you sitting up on your own, no pillow needed," Eddie says, sliding further into his room, clicking the door closed behind him to give an illusion of privacy.

Steve pulls the headphones from his head with his right hand, transferring everything to his left. He doesn't hit pause on the Walkman, though, so the faint sound of music plays but it's not loud enough to really be heard. "I- I'm glad it's you and not your uncle. I thought for sure you'd want more time."

"Better to get this over with, don't you think? Steve, I'm-"

"No, Eddie, listen to me, first. Please. All I've done this last month and a half is listen and I got things I need to say."

Eddie closes his mouth so fast his teeth click.

Steve takes a deep breath before setting the Walkman on the bed and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he stands. "Thank you. For everything. For being there for Robin, and Dustin, and everyone else. For talking to me like I wasn't trapped in porcelain hell."

"Yeah, no problem, man-"

"Eddie, you never- never once did I feel like a burden, or forgotten, when you were watching over me. And, I don't know, I don't think anyone meant to let me feel that way, but sometimes- you just went above and beyond and hanging out with you was, like, the highlight of this. The best thing to come out of it."

With nowhere to hide, Eddie looks down, let's his hair form a barrier, even for just a moment. That's a lot to hear, and not at all what he expected.

"Eddie," Steve whispers, and Eddie startles when one of Steve's hands comes up to sweep his hair from his face, tucking the hair on the right side of his face behind his ear before it settles on his cheek. "I know you didn't want me to hear what Jeff said yesterday but I'm so fucking glad I did. I, uhh, I thought you were straight-" Eddie doesn't think he's ever been accused of being straight before. "-and I was just trying to be so normal around you while I was, according to Robin, pining-" wait. what. wait. what!? "-and I thought I was doing such a shit job at it because it was like, you'd randomly pull back and away, distance yourself, and I thought it was because I was making you uncomfortable, flirting too much and showing how stupidly obsessed with you I am-" his brain has turned off. Eddie has stopped functioning. "-but now I think it was, like, the exact opposite. You were pulling away because you thought I figured out your crush, but uh... What I mean is, I've wanted to kiss you since the Fourth of July party last year, and there's like, probably a ton of shit we should talk about but I just really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?"

"Yes, please, do that," Eddie blurts and Steve laughs even as his other hand joins his first on Eddie's face and pulls him in.

Kissing Steve feels like coming home. Warmth, and safety, and a sense of familiarity, despite them never having done this before. They smile into the kiss, which makes it harder to actually kiss, but then Eddie's tilting his head, his hands moving on their own, one to Steve's hip and the other to his neck, and it's suddenly deeper, more passionate. Steve steps into his space, gets as close as he can as his tongue licks at Eddie's lips and he can't fathom doing anything other than opening up, brushing his own tongue against Steve's, getting a taste of him.

Eddie's not even sure what his plan is when he tried to walk Steve backwards to the bed, but whatever it was goes flying out of his mind when Steve turns them and shoves at Eddie so he ends up flat on his back, eyes wide as he looks up at Steve. Steve, whose eyes have darkened, and his lips are shiny and kiss-bitten, who quickly shrugs off his jacket and throws it somewhere, allowing Eddie to confirm that it is his Metallica tank before Steve's climb onto the bed, knees on either side of Eddie's hips as he lowers himself to kiss Eddie again.

Steve kisses him hungerly before pulling back to kiss his way across Eddie's cheek, over the scarred flesh there that Eddie's long accepted and embraced, down his neck where Steve peppers in little nips between kisses before he latches onto a place low on his neck. It pulls a guttural noise from Eddie that he wasn't even aware he could make, realizing he's going to have marks from Steve on him. Visible reminders that this is actually happening to him and not just a dream.

He's not even sure how long they make out like that, Steve hovering over him, alternating between kissing lips and neck. Eddie gets a hand on the back of Steve's head to pull him down, closer, so he can trail kisses along Steve's neck, mark him, too, in a mirror of what he did to Eddie.

"Fuck, Eddie," Steve hisses, one hand fisting Eddie's shirt just above where Steve's knees bracket him. Steve's over hand is on the bed next to Eddie's head, keeping Steve from fully face planting onto Eddie. "I can't believe you want me back. Can't believe I get to kiss you, that you want me."

Eddie has no idea why Steve thinks he's the one who can't believe what's happening but the words ignite a fluttering in his stomach and turns his brain to mush and even though they are actively making out, Eddie feels that if he doesn't hold Steve's hand right now he's going to die. He releases one hand from the death drip he apparently had on Steve's hips to drop it on the bed, palm up, sliding upwards to meet where Steve has his hand next to Eddie's head. Eddie wiggles his fingers against Steve's wrist until he gets with the picture, adjusting his weight off his hand long enough to Eddie to wiggle his own under it to they're palm to palm, fingers lacing together.

Steve sits up a bit, then, shifting his weight to his knees as he hovers above Eddie, eyes jumping between Eddie's face and their joined hands like this is the part he really can't believe; Eddie wanting to hold his hand.

It makes Eddie laugh, a soft noise, and move their joined hands to his lips, to kiss at Steve's knuckles, eyes never leaving Steve's face as he does so. It's then he notices the shift on Steve's face, so quickly there and gone that Eddie almost isn't sure he sees it, the slight furrow between his brow, frown on his face, eyes darting from Eddie's face to their hands again, before it all smooths over to look unbelievable fond.

It's enough to bring Eddie out of his euphoria, to look at their joined hands and finally register what it is he's feeling, literally. Steve's left hand is joined with his right, and what Eddie sees now that he's really looking is a new scar on Steve's arm, just above his elbow, running down, towards his hand, towards his pinky-

"Eddie, it's okay," Steve is already saying even as Eddie is unlacing their fingers and sitting up. The action forces Steve to shimmy back a bit but he doesn't leave Eddie's lap. Eddie grabs at Steve's hand again, not to lace their fingers but to examine Steve's.

He doesn't have a pinky.

"Steve-"

"No. Whatever you are thinking or worrying about or- or whatever, just. No," Steve says. "I'm fine. It's fine. It doesn't hurt, and I'm fine."

His first instinct is to argue, to try and wriggle himself out from under Steve but he's stopped as Steve grips at him.

"Please don't," Steve sounds hurt, in pain, and that stops Eddie immediately, "please don't take this from me. Don't go. I just got you." Steve's hand trembles, still hovering between them. Where he was cracked as a doll, he is now a scarred as a human, the pinky still gone but the skin smoothed over and healed.

Eddie wraps his hand around Steve's wrist and pulls his hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss where his pinky used to be. "You have me. For as long as you want."

Steve collapses forward against him, like a puppet with cut strings, and Eddie hugs him close.

Much later, after some more crying, and dinner, and cuddling, Eddie does have one final question before sleep.

"Do you know what broke the curse?"

"Oh, yeah," Steve looks so amused. "True Love's Kiss. Dustin was so freaked out about what happened he tucked me into his bed and give me a lil' kiss on the noggin. One blinding flash of light later, Dustin and I are staring at each other in surprise."

"You're kidding."

"Man, I wish I was."

Aaaand done!! Thank you so much for reading, and a special thanks to @mcneen for letting me ramble about the options I didn't go with. I'll be posting a meta-commentary post about the things that didn't happen/could have happened/unused ideas at some point but the story itself is finished!

Thanks for reading!

#steddie #my fic #porcelain steve #jeff is the real mvp here #this is the final part!!#can't believe it's done. Almost sad about that

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thousandsun · 4 months

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Monster trio's favorite kinks

Warning: Obviously NSFW,kinks,food

Kinks in order(feel free to leave if any of them make you uncomfortable):roleplay, bondage/shibari,feederism

Characters in order:Luffy,Zoro,Sanji

Luffy.

•He enjoys roleplaying of any type usually

•His favorite plots "Luffy x food","Pirate x treasure", "Knight x Princess"

"Babyyyy" You hear Luffy calling for you. You make your way into his room, noticing the other boys are missing. They probably went out to explore the new island. How come Luffy didn't go with them? You know your boyfriend well enough already. He loves adventure.

"What is roleplay?"He asks impatient. You give him a strange look, wondering what made him ask this question.

"Roleplay is something two or more people do. Basically they pretend to be someone else." You give him a simple and short reply. Luffy isn't the man to stay and listen to a full explanation. His attention span is too short.

You immediately notice your boyfriend's eyes sparkling, meaning he got a crazy idea."So it's like playing???"

"Yeah?" You are unsure how to react. Usually,a crazy idea means something bad. That's just how Luffy does things. Yet,what can go wrong with such an innocent thing like roleplay? Oh boy,you were so wrong.

He grabs your waist, pulling you dangerously close. You can feel his warm breath on your right cheek."Sooo...What if I roleplay as myself and you as my delicious meal?" He's lips curve into a smirk the moment he finishes the question. You can't help but blush. Luffy has amazing pick up lines if he puts enough effort. You sure did not expect this right now. "C'mon,baby. Let me eat you." He speaks once again. He brutally slams his lips against yours. His teeth pierce your lower lip, letting him feel the metallic taste of your blood.

You feel his hands pushing you in his bed. He begins slowly kissing your neck, leaving every spot wet and warm. His hands are tracing your curves, exploring them all. With one move,he takes off your shirt,then your bra. His kisses go down to your collarbone,then to your breasts. He licks one of your nipples. A sound expressing his satisfaction,escapes his lips."You're so damn delicious" His lips are now placed on your nipple, slowly sucking it like a newborn.

You start moaning as the pleasure takes over your body. Your eyes widen surprised by his new methods. So that's what he meant when he said he will taste me. The moaning becomes louder as he begins biting your nipple and chewing it just like his snack. "Not even Sanji can cook such an appetizing dish like you."

Zoro

•He enjoys bondage

•If he is really turned on,he'll just tie you up normally,if he isn't,he'll use shibari

•He is a master when it comes to shibari

Zoro watches you move your body on the beat. You have a big smile on your face as you move your hips in a way Zoro finds provocative.

Luffy is throwing a massive party,again. You couldn't pass the opportunity to have some fun,after such a hard fight you've had. Now that it's over,it's important to relax and have some fun.

Zoro finds himself staring at your body. He didn't know you were such a good dancer. He gets up, grabbing your hips and pulling your back against his chest. You quickly realize it's your boyfriend.

"You got some moves." He compliments you. Your cheeks quickly change to red.

"How about I'll show you my moves?" His lips are touching your ear. His whisper sends shivers down your spine.

Before you reply,Zoro grabs your hand, taking you away from the party. "Where are we going?" You ask him. You were having so much fun. You wanted to dance more.

"Hurry up" He simply replies, making you have more questions. Nearby is a motel so you assume he will take you there. Zoro enters the motel, quickly paying for the room. He is in a hurry. What has gotten into him so suddenly? The moment you enter the room you feel him pushing you against a wall. His lips are locked with yours.

You feel his erection and you immediately realize why he was so impatient. Your clothes don't resist much.

His hands are roaming around your body, exploring it. As his hands move,you start feeling something tight against your skin. You realize he is tying you up,but you decide to not say anything about it. I mean,can you really complain in this situation?

He pulls away from the kiss, checking you up and down. "Damn,girl. You look even sexier tied up." He smirks enjoying the view of your boobs spilling through the rope.

He moves two fingers around your pussy, teasing you. "So helpless that you can't even move. That's just how I like you"

Sanji

•Loves to bring you sweet treats

•You're always the first one to taste every meal

•Extra portions + extra snacks

"Happy birthday, princess!" He wishes you with a cake in his hands. The cake is filled with caramel and chocolate, gently decorated with sprinkles and some candies.

You smile, feeling loved. He remembered. Your heart is beating really fast right now. "Thank you..."

Sanji puts down the cake on a table, then closes the door to your room. He sits down on your bed. "You deserve the best,my love. Let me spoil you." Before you could reply,he takes down your trousers and panties.

His tongue is moving close to your entrance, making you get all wet. He smirks at the sight of you getting so turned on. His tongue is slowly entering your private area. You feel him eating you up like the sweetest dessert. His tongue is moving in perfect harmony, hitting just the right spots. Your moans are getting louder and louder. That motivates him to bring you to full climax. A wave of pleasure crashes over you, he takes it as a cue to increase the pressure. His tongue is getting deeper into your thigh hole.

"I-I am about to cum!" You manage to say, between the moans. As your orgasm hits, Sanji's tongue becomes even more vigorous, lapping up every drop of your cum as soon as you release it. He licks his lips in satisfaction getting up from the bed.

He grabs the cake and a fork. "Now open up. This is all for you. I made it will sooo much love!" You open your mouth,as the fork enters your mouth. The more you eat,the more you see his erection getting even more pronounced. You know he won't leave your room until you finish everything, it's also more likely that soon,you'll be the one eating him up.

#anime #monkey d. luffy #luffy #nami #nico robin #one piece #one piece franky #one piece luffy #one piece manga #one piece nami #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #one piece sanji #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #one piece zoro #zoro #luffy x reader

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