#* ── WITH THE WIND THROUGH HER HAIR. / STARTER.

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

-

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it. 

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

-

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is: 

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

-

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

-

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that: 

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

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

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

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

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

[tomriddleslove]

Pt 4 - Drunk words are sober thoughts.

✩ Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: The one where Pansy organises a dinner party, you’re on the run from Theo, and bad decisions are made. Alternatively: Uncomfortable awkward tension, then smut.

A/N: We aren’t out of the trenches yet. We’ve only dug ourselves deeper with this one.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

Please let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the tag list!

MDNI!

Tags: Smut (duh),Drunk sex, PIV, Hair pulling, praise.

Songs: Love survive - Michael Nau

Star Treatment - Arctic Monkeys

The sun filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting an almost heavenly glow on your bed. The warmth was soothing, and you’d almost call it a very peaceful morning.

That is, of course, if you weren’t woken by Pansy yanking the covers off you, tossing them to the side.

You groan sleepily, rolling over as you try to shield your eyes.

“Oh come on! Merlin, you've been asleep for so long! Everyone else is up! I refuse to let you spend all holiday rotting in bed.” She nags, grabbing your arm as she tries to pull you up. You let your body go limp, the dead weight pulling you back onto the bed as you use your free hand to pull a pillow over your head.

“You know Pansy, have you ever considered my idea of a holiday is sleeping in all day?” You mumble and she tuts, grabbing the pillow from you.

“Nonsense. I’ll kill you if we don't make the most of this.”She admonishes, faffing around you like a mother hen as she walks around your shared room with Theodore (who notably wasn't there, his bed made.) She opens your closet and takes the liberty of choosing you an outfit as she flicks through your clothing, speaking again.

“We're going to celebrate the start of this beautiful Holiday I have so kindly provided us with. We’re making dinner and having a small dinner party. Nice clothes, naturally. Mattheo, Lorenzo and Theodore will be making the starters, and Draco, Blaise and I will be making the main, which means you’re in charge of dessert. Consider it a penalty for waking so late.” Pansy explained as she crouched down to sort through your other clothes.

You grumble, muttering childishly under your breath as you sit up, on the edge of your bed as you come to your senses.

“I'm putting poison in yours.” You half-joke, and she isn't phased as she tosses you a floral white sundress and a handful of jewellery. You dodge the assortment of gold sent towards you and you glare at her.

“There. You’ll have to change for dinner but this is good for now. We’re all downstairs, but I sent some of the boys to fetch the ingredients. Chop chop!” She calls out, as she descends down the stairs.

Pansy. She truly tested your patience.

You manage to drag yourself up from the warm confines of your bed as you head over to the bathroom, going to take a shower. You walk past Theodore's bed as you do so, and you see his copy of Little Women lying on his bedside table. Curiosity tugs at you.

It would be bad to take a peek, right? I mean, he did hand it to you that day in the library. Granted, he took it back right after, but surely that implied you could take a look.

You (rather weakly) justify your decision and pick up the book, thumbing through the pages as your eyes scan over the various annotations and underlined passages Theodore had analysed.

One in certain catches your attention. There, messily underlined, is the quote:

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault.”

Followed by “No. 4” scrawled in Theodore's handwriting. You frown, confusion etched on your face as you try to decipher what the four could possibly mean. You flick through the rest of the book, trying to spot any other instances.

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”

No. 7

I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, - couldn't help it, you've been so good to me, - I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer.

No. 5

You couldn't seem to find any rhyme or reason for this labelling. It was simply random parts of the text underlined every now and then with a number next to them, as though some sort of list. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you're itching to look for more when the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs snaps you out of it. You quickly shut the book, placing it back down as you grab your dress and towel, dashing into the bathroom. You just manage to lock the bathroom door when you hear the door to your room click open, and you let out a small breath of relief. Your mind is working tirelessly, trying to decipher the cryptic annotations as you take a shower.

You finish off and get dressed in the bathroom, taking your time to avoid Theodore. By your luck, when you unlock the bathroom door and peer out the small gap, Theodore is not there, and you let out a small sigh as you step out.

You put on the jewellery Pansy set out for you and slip on some socks, combing through your wet hair as you dry it lightly. Satisfied with how you looked (you did feel rather pretty, in all honesty), you make your way downstairs.

The kitchen is empty, save for Blaise putting the groceries away into the fridge. You grin as you walk over to join him, his eyes flickering over to you as you walk in.

“Morning. You got your rest, didn't you?” He teases and you shoot him a mocking smile, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah yeah, make fun of me all you want.” You sigh as you reach for the second bag, helping him put everything away.

“Where is everyone else?” You ask.

“Pansy and Lorenzo went out to get drinks, and I'm pretty sure the rest found some sort of creek or something so I think they went out for a swim,” Blaise says and you hum, nodding.

Come to think of it, you had completely forgotten about the rather surprising development between Blaise and Pansy. You and Lorenzo had bet on it as well. Deciding to pay Pansy back the favour, you begin probing into their little dilemma.

“So Blaise, tell me. What's going on between you and Pansy?” You ask, and he chokes on the coffee he was sipping as he sets the cup down. You open one of the cupboards, storing away a packet of pasta as he looks at you.

“What do you mean?” He responded, and a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Oh come on, don't act all shy now. This whole flirting thing you have going on.” You say, vaguely motioning in his direction as you put some fruits in the fruit bowl resting on the kitchen island.

“There's nothing. Just friend.” He denies, and you turn to him, resting against the island.

“Sure. Just one thing? You're both stubborn fools. Don't let that prevent anything.” You advise, looking at him. You grab an apple, tossing it into the air before catching it as you walk past Blaise, patting him on the back.

“Right now, out. I need to start prepping the dessert.” You say, and for the first time in your life, you see Blaise ever so slightly red.

He playfully grins as he walks out, and you tie your damp hair up as you look through what the boys bought.

You settle on a classic after taking note of the copious amounts of cream cheese the boys had bought (You were reminded to never ever ask them to go shopping, and you'd be sure to remind Pansy the same.)

A salted caramel cheesecake. You decided to make the biscuit base yourself - it would serve as a good way to pass the time seeing as you had the whole day to yourself.

Before you begin cooking, you wander over to the living room. Your eyes settle on a collection of vinyl records in the corner, and you sift through the sleeves, settling on one that doesn't look immediately terrible.

You carefully place the vinyl onto the turntable, the soft crackle of the needle hitting the record filling the room. The sound of a smooth jazz melody starts playing, creating a cosy atmosphere in the kitchen. As the music envelops the space, you begin gathering the ingredients for the biscuit base.

You preheat the oven and begin making the biscuits, sifting flour into the bowl as you work. It's surprisingly relaxing, the villa is empty and you're left to your own devices, humming along to the music as you bake. Sure, you definitely weren't the cleanest baker. A simple biscuit recipe had left you with a white powder coating over the kitchen, stacks of bowls in the sink and somehow, flour on your clothes as well. You huff, dusting down your dress as you place the haphazardly shapen uncooked biscuits into the oven. It didn't matter whether they looked good or not - you'd be crushing them anyway.

It only takes about 15 minutes before the delicious aroma of vanilla fills the kitchen, You're admittedly pleased at just how good they smell, and you can only hope they taste as good as they smell.

Whilst those finish off, you begin making the actual filling of the cake. You reach for one of the bowls when a certain song begins playing, your ears perking up at the sound.

“This is my conquering song

played on a wave so strong

pulled the broke-down ride for far too long”

You lightly sing along to the lyrics, a small smile tugging on your lips as you do so. You had always imagined this song to be blissfully domestic, something you'd willingly play if you were to cook or bake, so the fact you selected it by chance made you oddly happy.

Sometimes it was the little things that count.

With a little pep in your step, you walk around the kitchen as you gather the ingredients. Liberated by the villa having no other occupants, your movements are freer, a small little (unnecessary) spin or a little break to sing along as you cook.

Now, it had been long established that you really did not have the best awareness of your surroundings. This continued to be the case now because you were sure you would have stopped immediately if you had seen Theodore leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, looking over at you.

Unfortunately for you, you did not notice him.

Theodore leans against the doorway, his eyes fixated on you. They always would be, he couldn't not look at you even if he tried to.

A fond smile is tugging at his lips, watching as you lightly sing along to the song. It's offkey, and your impromptu dance moves incorporated with your haphazard baking skills is laughable, but Theodore can only look at you and feel simultaneously so happy yet also so terrified. Terrified because he acknowledges how such a simple sight can't get that smile off his face, and the fact someone has the capability of doing that to him seems daunting. He was scared because, for a brief second, he imagined walking over and helping you. You'd look up at him with that smile of yours.

God, that smile.

You have that little impish look in your eyes, ready to poke fun at him. He does the same with you. The worst thing is if he hadn't fucked up so royally, you could have been doing that.

Instead, he pushes off the doorway to go and help you. The first part goes as expected, you see him and you yelp, spinning around. He knew your ears would turn red, as they usually did when you got embarrassed. Theodore knew you like that.

He knew you'd look at him akin to a deer caught in headlights because your mind would go blank for a second. Theodore knew you like that.

He also knew you well enough to know that, despite his own hopes of your once confused and mortified face breaking into a wide grin, it would instead fall and you would avert your eyes.

Theodore knew you like that.

He hated it.

“Oh. Hey.” You utter, clearing your throat. You berated yourself for always acting so obviously on edge when Theodore was near. He looks down at you with an indescribable look in his eyes before he speaks.

“Hey. Need help?” He asks, and you look around at the messy kitchen, before shaking your head.

You actually did, but you'd be damned if you had to spend more time with Theodore, alone. You'd either end up dead silent or stammering some embarrassing declaration. You couldn't tell which one would be worse.

“Alright.” He mused, looking down at you. He doesn't make any move to leave though, and you're hyper-aware of the fact that he is very close to you.

His hand comes up, cupping the side of your face gently as his thumb brushes against your cheekbone. His hand is there for a second too long, crossing the boundary of what it should have been. Again, it seemed as though everything you and Theodore did crossed that boundary.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, and you nod, drawing away your face. You turn around, praying to the gods above that they'd stop torturing you and make Theodore leave. You keep your back to him as you continue cooking, and he seems to finally leave, making you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You hasten your cooking after that and you're out of the kitchen in no less than 20 minutes with the cheesecake stored in the fridge as you make your way to Pansy’s room. You absolutely would not go back up to yours, as you were sure Theodore was there.

Exactly how long did you plan on running from him?

Hours have passed lazing away on Pansy’s bed, bored out of your mind when she finally returns.

“Finally.” You sassed, sitting up as she raised a brow at you.

“Why are you waiting here?” She asks, and you shrug.

“Can I not miss my friend?” You quip and she eyes you, knowing there must be another reason. She chooses not to probe further, however, joining you on her bed.

“We ought to get ready. I did tell the boys to dress nicely, we’re dignified people.”She chided as she got up, walking over to her closet.

You giggle at her swift change of actions and lean back on her bed, looking over at Pansy.

Her love for micromanaging you often was a negative, but now it could very much be a huge positive.

“Pans… You always know just how to style me right. Can you run up to my room and choose a look for me? I'm hopeless.” You groan, putting your hand on your chin in an exaggerated display of hopelessness. Her eyes light up, as though she was a little kid playing dress up, and she nods.

“Finally, you've come to your senses! I know exactly what I'm getting, wait here.” She gasps, scampering upstairs. You grin, having successfully avoided Theodore once again.

(The answer to the previous question? You'd run from him for a very long time, seemingly.)

Despite her reassurances, Panys arrives a solid half an hour later, a scarlet lace dress clutched in her hands. An impulse buy, the dress was shorter than what you usually wore. It had a fitted bodice but a flowy skirt, though it only reached your upper thigh. The long sleeves that extended down into flowy bell sleeves had to be your favourite feature of it, alongside the bustier style bodice at the front. She grins as she passes over the dress, alongside a pair of black boots.

“Dressed nicely but not too fancy. Plus I've been dying to see you wear this, so up and change.” She demands, pushing you up. You grin lightly at her antics as you take the dress, disappearing into the bathroom to change. You run your hands down your body as you admire yourself in the mirror. A hell of a good impulse buy, the dress looked incredible. The low cut was far out of your comfort zone but boundaries were meant to be pushed, right?

(No, they were not.)

Pansy gasps as you step out, pulling you over as she admires the dress, words of praise leaving her lips.

“You look so good! Oh my god, wear this everywhere.” She gushes, and you smile shyly.

“Thanks, Pans. Really. And you look incredible too, like positively mouthwatering,” You say and she grins, doing a small twirl in her satin black dress. After styling your hair and doing some light makeup, you make your way over to the dining room, which had already been set up beautifully.

The table, adorned with a crisp white tablecloth, is set meticulously with polished silverware, crystal glasses, and porcelain plates. A centrepiece of fresh flowers in varying shades of red and white adds a touch of elegance, their fragrance mingling with the soft glow of candles placed strategically around the room.

Pansy's attention to detail is evident in every aspect of the setup. Delicate linen napkins, folded artfully, rest atop each plate. You begin to feel excited for the evening, walking over to the kitchen as you look for everyone else. Theodore, Lorenzo and Mattheo are all in the kitchen, sorting panicking over the starters as they rush around like headless chickens. You step in and Lorenzo spots you, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Wow wow wow. Look at who we have here.” Lorenzo says admiringly, calling over the attention of the other two boys. You grin, ironically doing a small little pose to shake away the awkwardness of their gazes on you.

“Stunning!” Mattheo announces, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he ruffles your hair. You groan with disdain as you jab him in the side.

“Ow!” Mattheo complains, letting go as he frowns, rubbing his side.

“The bloody devil, you are.” He mumbles, glaring at you, A small laugh escapes your lips.

You affectionately pat him on the cheek, before turning to Lorenzo.

“What do you need help with?” You ask them, and Lorenzo shakes his head.

“Nothing. You go and rest, we’ll come serve them soon.” He says, and you nod.

You've been avoiding Theodore's gaze the whole time you've been in here, but you stupidly can't resist looking up at him and instantly regret it when he staring at you so intently. His eyes meet yours and he seemingly snaps out of it, swallowing harshly.

You quickly walk back to the dining room.

A solid 4 hours or so later, you're all lounging in the living room, stomachs full with what was a surprisingly good meal. Whilst the starters were good, Blaise, Pansy and Draco had really knocked it out of the park with the main, a mouthwateringly good risotto that you helped yourself twice to. The cheesecake seemed to be a crowd-pleaser though, with Draco having three slices.

With a glass of whiskey loosely held in your hand, you take a sip, leaning back into the couch. Whilst you tried to fit the aesthetic and sip some wine, you couldn't bear the taste and (truthfully) wanted to get drunk tonight.

It was a lazy and subdued atmosphere, and you didn't even notice Pansy, Blaise, Draco and Mattheo all retiring back to their rooms. You yawn as you get up, stumbling slightly (you had drunk quite a bit actually). You sleepily bid goodnight to the remaining two ( as vaguely as possible because god forbid you say Theodore's name) and make your way upstairs (in one piece.)

You walk into your room and kick off your boots, wandering over to your bed as you begin taking off your jewellery. You look up a mere few seconds later when Theodore walks in, seemingly equally as drunk as he looks at you. He shuts the door, yawning as he pulls off his knitted jumper, leaving him with his white t-shirt on. He throws his sweater somewhere to the side as he flops down onto his bed with a sigh, rummaging through his pockets as he produces a lighter. You can't help but openly stare at him as he does so, alcohol freeing you of what little inhibitions you had.

Something about the sight of Theodore laying on his bed, lazily smoking a cigarette with his slightly messy hair and those damn eyes….

You could see his muscles shift every time he brought the cigarette up to his lips, and you didn't realise smoking could be so erotic.

For some awfully stupid reason, really I mean, you had to question your own sanity, you get up, walking over to Theodore. You're alarmingly quiet as you approach him, and don't say a word as you stand there. His eyes flicker up to you, and suddenly you realise:

Alcohol + tension + two rash people

Is not a very good mix.

You reach down, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. Theodore observes you with a small smile, those sinful eyes of his boring into you as you take a drag, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“He was right,” Theodore says after a second, looking up at you, You tilt your head. If you were already slow at making these connections, the alcohol only made it worse.

“Hmm?” You hum.

“Mattheo. You did look stunning today.” Theodore says, voice low.

Instead of doing what you usually did (some awful combination of looking away, panicking or just remaining quiet), a lazy smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at Theodore.

“Yeah?” You question, and you're 100% sure you watch his eyes flicker down to your lips.

Theodore's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement flickering across his face as he absorbs your murmured words.

Tentatively, as though testing the waters, he sits up, back propped up against the headboard as he looks up at you. His hand tugs at the sleeve of your dress, pulling you down, His hand rests on the curve of your hip, massaging light circles, and you go dizzy at the feeling.

You make no effort to move.

Rather, in a bold surge of confidence that quite literally materialised from nowhere, you swing your leg over Theodore's lap, straddling him. His hands immediately find their place on your hips, as though they're meant to be there, and he's looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

You knew this was a bad idea, but the alcohol spoke prettier words than your rationale did.

“You certainly know how to make an impression.” He murmurs his fingers trailing lightly along your thigh. You resist the urge to shudder at his touch, goosebumps erupting on your skin as he touches you. You lean closer, admiring the features of his face as you speak, mere inches away from one another.

“Well, I had someone to impress.” You say. He lets out a small, wry laugh, though he's far too consumed with looking at you.

Close the gap. Do it.

You do.

With a surge of hunger, your hands fist his shirt, pulling him in. His hand cups the back of your head as he meets your lips in a passionate kiss, mouths melding together. He holds you tightly, his grip both possessive and comforting at the same time.

The bulge of his clothed cock presses against your wetness, grinding against you with a desperate need. A small meek escapes your lips and it’s as though Theodore immediately swallows the sound, tongue slipping into your mouth as you continue to make out. It’s simultaneously lazy yet desperate - hungry.

"Fuck," Theodore murmurs against your lips, his voice laced with desire. "You're driving me insane." He mutters, trailing open-mouth kisses down your jaw and neck. You moan, arching your back as you tilt your head back, giving him easier access. He wastes no time in sucking and kissing the delicate skin of your neck, tongue soothing the places he nips at you, your skin blossoming red and purple.

His hand trails down your body, his fingertips tracing along the swell of your breasts. A low groan escapes your lips, hands coming up to thread through his hair. You tug lightly and feel him smile against your neck. With deliberate slowness, he undoes the lace on the back of your dress as he continues to press sloppy kisses to your skin, undoing the top as he tugs it down. He pulls back, eyes hungrily taking in the sight.

He flips you over with alarming ease, pinning you down onto the mattress as he hovers above you, holding your hands down by the side of your head as he begins kissing down your neck to your breasts.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, large hands coming up to cup one of them, the other holding your hands in place. He squeezes one of your nipples, pinching the bud lightly between his fingers as you gasp, arching off the bed. The sound is music to his ears, and he grins, his eyes remaining on you as he leans down and takes the other one into his mouth, tongue running over the sensitive bud as he pulls away, blowing lightly.

The contrast sends you into a haze, and a whimper escapes your lips. Theodore wants to devour the sound, he simply can’t get enough.

“Do you know how fucking long you’ve been on my mind?” He mutters, voice laced with desperation as he leans back down to kiss you, bulge grinding against your clothed cunt in a way that had you desperate for more. You can’t even formulate a response, because you’re all too consumed by Theodore. Everything about him.

He sits up slightly, hands resting on your thigh as he runs his hands up and down, his fingers disappearing under the hem of your dress.

You feel his fingers brush against the damp spot on your panties and swear that Theodore Nott will be the death of you.

Seemingly satisfied, a small smirk tugs at his lips, observing your reactions as he slowly pulls them down. He throws them to the side, and words cannot describe the look on his face as his eyes hungrily rake over you.

You needed him, every bone in your body ached with a visceral need for Theodore. Your hands come down to his belt, tugging at the buckle as you look over at Theodore, eyes glazed over as you were driven mad with your need for him.

He undoes his belt, the sound of the metal buckle clinking as he throws it onto your bed, unzipping his slacks. You can make out the bulge of his erection against his boxers and your heart skips a beat. You’re filled with this primal need to just have Theodore, you need as much of him as physically possible.

You tug his boxers down, freeing his strained erection from its confines. You swallow harshly at the sight of his cock, the tip glistening. You lean up to meet his lips in a kiss, your hands wrapping around his length as you give him a single jerk. You suddenly realise why Theodore was kissing you the way he was because the low groan that escaped Theodore's lips had you mad for more.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” He murmurs, pushing you back onto the bed. He hiked the skirt of your dress up over your hips, eyes straying down as he spoke.

“You’ve unravelled every thread of control I have.” He says against your lips, teasingly running the head of his cock between your folds. A low moan escapes you, desperately seeking more friction.

“I’m going fucking crazy for you. I ache for you every second of the fucking day.” He mutters, and you pull back from the kiss, looking up at him.

“You have me now.” You respond.

His lips surge forward and meet yours in a kiss with renewed intensity, slowly thrusting into you.

You both let out a collective low groan as he slowly thrusts into you, and you can feel every inch of Theodore within, stretching you out so good you feel as though the simplest movement would split you open. A plethora of gasped curses escape your lips, but Theodore silences them instantly, coming down to kiss you deeply. He buried himself inside you fully, savouring the way you stretched to accommodate him, clenching tightly. He gives you a second to adjust before slowly pulling out. He rocks back in again, his moments slow and measured, but strained as though it’s taking every inch of self-restraint to not ravage you there and then.

“More. Don’t be nice.” You moan, and Theodores swears he won’t ever be the same again. One look at you, hair splayed out against the mattress, your back arched off the bed. It’s a sight he’d never forget.

“Don’t say shit like that. I’m already close to losing it.” He utters, voice strained as his hand grip your hips harshly, surely leaving imprints.

“Good. Ruin me.” You whisper, a fucked-out grin on your face.

Theodore groans, pulling out slightly before slamming back into you. You gasp, cursing as your hands grip Theodore's sheets. He sets a ruthless pace, fucking into you hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, though you’re sure it had to be muffled by the moans leaving your lips. It was only then that you were thankful for having a room all the way on the top floor. You both were too drunk to realise Muffliato did exist.

“God, you’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well. It’s like you were fucking made for my cock” Theodore groans, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. Your hands come up, running along his back as you lean up (to the best of your ability) to meet him in a kiss.

Theodore's forehead presses against yours, breaths mingling as he shifts slightly, before thrusting back into you. You can feel every inch of his cock brush against your walls, and you can’t help the pathetic plethora of moans and whimpers escaping your lips when he brushes against that spot, stoking a fire in your stomach.

“Theodore- Fuck! ‘m gonna…” You babble, and he lazily smirks, slowing down slightly as one hand tangles in your hair, tugging at it lightly. He experimentally plays with it for a second before harshly tugging your hair, eliciting another moan that felt like it came from the depths of your body, the line of pain and pleasure blurred.

“Hmm? You’ll have to speak up.” He hums, teasing you with shallow, slow thrusts.

You let out a whimper at the loss of contact, frustration gnawing at you as you look up at Theodore.

“Fuck, stop being such a tease. Please just..” You whimper, trailing off and he tuts, his grip on your hair tightening slightly as he forces you to look up at him.

“You have to tell me what you want. I don’t speak in half sentences, sweetheart.” He says, voice laced with an almost animalistic pleasure.

You groan, nails digging into Theodore's back as some slight form of retaliation.

“I’m gonna cum- please.” You say, breathlessly, and a small smirk tugs at his lips, his hand loosening its vice-like grip from your hair as it trails down the side of your face, his thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Good girl. Since you asked so nicely,” He muses, no longer teasing you with shallow thrusts as he wastes no time slamming back into you, cock brushing against your cervix. You moan, eyes rolling back as the heat in your stomach rises rapidly; the sensation of Theodore fucking into you was pure perfection.

“Theo…” You moan, breathlessly. He responds to you moaning his name with a harsh snap of his hips, nails digging into your hips as he grabs them tightly.

“Say it again.” He grunts, his thumb coming down to rub harsh circles against your neglected clit, sending a surge of electricity through you.

“Mmm- Ah, Fuck- Theo-“ You moan, and you’re sure you would have done it without him even asking.

“You close? Gonna cum on my cock?” He groans, and you’re sure you’ve become mush because you can’t respond, can’t think, your mind and body reduced down to one simple thing.

Theodore. Theodore, Theodore, Theodore.

You teeter impossibly close to your climax, nails scratching down his back. The sheer ecstasy was too much, and you felt like you couldn’t handle it but also like you needed more and more.

His eyes take over you, as if even though you're both inebriated, he tried to commit every little detail to memory, the way you moaned, mascara streaked around those eyes of yours.

His thrusts grow more intense, fingers working their magic against your clit as he brings you to your release. His relentless thrusts push you close to the edge over and over again,, eliciting a strangled moan from your lips as you feel his thrusts become sloppier, indicating that he was close. With what little strength you have left you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as his lips descend down onto you, ravishing you with messy kisses. It takes one last thrust for you to be sent hurtling over the edge, a cry of pleasure escaping your lips as your orgasm crashes through your body with frightening force. Your walls clench around Theodore's cock, eliciting a low groan from him as he chases his own release, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s positively sinful, but he’s sure he’s never seen a prettier sight.

“Fuck-“ He grunts, his movements becoming erratic as you feel him twitch inside you. your legs don’t give in, though you’re surprised you have the strength as the rest of your body convulses with the sheer intensity of your orgasm.

“So fucking perfect.” He gasps, and with one final thrust, he stalls, burying himself deep inside you as he groans, hands momentarily tightening their grip on your hips before relaxing slightly. He utters your name with reverence like a sinful prayer, coming down to press lazy kisses to your lips as he releases deep inside you.

You reciprocate the kisses, and embarrassingly whimper at the loss of contact as Theodore pulls out of you, collapsing down next to you. You’re both breathless, panting as you come down from a high you've never experienced before. The post-orgasmic haze lingers over you, making you feel impossibly sleepy. Your eyes flicker over to Theodore and it’s evident that he feels the same. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the red spattering along his neck, not realising when you had done that.

In any other situation, you both wouldn’t have done this in the first place. But the effects of the alcohol had you both giving into temptation, and you didn’t fully comprehend just how badly you both had fucked up.

You roll over, pressing a teasing kiss to the hollow of his throat as he tugs the blankets over the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him. He rests his face in the crook between your neck and your shoulder, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder with an arm wrapped around your waist. You let out a small sigh of contentment, wrapping an arm around him as his hand massages your back and side lightly, the tender feeling sending you further into that sleepy state. The sheets smell of Theodore, and you find yourself (as you often did) consumed by him.

You and Theodore both fall asleep in each other's arms, holding onto one another as the night passes by.

You had fucked up, truly.

If only you knew the consequences your actions would bring in the morning.

You couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, for it was a known saying that drunk words are sober thoughts.

The same undeniably applied to actions too.

@llpovi @camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8

#harry potter #slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #blaise zabini #theodore nott #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott angst #theodore nott smut

[chattahoochiecoochie]

Audience

Summary: A girlfriend wakes up in bed with her boyfriend(s), and an audience.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Exhibitionism / Excessive Roughness / Voyeurism

A/N: For starters, I strictly watch college football so this whole AFC nonsense is beyond my understanding. If it doesn’t involve an SEC school, I’m not watching. Second off, y’all don’t even want to know how long I sat at my desk looking like a lunatic trying to figure out the physical bit of it all. Madness. If you hate it, I’m innocent. If you love it, I’m gods gift to you. Anyways, find the rest here.

It’s warm when you wake up, a mix of sunlight and body heat radiating over the bed. Sam is already awake on your left, sitting with a water glass in one hand and his phone in the other. With a leg tangled between yours and a hand on your stomach, Joe is on your right, still snoring faintly, the tiniest little sound bleeding out as his chest rises and falls.  

Slipping out of his reach, you curl against Sam’s waist, burying your head against his thigh—taking the covers with you to shield yourself from the sun that’s slipping through a gap in the curtains. For half a second, you miss your own bed and the fact that you wake up to windows facing the west most days.

A heavy breath passes through your nose, and you can feel Sam shift beside you. If he’s noticed you’re awake, he doesn’t say anything outright. There’s a shuffle above you, the sound of glass meeting wood as he sets his water down on the nightstand. Soon after, there's a rustle of bed sheets and then a hand on the back of your skull, fingers tangled in your hair. You sigh subconsciously at the sensation, forgetting the thought of your own bed entirely. The attention that's paid to you in this one is worth being woken up by the sun. Smiling softly against his waist, you nuzzle your nose into his boxers.

“Baby?” His voice is low and tentative, sending a warm tingle down your spine. You move against him, letting the duvet slip down from where you’ve been holding it.

The movement answers for you, and slowly but surely, his hand falls from your head as he slides his calloused palm beneath your shirt and over your skin until he lands on the spot between your shoulder blades. Clipped nails scrap against your spine, short up and down motions until you shiver beneath his hand.

With heavy eyes and an arm keeping the pillowy cotton of the comforter at bay, you peek up at him, blinking slowly through the sunlight. He’s looking at you, phone forgotten in his lap. Blue eyes red-rimmed, face slack and tired. It makes you wonder how long he’s been up. It's not unusual for him to be up before you and Joe, often falling victim to his internal clock. But he deserved to sleep in today—with last night’s game and subsequent win—they both deserved a day or two in bed if they wanted it.

You smile softly at him, releasing the comforter altogether in favor of clinging to him. Winding an arm around his waist, you find the other side of his boxers and let yourself play with the band while he waits for you to get your bearings. He’s gentle with you in the mornings, they both are—whether you wake up in their bed or your own—keen on the way you take forever to come to.

“Morning, babygirl.” It’s raspy, said in the same low voice as before. You’re slow to respond, smiling softly at him as the words fall over you.

“Morning, champ.”

His mouth quirks at the nickname, lips curling into an easy smile as he draws his hand upwards, dragging on your spine to reach the base of your neck, tussling your hair until he’s caught in it.

“You sleep okay? Last night was a lot.” He’s earnest, eyes searching your face for an answer before you can even think to give one. The truth is, it’s the best night sleep you’ve had in a while.

Exhausted by the game and the revolving door of tweaked knees, you’d been unprepared for the whirlwind that came after the win. In an instant, they’d gone from third and goal to six points up, with the AFC north championship secured for a second year running. It was madness. The aftermath on the field, the cigars in the locker room amongst a swarm of press personnel. The partying afterward downtown, with fans on every corner.

By the time the three of you stumbled out of an Uber at nearly three in the morning, you could hardly keep your head up or your eyes open. You can pick out flashes of it—them giggling and screaming up the driveway, sudden hushed tones when you’d gotten through the door and into the dark. Someone had carried you up the stairs to bed. Someone else had undone your shoes and gotten you out of your dress. It was a blur, and the sheets had been so warm and so sweet—you’d been gone the moment your head hit the pillow.

You don’t tell him this, instead smiling to yourself as the image of him in the end zone, staring up at the scoreboard, crosses your mind. “I’m good. It was good.” You say, fingers playing across his abdomen. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Yeah?” He’s smirking softly at you, never one to shy away from praise. His success matters to him, and he’s eager to know if it matters to someone else, to you.

You watch with a tired smile as he slides down into the bed next to you, rolling onto his side to face you, smirk permanent on his lips when he’s finally at eye level. His brow is raised, daring you to praise him again. You do.

“Very. You are,” You pause momentarily, pretending to think hard about your next words. “The best defensive back I know.”

“So you know a lot then?” He plays at curiosity, feigning jealousy. You shrug at him, trying to seem playfully nonchalant.

“A few.”

“They’re not like,” He glances down at the mattress for a moment before looking up at you through his lashes, letting them flutter for dramatic effect. The effort makes you giggle. “Two-time AFC North champions, though, are they?”

“Well, lets see, there's Jeff, Trey, Joseph—”

“Okay, let me ask you this then.” He wiggles next to you, putting an arm over your waist as he gets even closer. “You’re not doing all this with any of them, right?”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“You know, waking up in their bed, in their jersey, looking all pretty with your hair a mess.”

You grin at him and shake your head quickly, blushing. “Nope. That’s all you.” You look down at your chest for a second, chin tucked as you inspect the jersey you’re wearing. Glancing back up at him, you smirk. “I think this is Joey’s though, if that matters.”

“I’ll get over it.” His mouth is over yours, the stubble on his chin scratching your skin as he kisses you. He’s softer than usual, dulled by the night before. The hand on your waist is steady, slipping slowly until he’s cupping your face and pressing you into your pillow, tongue sliding on your lip. You let him in, relaxed by his touch.

For a moment, you stay there, underneath him, feeling hazy. He’s easy on you, all smiles and playful bites. Smirking against him, you feel your jaw slacken when his teeth hit yours. He smiles at the contact, grinning against you. Nipping gently at you, his hand leaves your face, pulling what's left of the comforter off of you.

You shiver at the sudden change in temperature, clinging to him as he takes its place over your body. Leg draped over your thighs, he kisses you deeper, sighing when you make a sound under him. He’s sweeter this morning than he often is, gentle as his tongue sweeps over yours. Sweeter still when his hand ghosts over your chest, skimming your breast before landing on your hip, holding you steady when you writhe beneath him.

Arms around his neck, you roll into him, whimpering when your hip meets the heat growing between his legs. It’s searing, pouring off of him in slow, steady waves. You’re so close to him, but if you could just—

You stop short as the mattress dips on the other side of you. Sam goes still on you, watching closely from the corner of his eye as Joe squirms beneath the sheets beside you, shifting closer to you until an arm finds its way around your waist and he pulls his weight to your back, fingers splayed to clutch you tightly.

“Joey?” Asks Sam, peering over you with a brow quirked.

“Morning.” The blond has his face buried in your jersey, drawing shallow breaths against the fabric. He’s warm, the sleepy kind that’s soft and almost damp. He’s hardly awake, it seems, still heavy and rigid on the bed beside you.

“There’s the big guy. How you feeling, buddy?” Sam’s attention fractures and you move against him impatiently, mind clouded by the nerves that had just begun to wind in your stomach.

“That’s king in the north, to you.” You can feel him smile against you as he moves behind you, slipping the jersey off your shoulder to leave a kiss in its place.

“Woke up with an ego, huh?” The words are half lost when he kisses you again. Finally. Forehead against you, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he nuzzles against you, there’s a soft smirk playing on his lips when you peck at him, a whine in your throat.

“Something like that. Y’all in the middle of something, or?” Joe leans over your shoulder, resting his chin on your collarbone as Sam nips at your lips, taunting you every time you buck up against his weight.

“Sort of.” It's playful, Sam’s tone. Gentle and teasing, but guilt strikes you anyways, splitting the warmth between your legs like a knife when you glance back to see Joe looking curious.

It’s never been one without the other—ever. Your brow knits in sudden panic. “Did—we can—”

“—Go ahead, then. I’ll watch.” He says it plainly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. He’ll watch.

Sam looks at you, a familiar glint in his blue eyes. “What’d you say, baby? You wanna give Joey a show?” Your lips part, an answer catching on your tongue. Yes, you want to say, but all you can manage is some sort of nervous squeak.

Understanding you in a way that only they can, the grin on Sam’s face stretches wide. Arm around you, he rolls onto his back, pulling you onto his bare chest. The tired sweetness from before is forgotten, replaced by all the aggression you know he’s capable of.

He’s heavy on you, everywhere all at once. Nails dig into the skin of your thigh before dragging deep scratches up your hip. Hand under your jersey, he’s got his palm on your breast, pressure mounting as he works his fingers over your flesh. It’s blinding—the swell of nerves that flash down your spine with every touch. You fumble next to him, knees weak and hands uncertain as you grasp at him.

He’s enormous compared to you and impossible to grasp at. Going for his waist, where you know you can at least hold the band of his boxers, you miss, skimming his front instead. You groan, lips parted as he kisses you hard—forcing the air out of your lungs as his hand finds your throat.

“Slower Sammy, let her catch up.” Behind you, Joe speaks up, gentle as ever. You’re suddenly aware of him once more, registering the dip in the mattress as he adjusts himself. On you, Sam’s slow to the take, grunting incoherently before finding some of the patience that comes so easily to Joe.

You gasp as his hand relaxes on your neck. Reaching again for the band of his boxers, and with more focus than before, you find the elastic, letting your fingers slip over it to touch the curve of his adonis belt. Sam makes a sound, bucking his hips into your hand. There’s a whine on his tongue when he kisses you next, lips pouting on yours. Hand over yours he pushes your fingers down, holding them over the fabric.

“Tell her what you want.” As if he has to. You can feel him in your hand, heavy and hard and waiting. Needing.

“Touch me.” His voice is raw, husky. You tremble against him, shaking hands tugging at the checkered cotton until he’s bare in your hand. Cradling your head, he’s light underneath you, watching through dark eyes as you touch him.

He shudders, twitching in your hand as his hips buck involuntarily. You glance up at him, blushing when you find his jaw slack, head dropped against the wall. Slowly, you feel him out, dragging your nails up his shaft, delighted when he trembles again. He’s in a plain state of agony, straining to trust you, to be patient.

“Like this?” Brushing your thumb across the head, you look back at Joe. Curious eyes finding his, you let your brow quirk, feigning innocence. He nods at you, mouth set in a tight line. Just like that.

Wrapping your fingers around him, you gently stroke him again before bringing your hand to your mouth. The sound you make is indecent, dribbling as you spit into your palm. Seconds later, you’re reaching for him again only to find his hand in your place, pulling hard.

Putting your hand under his, you do your best to follow his pace, stroking with him until his hand falls to the mattress, limp as he lets you take over. “That’s it. Don’t forget the rest of him, either, pretty girl.”

Beside you, Joe’s flat on his back, head turned to watch you as he rubs a palm over the front of his briefs. His eyes are heavy, voice thick when he speaks. He’s watching you alright, and liking it too.

You follow his instructions, looking over your shoulder at him as you let your nails drag over Sam’s balls, drawing out a loud groan when you roll them between your fingers. You forget them only a second later, pulling your fist back up his shaft as his body rotates into you. Brows knit together, you keep stroking, lip pulled between your teeth as you split your focus between the two of them.

“Baby…” Picking his head up, Sam looks down at your hand, patience waning. “Please.”

“Don’t be mean to him. Go on and use that pretty little mouth.” You glance back at him, shivering as a pulse runs down your legs. Put your mouth on him. Give Joey a show.

Shimmying down the mattress, you’ve got your eyes on Joe when your lips find Sam, tongue sliding over the tip to taste the fluid leaking from it. He’s warm and salty on your lips when you put your mouth over him. The weight of him, the feeling of their eyes on you—you’re drooling in an instant.

“Look at him.” Joe nods towards Sam, rubbing himself steady over his briefs as a stain starts to pool on the fabric. “Look at her Sammy, being so good.”

You can see him above you through your lashes, right hand clutching at his chest, left hand searching for something to hold. He’s got his eyes open, jaw slack. You fight a smirk, hollowing your cheeks instead before taking him deeper. He’s too big and too thick to take for so long, but you try anyway, gagging and drooling as you lose your breath.

“That’s a good girl. Go slow. In through your nose.” Joe’s steady beside you when you glance sideways at him. He’s nodding, baby blue eyes looking eagerly at you. “Hold her head, Sam.”

Moments later, his fingers are in your hair, gripping you tight as he holds you on himself, forcing you down further. He’s deep, pushing past what you can take, and you can feel tears pricking at your eyes. It’s so much at once—too much—and then he’s giving you slack, watching closely through heavy eyes as you cough and gag when his hips relax.

The motion repeats over and over again. Too deep, for too long, and then a second to yourself until tears are running down your face. You’re rubbing your thighs together, watching Joey with panicked eyes as he mouths off more instructions to Sammy. You can hear him, see him, but it’s too much to focus on him as you struggle to breathe.

“Touch.” You catch him saying. Touch what? “Touch him.”

You do, weak hand at the base of his shaft, fingers dragging over his balls as he bucks up into your mouth. His hand is tight in your hair, hips sharp as he thrusts himself into your mouth, meeting the back of your throat with a groan.

“Fuck, Joey. I can’t—” The hand on you goes limp, falling to the mattress as he spills into your mouth, pooling on your tongue until you can do little else but swallow and drool. It’s warm, familiar, and the finality of it makes you sigh heavily as you collapse onto his lap.

It’s quiet for a moment, save for Sam’s racing heartbeat and your own shaky breath. Joe’s somewhere close, looming next to you when you finally summon the strength to open your eyes. Your lips are tacky, and you swallow hard before licking at them, a shallow mewl slipping out when you taste what’s left behind.

Leaning up next to you, Joe’s reaching for you, wiping the drool from your chin with his thumb before bringing it to his lips. He sucks it off with a playful moan, trademark spark in his eyes. “You’re all tuckered out, huh?”

You mumble something that sounds like a yes, struggling to keep your eyes open, and he laughs softly, stroking your chin once more. “Sammy, what about you, big guy?”

“I’m good. I’m good. Where’s she at?” He’s breathing heavily, gasping in between sentences. A heavy hand swats your head, fingers grabbing at nothing before finding a bit of tangled hair to grasp at. He tugs at it, pulling gently at you like some sort of overgrown child. “Give her here.”

“You sure?”

“Please.” Lifting you with delicate hands, Joe helps you crawl up Sam’s lap until you’re resting on his abdomen, fingers playing across his ribs as you settle into him. He’s warm, damp with a faint sheen of sweat. Breathing deep, you press your nose against him. It’s musky, an indistinct powdery smell drowned out by something vaguely acidic. You’ll never be over it, the scent of them lingering on your skin, on the sheets, on the clothes they let you borrow.

A memory of the night before flashes through your mind—Joey’s slipping his jersey over your head in the locker room, grinning at you. You can still smell the nylon, the scent of sweat and pinewood that stayed on your mind all night long, standing in his place when he wasn’t at your side. You can smell it now, just barely there, if you focus hard enough.  

You look up at the blond in question, eyes softening when you find his face. There's stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes, yet somehow he’s just as handsome as ever. Smiling, you reach for him, searching for a bit of skin to touch, for something to hold on to.

“I’m right here.” He says, taking your hand as he makes space for himself beside the two of you, head falling onto Sam’s shoulder. “I’m right here, pretty girl.”

A/N: I think its safe to say my niche is funny dialogue, but hey if you don’t get out of your depth you’ll never learn. That being said, it’s back to brocedes for now. 

#i have digital blindness from staring at my laptop so long but whatever #its fine #I'm fine #its race week and i have a thousand things to do but its fine!! #chattahoochiecoochie writes #boyfriends! #joe burrow #sam hubbard #joe burrow x reader #sam hubbard x reader #joe burrow smut #sam hubbard smut #bengals smut #nfl smut #joe burrow fic #sam hubbard fic

[erinsintra]

The wild world of Brazilian folklore

Been a while since I write anything with more than three lines for the five people who bother reading them. Well, I'm bored and too lazy to start looking a job today, so here you go.

I've seen a lot of people here talking about American folklore, Greek mythology, African mythology (and they always call it "African mythology" as if it's one country - seriously, imagine if we called Irish folklore "European mythology". it makes no sense), but I'm yet to see anyone talking about Brazilian folk myths. So here are some of the ones I like the most.

I encourage you to look for more on your own, because there's a shitton of them and I can't fit everything on a single post.

Saci Pererê

Perhaps the most famous mythological creature throughout the country, the Saci is a mischievous, fae-like being commonly depicted as a short black man with one leg wearing a red cap. He is famous for his pranks, which are usually mostly harmless, such as switching the contents of sugar and salt pots and tying knots on horses' hair. He's also said to control the winds and ride dustdevils, escaping faster than a regular person can run.

In some versions of the legend, the red cap on his head is the source of all his powers, and by stealing it, a person can control the Saci as they please. They can also be trapped inside a bottle with a cross drawn across it, and one can also make a deal with him by offering booze and tobacco.

Boitatá

An immortal eldritch being that roams the forests of the countryside, usually depicted as a giant flaming snake. Merely looking at it is enough to drive a man mad, and the only way to escape it is by standing completely still with one's eyes closed. It is said that once, when the world was plunged into darkness, the Boitatá feasted on the eyes of those who could not see.

Boiúna

Isn't it weird how every pantheon ever has an evil snake on it? The Boiúna is a giant sea serpent with shapeshifting powers that feeds on the vessels that try to approach it by mimicking the shape of a human ship.

In some versions, he's also said to shift into human form and once had an affair with a human woman. More on that later.

Bruxas (Witches)

Brazilian witches tend to be quite different from their European counterparts. For starters, they are not women who made a deal with the devil - a witch is born as a witch, and depending on the version, she's either the seventh child of a family or the offspring of a priest and a pagan (i.e, nonchristian) woman.

Witches don't fly on brooms, they don't need to. Most can turn into a moth at will, and they're also said to be able to pass through small spaces by stretching their bodies like a cartoon character. Have you ever seen a Brazilian moth? They're bigger than some birds.

Witches are also said to drink the blood of pagan children by landing on their bellybuttons while they sleep and drinking it up while in moth form. A big-ass moth inside your house is usually a bad omen, and you better not touch it with your bare hands. But witches also really love their booze, and you can make a deal with one by offering her some alcohol.

There's also the Cumacanga, a little known variation of witch with a detachable head and hair made of flames that scares of people during the night. In order to figure out her identity, one must gift her a needle, and she'll soon arrive at your doorstep in human form to return it to you when morning comes. I don't know why, but some of those creatures are very polite.

Mula sem Cabeça (Headless Mule)

If there's anything those myths have taught me, is that you shouldn't fuck a priest. At all.

The headless mule is - rather obviously - a large equine with a flaming bonfire for a head that roams around destroying everyone it sees. If a priest breaks his vows and marries a woman, she'll become a headless mule the next Friday night (the legend is very specific about the day for some reason). In order to protect yourself from one, you must lie down and cover your teeth and nails, for they're attracted by shiny things. You can turn a mule back into a human by stabbing it with an iron knife.

Lobisomem (Werewolf)

Brazilian werewolves, like witches, are very different from the Hollywood version. While it is common for a human to become a werewolf by being bitten by another one, most werewolves are born that way - either the seventh male child of a family or the offspring of a priest and a pagan woman, pretty much the boy version of a witch - and awake their powers during puberty. Moreover, they are rarely true wolves: most are a combination of various farm animals and a few do not resemble canines at all. As with the Hollywood variant, werewolves are weak against silver and holy water, and they can also be cured of their condition by - and I have to quote this - "being impaled by a thorn from an orange tree planted on a cemetery during a Friday". No idea how the fuck they figured that out.

It's oftentimes said that, in order to prevent a seventh son from becoming a werewolf, he must be given a female name - and the opposite is true for witches.

Labatut

The Labatut is a beastial figure with a boar-like face, prominent tusks and a single large eye that roams through the Northeastern countryside. He was apparently based on Pedro Labatut, a French mercenary who fought for the Empire during the independence war and gained a reputation for being quite ruthless against his opponents.

Corpo Seco (Dried Corpse or Dried Body)

The Corpo Seco was born as a human boy. Though his name varies from tale to tale, every version agree that he was an absolute asshole - if he were alive today, he would most likely be a moderator for an incel forum. He once tied his mother to a chair and beat her up after she yelled at him, and friends and family alike were terrified of him. It is said that, when he died, not a single person wept for him, and no one attended his funeral. More than that, the Earth itself spat out his corpse after they'd buried him, and neither Heaven nor Hell claimed his wretched soul. He still wanders the country, neither alive nor dead, occasionally weeping in the distance. Some versions also claim that, since he's technically not dead, his hair and nails never stopped growing, giving him a rather gruesome look.

Loira do Banheiro (Blonde girl of the bathroom)

Oh, that one used to scare me shitless as a kid. The blonde girl of the bathroom is a Hanako-esque ghost that haunts schools and public bathrooms alike. Most versions differ when talking about her past, but she was either a victim of bullying who committed suicide in her school's bathroom or a girl obsessed with her own appearance that got sucked inside the mirror whilst gazing at her own reflection. Either way, she's a spirit that can be summoned in a public bathroom.

Again, every version has a different way of summoning her - yelling curse words at the mirror, flushing all the toilets at once, turning on all the faucets, etc. Where I grew up in, they used to say you had to yell her birth name three times whilst looking at the mirror. If you managed to successfully summon her, she would either kill you, grant you a wish, or just scare your ass.

Apparently, her story was based on the life of Maria Augusta de Oliveira Borges, a real woman who died under mysterious circumstances back in imperial times. So, uh, if you want to summon her or something, there's her full name.

Cobra Norato and Maria Caninana

Remember when I said that the Boiúna once had an affair with a human mortal? These two are their kids.

Abandoned by their mother on the side of a river, the two giant snakes soon learned how to talk by mimicking human fishermen. Norato was a kind soul who helped those who came near the river, but Maria was a greedy bitch who saw humans as little more than food. At some point, they fought each other over their disagreements, and Norato ended up killing his sister.

Norato desperately wanted to be a human, but lifting his curse was no easy task: in order to turn him into a man, one would have to feed him three drops of breast milk and pat him with an iron stick while he slept. No, I am not making this up. Luckily, he found a hunter willing to do the job.

Boto Cor de Rosa (Pink Dolphin)

In case you didn't know, pink dolphins are real. They can be found in the Amazonas river and its surroundings, though they're in risk of extinction due to overhunting.

But this guy is no mere dolphin, he is THE pink dolphin. He can talk, he can shapeshift, and he wants to bone a hot lady.

The boto will often turn into an attractive man with a bald head and a fancy hat, which hides the breathing hole thing dolphins have. I personally like to imagine him as a tan-skinned Walter White. Any woman who meets him will soon be charmed by his looks, and he'll frequently involve himself romantically with the locals for quite some time. It never lasts for long, though: he will sudden disappear without a trace, presumably back to the water where he belongs, always right after the woman he's involved with finds out that she's pregnant. Sadly, none of the versions of the legend ever mention what happens to his child. Imagine if your dad was a talking dolphin.

So, uh, that's it. There's probably more creatures I forgot, so I again recommend you to search for more stuff on your own.

Also, if you want to use any of these in a fantasy setting or anything, feel free to do it! I am so fucking tired of works whose mythology is just a one-to-one ripoff of Greek or Norse myths. If anyone starts bitching at you about cultural appropriation or whatever, show them this post and tell them I gave you my permission. Now, back to our usual shitposting.

#mythology #myths #folklore #brazil #brasil #fantasy #story ideas #character idea #fyp #fypツ #memes #tumblr fyp #explorepage #explore #fypage #foryou #dumb shit #werewolves #werewolf #Tumblr

[quillthrillswriting]

there are lots of people who've wondered what the gaang as a whole would have been like if they'd been older when they went on their world-altering quest, but... what if just aang was older? what if he had been frozen in his iceberg at age 16, instead of age 12?

for starters, i'm sure it'd change the dynamic between him and katara. maybe she'd look at him differently more quickly, maybe we'd get a bit of a reverse crush? he'd be taller than sokka much earlier on, and when zuko found him, he'd be "just a teenager," not "just a child."

essentially, to recap. ATLA aang aged up AU fic. kataang. where she falls first, and he falls harder.

i present to you... excepts from "the teenager in the iceberg", my newest ao3 fic 🤍

---

Shining blue eyes. Bright robes made up of strips of fabric coloured in shades of sunset they almost never saw down in the Southern tribes.��

The most beautiful boy she’d ever seen .

---

“W-Will-” he struggled, the words so hoarse that it was as though he hadn’t used his voice in decades. He cleared his throat, eyes sparkling distractingly, grinning roguishly. “Will you go penguin sledding with me?”

Katara blanched, momentarily caught off guard. She looked back over at Sokka, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes and a suspicious expression as he recrossed his arms over one another. 

“I- um-... yes?” she answered, hesitantly, just as Sokka’s voice overlapped hers, yelping the words “She absolutely will not!” Katara shot him a scathing glare as the boy rose to his feet, shaking the snow off of his cloak like a polar-bear dog. 

Sokka continued, his voice both indignant and commanding.“We don’t even know your name, Mr. Walking Ice Cube! What were you doing in there? Were you trying to mimic a snow-man and you got too carried away?” 

“And you aren’t dressed for the cold,” Katara added appraisingly, giving him a once-over. “You look-”

“Dashingly handsome?” The boy smoothly interjected, accompanied by a grin that felt like it was just for her.

“...Cold.”  she said flatly, hoping she wasn’t furiously blushing as she shot him with what she hoped came across as a scathing glare.

---

Katara still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Aang. The Water Tribe boys had always been all flashy muscles, seal-jerky breath, and overconfidence, so Katara had never seen someone move, carry themself, the way Aang did.

---

Katara had admittedly forgotten how much fun penguin sledding was. “Spirits, I haven’t done this since I was a kid!” she called to Aang as he raced past her, surprisingly skilled considering that he’d never even seen a penguin until half an hour before. 

“You still are a kid!” He called back over his shoulder. “A kid who’s losing this race, badly!”

Katara’s competitive streak reared its head, her eyes narrowing as Aang stuck out his tongue. She sat up slightly, no longer gripping the penguin’s fur as tightly. “You wish!” She shouted back the words as she raised her hands, breathing deeply. Her hands moved through the positions she had practised from the few bending scrolls the tribe still held on to, and before Aang knew it, the snow in front of Katara turned to ice, and she shot past him as his own ice trail suddenly became dry snow with too much friction to slide on. 

She made it to the bottom of the hill, beaming, breathing heavily. The wind had whipped her hair out of her bun, and she knew without checking that her hair must have looked like a lion-turtle’s mane. She watched as Aang made a show of drying himself off with a gust of wind that he then redirected at her, messing up her curls even more. 

“You’re a cheater !” Aang gasped, mockingly clutching imaginary pearls at his throat. “I demand a rematch.”

Katara strode past him, only turning her head to cast him a smug smirk. “Maybe you’re just not as good of a penguin sledder as you thought.”

“Oh, not so fast!” Aang grabbed her wrist, tugging her back towards him, and she internally questioned why the momentary brush of their skin made her heart flip. He tried to trip her, she tried to flip him, and they both ended up on their backs in the snow, giggling, cheeks and noses bright pink from the cold. 

---

“Gran, I want you to meet Aang, he’s-”

“An airbender.” Her grandmother said the words with complete and utter awe. “The last airbender.”

Aang’s nose wrinkled in confusion, his head tilting and mouth opening to ask for clarification, but Gran’s next words stunned him and the rest of the room into silence. 

“The Avatar .”

Sokka and Katara’s jaws dropped, both pivoting to face Aang. Katara looked up at him, expecting to see shock and confusion, but she was met with sheepishness as Aang rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“You are .” Katara breathed. “Spirits, you’re the Avatar.”

♥ this (multichapter) fic is still in progress, but check out the first chapter here!->

#aang is a GOOD PARTNER #and i STAND by that they have such a sweet relationship #atla kataang #kataang #atla fanfic #atla fandom #ao3 #avatar the last airbender #writing #ao3 recs #ao3 works #ao3 link #ao3 writer #confessions #fluff #eventual romance #atla sokka #katara #aang #kataang fanfic #aang aged up au #older aang #quillthrillsatlafic

[thefoolishone666]

Personas of The Smiling Critters

Please note, this is based off of legends and myths from stuff I understand from it, so if I get anything wrong...I am just misinformed about it and really apologize for it.

Dogday - He is, of course is the wild card, but his first persona is Prometheus, the god that stole fire for us mortals, only to be punished by being chained to a rock and getting his liver ate everyday.

Primary Element: Fire

Expertise: All-Around

Resistance to Fire, but weak to Lightening

Weapon of choice: Chakram

Kickin - At one point, Kickin went through great lengths of punishment and grief when a loved one got hurt, much like Orpheus. Orpheus braved the depths of the underworld for his partner, only for the underworld to snatch hope away from him as a result of the deal Hades made with him

Primary Element: Thunder

Expertise: Physical attacks (High physical, low magic stats)

Resistance to Thunder, weak to Ice

Weapon of choice: Clubs

Hoppy - When one wishes to jump to the moon, you must be careful not to go too far, as Daedalus knows. Daedalus crafted wax wings for him and his son to escape from captivity, but when Icarus flew too close to the sun, and fell to his death, out of grief, he sacrificed his wax wings and ability to fly to Apollo.

Primary Element: Wind

Expertise: Debuffs and Physical attack

Resistance to wind, but weak to fire

Weapon of choice: Nunchucks

Bubba - Bubba's desire for knowledge has called Odin to him. Odin seemed wisdom, and on his quest, was given the chance by Mimir for divine wisdom, but at a cost. Odin preceded to gouged his eye out, dropped into the well, and drink from it to gain wisdom.

Primary Element: N/A

Expertise: Navigation

No weaknesses or resistances

Weapon of choice: N/A

Catnap - Sleep will always come to an end when the sun arises, something Tyr knows well. When Fenrir, the wolf that would someday swallow the sun, was bound by the gods, he bites down on Tyr's hand upon realizing this fate.

Primary Element: Ice

Expertise: Status effects

Resistance to Ice, weak to Thunder

Weapon of choice: Sickle

Picky - How much would you give to help someone you love? In Sim Cheong's case, in order to help her father and restore his sight, she threw herself into the sea. However, the Filial Piety touched the dragon king and allowed her to come back within a lotus flower.

Primary Element: Fire

Expertise: Buffs and Magic

Resistance to Fire, weak to Wind

Weapon of choice: Shovel

Bobby - How much punishment would you take for something? Marina knows that they would take lots of punishment for it. Marina, masquerading as a man, was accused of seducing an Inn Keeper's daughter and giving her a kid. Instead of telling the truth, she allowed herself to be banished instead and took care of the kid as her own, the truth only becoming clear upon her passing.

Primary Element: Light

Expertise: Healing

Resistance to Light, Weak to Dark

Weapon of choice: Gauntlets

Crafty - The lovely art maker's persona would be the Egyptian Queen Berenice. She prayed to Aphrodite that she would cut her beautiful hair if her husband returned safely from war. She up kept her end of the bargain, and the gods honored it by putting it in the sky as a homage.

Primary Element: Darkness

Expertise: Magic nuke (High magic stats, but low physical stats)

Resistance to Dark, Weak to Light

Weupon of choice: Staff (Starter would be a Paint Roller)

And there they all are! Is it the best?...most likely not, but I am proud I managed to do it at least.

#poppy playtime #smiling critters #au #persona #smiling critters arg #crossover #smiling critters poppy playtime #smiling critters au #dogday #kickinchicken #catnap #bubba bubbaphant #hoppy hopscotch #bobby bearhug #craftycorn #picky piggy #smiling sona

[mercurygray]

First One In

The 100th's first mission - the submarine pens at Bremen. First for the crews in the air - and the crews on the ground.

**Warning for non-graphic depiction of a civilian air accident.

June 25, 1943

The view from the tower was the best of everything.

Cord took a deep breath and let the wind ruffle her hair, listening to the birds and the soft whine of the weather equipment on the roof. This was the best part of her job - the wind and the quiet, and the green fields, and the view.

Downstairs was a hive of activity - the weather monitors on the floor below, taking their measurements, and the intelligence section below them, the huge blackboards mapping out the whole wing, squadron by squadron and plane by plane, the telex and the typewriters. But up here she was in her element, earth and sky in equal measure. It wasn’t flying - but damn if it wasn’t close.

She was glad they’d been some of the first crew here on base, and that the pilots had come later. It had given them time to settle in and really make the place theirs - and she didn’t mean the pictures Mae and the others had put up in their hut, or the curtains, or the flowers on the windowsills. She’d watched the laborers putting down the new tarmac, and watched the engineers putting in the new huts and barracks, and smelled the paint drying in the enlisted men’s mess halls and the Aero Club. This was her tower now, her radio and her field. She’d bicycled it and driven it and charted its wind patterns and read its weather reports and knew it now just about as well as it was possible to know a place.

But aren’t you scared, Cord? The question had been asked, more than once, before she packed herself off to Iowa for basic training. There’s so much you don’t know.

Well, sure, Cord had allowed. I don’t know heavy bombers, or England, or what to do in an air raid. But I know airfields. I know the Army, as much as they’ll let me know. And I know me, what I can do. I can learn everything else.

A true statement - the truest there was. She’d needed to learn a lot - how to drill and march in formation and shine shoes and salute, but once she’d gotten here, and been shown the tower, and how the radio worked, there wasn’t a thing she needed after that except the airplanes she’d be directing in, and the men to fly them. And the man who was going to lead them through it, of course.

She hadn’t known what she’d find, stepping into his office for the first time. Colonel Harold Huglin was something of an enigma. Had he worked with women before? Would he care? Captain Brennan didn’t know his name, and she’d been in longer than any of them, and Cord could tell, just by watching the older woman, that these were questions they would have to ask, and whether they liked the answers or not they’d have to live with them regardless.

She remembered thinking that his desk was exceptionally neat. It was something to focus on for a moment while she collected herself - the man had a face like a hawk, and as she’d saluted and sat down in the wooden chair opposite his desk she’d had the feeling of being prey. “You have quite the list of credentials, Lieutenant Callaway. There’s any number of things you could be doing - ferrying squadron work, for starters. Why apply for overseas duty?”

It had been a strange way to start an interview. Cord had shifted in her chair and taken a breath. Would it have been better if she’d lied, or worse? No, sir, I’ve never seen an airplane in my life, I don’t hold a pilot’s license, and I’ve never won prize money in an air race. I didn’t grow up on an airfield and I don’t know the first thing about the Army Air Corps. But her father hadn’t raised her to be a liar. “I’ve spent my whole life at Wright-Patterson, sir. I just wanted to do my bit, same as everyone else.” When you’re almost one of the boys and then all the boys start going overseas, it starts to wear a girl down a little.

“And you didn’t think ‘your bit’ was training new pilots? You’ve got more flight hours than some of the men who’ll be coming through here.”

Well, it helps if you start when you’re about fifteen or so and you’re a good student and the flying officers like you. “With respect, sir, I’m not a teacher. But I’m calm, and level-headed, and I know how to handle a plane, and that makes me just the sort of person you’d want on your tower. Flight control is just as important as any other job - and sometimes more. If a guy’s engine is on fire, he’s going to want to hear someone who can talk him out of it, if he needs.”

And then the man had smiled - actually smiled - and leaned back in his chair a little, obviously satisfied with her answer. “You can relax, Lieutenant. This isn’t an interview - you already have the job. A good commanding officer likes to know his crew before he gets started somewhere. And we’ll hope no one needs to be talked out of engine fires.”

But someone always will, sir. That’s the nature of airplanes. How many crashes had she seen at Wright - or even at the air shows? She knew all too well what a burning engine smelled like, a flamed out cowling. She hadn’t said that, of course - she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Witness Lieutenant - what was his name now? Brady, that was him, belly-landing his fort straight in from Greenland because he’d had some electrical failure and his landing gear wouldn’t engage.

They would hope there wouldn’t be any of that today - Lemmons already had something of a sour look after a noisy (and successful) campaign to rename that plane Brady’s Crash Wagon. Pilots thought they were funny, doing things like that, but crew chiefs could be superstitious about names.

Someone cleared her throat next to her. “You thinking of turning into a bird? You’ve got this look on your face like you’d like to launch off the balcony.”

Cord had to laugh. “Just admiring the view, Mae.” A jeep carrying a familiar bi-colored flight jacket came rolling around the corner, its owner whistling loudly. “Well, most of it.”

Mae laughed. “He’s the air exec, Cord. You can’t exactly get rid of him.”

“But I don’t have to be friendly, either.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “One of these days you’re going to tell me exactly what he did to piss you off so bad.”

Where would I even start? “If it were exactly one thing I’d tell you, Mae. It’s more his entire state of being.”

“Lieutenant, you’re gonna want to come back inside.” Becky Holbrook was outside the glasshouse, binoculars in hand. “It looks like someone’s coming back early.”

Cord and Mae followed the Sergeant back inside the glass-walled observation room, and Cord took the binoculars and her position next to Anita Young on the radio, focusing on the plane on the horizon so she could try to read the numbers and assess condition. “That’s Major Veal’s plane. Looks like he’s on three engines.”

“Green flare,” Mae reported, though everyone with eyes could see it, arcing into the sky. “No need to send out the fire squad or the ambulance.” On the ground below, they saw a jeep peel out from one of the hardstands, three men clinging to their seats. “Looks like Lemmons is already on his way out.”

Another jeep joined them - the one that had only just parked at the tower. “And there goes Major Egan,” Cord said, sourly. “What the hell is he going to do?”

“Anything he can, Lieutenant.”

Cord immediately put down her binoculars and saluted, feeling foolish. “Major Bowman. There’s been nothing on the radio, sir. It looks from here like it’s just engine one that’s out.”

“As it should be,” Bowman said with approval. The intelligence officer wasn’t a physically imposing person, but Cord had spent enough time with him to know that he knew his business, and the slightly fading red hair that had given him his nickname was covering a first-rate brain. “Germans monitor all our radio traffic - Major Veal knows that. It’s different procedure here, compared to an airfield back in the states. They won’t radio in for landing instructions.” Cord looked down at her service shoes, feeling foolish. “But you’ve got a good eye about that engine, Lieutenant,” Bowman added, a gentle compliment to cover up her mistake.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Our first returned plane!” Becky said with a grin, nudging Anita and Mae. “We’re in it now!”

Beside her, she heard Bowman breathe sharply through his teeth. “We’ll get a report from him and the crew about when he turned back, and Egan will need an update on that plane’s operations status,” the intelligence officer stated, hands on his hips as he watched the plane touch down and turn down the taxiway. “Make sure no one stands down - fire teams, ambulances. We’re still waiting on the rest of the group.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bowman paused, turning away from the front of the glasshouse and stepping to the side, motioning for Cord to follow him. “You ever seen an airplane crash, Lieutenant Callaway? Apart from Lieutenant Brady’s ...unorthodox landing the other day?” He pursed his lips. “Colonel Huglin mentioned you grew up near Wright-Patterson. I want to know - if you know what we might be expecting back.”

Cord looked at him, really looked, and realized what he was asking. You mean do I know what’s waiting for the ambulances, sir? Or what a burning plane smells like? I watched a woman pancake on a pylon at Bendix, once. Took the turn too quick. Wasn’t anything to bury afterwards - just a burning wreck. I’ve seen pilots miss landings and I’ve seen gunnery practice go bad. Maybe I haven’t been in the war just yet but I know what a plane can do to a body. “Pretty frequently, sir.”

Bowman nodded. “This one was easy. The rest of it won’t be - you understand me? They may radio in to let you know what’s coming.” Manage the others was the last unspoken command. The rest won’t be pretty.

Cord fixed her eye on his and nodded, feeling the weight of his expectations and his stare. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” When the others come back, then we can say we’re in the war. But not before.

“Calm and steady, Callaway.”

“Always, sir.”

“And we’ll be grateful then that Major Egan’s doing everything he can, all right? Because we’re all doing everything we can, always.”

Cord swallowed the knot in her throat, knowing that at the heart of it he was right. Even she couldn’t say that Major Egan didn’t care about his airmen - and he was always doing everything he could, even if it sometimes made him a nuisance. “Right, sir.”

He nodded, and stepped back outside the glasshouse so he could go back downstairs. Cord took a deep breath, and returned to the radio, and the view out the front window. “Make a note of the time, Mae, will you? Captain Brennan will need that for the daily report.”

One plane back - nineteen more to go. She surveyed the airfield, wondering just how it would look in an hour, or two, or how the siren to call out the ambulance would sound behind the glass, and her hands tightened on her binoculars. I know airfields. I know planes. And by the end of today, I’ll know something else, too - something about war.

And aren’t you scared about it? She thought about that burning plane at Bendix again, the sound of the announcer’s voice, the collective gasp from the stands as the plane burst into flames and the flyer behind only just swerved to avoid it.

Well, my father didn’t raise a liar - so I’ll tell you: I’m damn terrified.

Read more of Cord here at her masterlist.

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #cordelia callaway #masters of the air x oc

[callsign-dexter]

Whisper in the Wind: 6 Months AU

Request: for the angst starters may I humbly request these two for Ben and Natasha? 🙏🏻

‘hold my hand if you need to.’

‘don’t panic.’

Starter: 'Hold my hand if you need to.' and 'Don't panic'

Pairings: OC!Benjamin Bradshaw x Daughter!Reader, Natasha Trace x Daughter!Reader, Benjamin Bradshaw x Natasha Trace, Bradley Bradshaw x OC!Wife!Leah Bradshaw

Warnings: angst, inaccurate hospital talk, car crashes, pregnancy

Masterlist

Whisper in the Wind

miscellaneous angst starters

A/N: thank you @justabigassnerd for giving me these angst prompts so that this AU piece could come to life.

Natasha and Ben have been engaged for about 6 months now. They had decided to wait until their little girl was born and a few months old before they even talked about getting married. Natasha had 3 months to go and then they would be holding their baby girl in their arms. Originally, they talked about not knowing the gender of their soon-to-be bundle of joy but they just couldn’t help themselves and broke down and found out the gender. There were some rough patches in the pregnancy but with both parents being in the military they handled with control and ease. They still hadn’t decided on a name but they did have several picked out and they knew for sure that they wanted her middle name to be Caroline a tribute to Ben and Bradley’s mother.

It was finally the weekend which meant that they had a whole two days by themselves. Natasha wasn’t allowed to fly but she still had to go in to work on paperwork and get things settled for when she and Ben went on maternity leave. Since Ben didn’t want her driving, he had taken it upon himself to drive both of them into work and back home. He doted on her the very second, she found out she was pregnant, he already doted on her but when he found out that she was carrying his unborn child he stepped it up big time, then again, his mother raised him to treat a woman right and he was also so much like his father.

Ben and Natahsa had just arrived home and he helped her get out of her Nissan Xterra and grabbed their stuff as they made their way into the house. When they got in, he was quick to bend down and take off her boots and then when he was done, he stayed on his eyes that was he was eye level with her stomach and held it in his hands and kissed it and smiled. Natasha smiled at the action he had done every day to the point it had become a ritual; he was really going to be a great father. “Alright, Jellybean. No, giving your mom a hard time tonight, we want her well rested.” He said and their baby moved into his hands and voice, Natasha had come to the conclusion that she was going to be daddy’s girl through and through. She brought her hands to his hair and ran them through enjoying the moment. “Now it’s time to get you and momma fed.” He said and gave one more kiss to her stomach and then stood up and kissed her. Then he got to work. “How about some homemade mac and cheese and some pork chops and yes there will be hot sauce.” Ben said and Natasha smiled, one thing about Ben was that he was an excellent cook and she was too but after becoming pregnant some smells got to her and it just made her exhausted and she left all the cooking duties to him.

“Sounds absolutely perfect.” She said and then she felt a kick and chuckled and he looked at her with a raised eyebrow “Eaglet agrees.” She said and he chuckled.

“Now go and sit down I’ll bring it to you when it is ready.” He said and she nodded and went and sat down in a kitchen chair that way she could still talk to him and be with him. She was just happy to take the pressure off of her feet. They talked about work and the plans about when their daughter was here and most importantly names. As they were talking her phone began to ring and she got it out of her pocket and looked at the caller id and it was Bradley and she answered it and put it on speaker.

“Hey you’re on speaker.” She said and she heard a chuckle.

“We’ll I guess I can’t tell you about the deep dark secrets of Ben then.” Bradley said and they all chuckled but Ben rolled his eyes but smile appeared on his face.

“Just remember that I know a lot of secrets about you little brother that Leah doesn’t know about.” He said tending the food as he heard a gasp from him.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Bradley said

“Try me.” Ben said and Natasha just smiled at their bickering.

“The reason I called was because we wanted to know what you were doing and how Birdie was doing.” He said, he had given the baby that name because Ben’s callsign was Eagle and so was Natasha’s was Phoenix, they were truly keeping the bird callsigns in the family.

“Well Ben is cooking some pork chops and homemade mac and cheese and Eaglet has been pretty much cooperative during the day until we got home and her daddy had talked to her.” Natasha said rubbing her belly and Ben looked at her watching her has he flipped the pork chops and could take his eyes off of them.

“Oh, what I wouldn’t do for some of his homemade mac and cheese.” Leah said “Wanna send us some?” She asked and everyone chuckled.

“You got it.” Ben said fully joking the food was pretty much done and now it was resting and cooling off. “What’s your plans for the weekend?” Ben asked them.

“Nothing huge. Maybe go down to the beach. You guys?” Bradley asked

“Nothing really, just gonna spend some time with each other and stay off my feet.” Natasha said

“Well, we don’t want to keep you guys. Have a good night and enjoy your homemade mac and cheese. We love you.” Leah said full of jealously.

“We will. Goodnight, guys. We love you too.” Ben said and Natasha hung up and Ben began plating her plate and then he brought it over with her glass of water and set it down in front of her.

“Why thank you fiancée.” She said and bent down and kissed her.

“You’re welcome my soon to be wife.” He said after breaking the kiss and then he went and got his food and glass of water, he would’ve gotten a beer or something sweetened but when Natasha had to quit drinking and was advised to not drink anything sugary, Ben had made it his choice to go along with her because he loved her so much and it was heathier in the long run.

Supper came and went and now the were finding themselves sitting on the couch snuggled together as they watched a comedy. Natasha was cuddled into Ben and he had his arms around her and one set on her stomach. Every now and then their baby would kick and they both smiled, she seemed so active while Ben was around.

Midnight rolled around and they finally decided to go to bed. Ben helped his pregnant fiancée up and helped her walk up the stairs making sure she wouldn’t fall backwards once all 3 of them were up safely he let up on his protectiveness. They got ready together and then they were slipping in to bed for a, hopefully, a goodnight’s sleep and not a lot of getting up to go pee.

Morning came around and thankfully she had only had to get up twice during the night and both times she had succeeded without waking Ben up, which was a surprise. Naturally they were early risers but they could get away with sleeping until 10 AM on most weekends. Ben had actually gotten up before Natasha and was getting breakfast ready. She was just about to get up when he came through with a tray with two plates of food, fruits, and drinks of their choice. “I figured we would have breakfast in bed and then go out and spend sometime out on the town.” Ben said and she smiled.

“That sounds perfect.” She said and he smiled then he walked into the room the rest of the way and sat down on the bed and put the tray in between them and then he turned on the TV. Nothing interesting was on so they switched to their DVR and watched some saved shows that they wanted to catch up on. Natasha started to get restless and this caught Ben’s attention almost immediately.

“What’s wrong?” He asked moving the try so he could have better access to her.

“Nothing worrisome. Your child is just playing soccer with my bladder and making me need to pee.” She said and he laughed.

“Always my child when she is doing something.” He chuckled but got up and began to help her get up and to their connected bathroom. When she was done, she flushed and washed her hands and then joined her fiancée back in bed.

“So, what do you have planned for us today?” She asked and he looked at her.

“Well, we need to run to the store and grab a few things and then I figured we would go baby shopping for a little bit more stuff.” Ben said and she smiled, he was always thinking of her and their baby always putting them first.

“That sounds perfect.” She said and then they started to get ready to leave. As always, they got ready together and then walked downstairs together. Ben helped his fiancée get her shoes on and then he got his shoes and they were heading out the door. They had decided to take Natasha’s vehicle since it had more space than his truck, he helped her get in and then he got in and opened the garage. Ben started the car and backed out of the garage and they were on their way and pulling out of the neighborhood.

The car ride was filled with laughter and music. Nothing could bother the happy couple. They had just come to a red light. He kept looking over at his perfect pregnant fiancée and she was glowing and he smiled. “Have I ever told you that you’re the most beautiful pregnant woman ever?” He asked and hung her head smirked.

“Every single day and I’ll never get tired of it.” She said and then he turned back to the road as he saw the light turn green in his peripheral view. Just as he was starting to go and cross an intersection and car from the left side came barreling at them and the only thing, he heard was a honk and metal crushing against metal and then the pain came. The other car was going at such a high speed that it pushed them to the other side of the road and flipped them and then they were crashing into a telephone pole. Both of them were knocked unconscious. Ben had slumped onto the wheel and on the horn making it blare and Natasha was knocked into the back of her seat.

The blaring horn is what woke him up and then the pain came to him everywhere. It took him a few minutes to figure out where he was but when he figured it out, he started to panic, he slowly lifted his head and he groaned in pain and then laid it on his headrest. He needed Nat so all of his attention turned to her and when he tried to move his body protested. “Nat?” He asked in a hoarse voice but got no answer “Baby.” He said and found some strength to move his hand and to her. But yet again no response.

Natahsa didn’t know where she was but she was waking up in the bar Carole, Bradley, and Ben they had visited when they went to see Goose and Maverick. She just looked around until she heard music and then Carole and Goose laughing together, she recognized them from the pictures that Bradley and Ben had laying around and on the wall. “Carole? Goose?” He asked and they turned to her and smiled and she got up from the table as Goose started to play the familiar tune of Great Balls of Fire. “What’s going on?” She asked and they looked at him sadly.

“You were in a car accident baby.” Carole said and stroked her cheek and she leaned into it; her touch felt so warm.

“Ben. Our child.” She said and began to panic.

“Ben is alright. He’s trying to wake you up and it is not your time so we don’t have long.” Goose said as he played the tune.

“Our baby?” She asked moving her hand to her stomach.

“They’re ok for right now. Help is on the way but you need to wake up.” Carole said

“I wish you both were down there with us. It would mean the world to us.” Natasha said and they smiled softly at her.

“We are with you. Just look around. We’re a whisper in the wind.” Goose said and that made Natasha smile.

“Gosh, I’ve always wanted to meet you but not like this.” She said and they chuckled.

“We’re always watching. We’re just happy we can meet you now and can’t wait for your wedding and seeing our grandchild be born. May I?” Carole asked and Natasha nodded and she put her hand on her stomach and then she felt a kick and she smiled that was the first time she felt her kick since the accident. Goose stood up as Carole took her hand off of Natasha’s stomach and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m so glad that Ben has met you. You both are perfect for each other.” Goose said and she melted into his touch it reminded her off Ben’s. All too soon the warmth was gone and then being replaced by Carole.

“Now, get back down there to our son, your fiancée, have this sweet little girl, get married, and help Leah keep our boys straight. Who knows where they would’ve ended up if they hadn’t found you both.” Carole said and released.

“Now don’t keep Ben waiting. He’s getting panicked. Tell the boys and Leah that we love them so much.” Goose said and she nodded.

“It was nice meeting you even if the circumstances weren’t great.” She said and they all laughed and then they said their goodbyes and she was waking up to Ben’s gentle touch.

“Baby?” Ben said and she slowly opened her eyes and looked over at him and he sighed in relief and then the pain hit her and she wanted to scream. She must’ve made a face because he was taking her hand “Hold my hand if you need to.” He said and she took it and squeezed it and he didn’t complain.

“I think something is wrong with the baby.” She said as more pain hit her.

“What do you mean?” He asked worrying.

“It hurts.” She said

“Don’t panic.” He started “Help is on the way.” He said and about that time sirens could be heard and then someone was rushing to them. The window was smashed so it was easy to talk to them “Help her first. She’s 6 months pregnant and in a lot of pain.” He said and they nodded.

“How are you feeling sir?” One paramedic asked.

“Everything hurts but I’ll be fine just help my pregnant fiancée, please.” He said

“We understand sir, we also need to help you. My partners are helping them.” They said and he slowly nodded. With controlled chaos they got them out and they were heading to the hospital. They were rolled into the hospital and they had taken him to an emergency room and then he saw her being wheeled passed him and he panicked.

“Where are they taking her?” He asked trying to get up but was pushed down by nurses and doctors and he let them due to the pain.

“Sir, just lay down.” A doctor said and he started to struggle.

“No, I need to know where my fiancée is being taken.” He said and tried to get up again and struggle and then they were pushing a sedative into his IV that was set in the ambulance and he was out like a light muttering that he needed to get to Natasha and their unborn baby.

Ben didn’t know how long he was out for but when he woke up Bradley and Leah were there and that confused him. “Bradley?” He slurred and that caught Bradley and Leah’s attention.

“Hey. How you feeling?” Leah asked putting a comforting hand on his hand.

“I’m fine. Nat and Jellybean?” He asked

“They’re in surgery.” Bradley asked and Ben’s heart monitor was starting to spike.

“What?” He asked starting to panic again and Bradley stood up and was lightly pushing Ben back as he tried to get up.

“They said they were both doing fine. There was a placenta tear but they’re fixing it. They’re both going strong. You’re going to be released once thy are out of surgery and when you woke up.” Bradley said and he nodded and settled down and the heart monitor settled, Bradley released him. He didn’t know Leah had left the room until she came back with a nurse and his doctor.

“Captain Bradshaw, you were lucky. You just had a dislocated shoulder and a cracked rib. We did have to sedate you after you starting resisting but we understand. Your wife and baby are doing well from the last I heard and should be out and in recovery in a few minutes. We’ll start your release process and get you to their room as soon as possible.” He said and Ben nodded.

“Thank you.” He said and the doctor nodded and then left as the nurse had him sign releasee forms and take the IV out.

“We stopped by the house and got some clothes for both of you.” Leah said holding a bag up and he smiled.

“Thank you, guys. Thank you for getting down here so quickly.” Ben said and slowly got up and Leah walked out of the room while Bradley helped his older brother then she got the all clear to come in.

“Anything for my older brother and future sister-in-law and niece.” Bradley said and Ben hugged him and then they released and Leah brought him in a hug.

“You guys scared us. We’re just glad you’re ok. We got the call and then were on the next flight out to here.” Leah said as she released him from the hug. About that time a nurse came in to grab them and take them to Natasha and their baby, Y/N. They followed in silence and when they got there and Ben saw his fiancée laying there, he almost broke down but when he heard his baby’s heartbeat he broke down and almost collapsed, he would’ve if Bradley wasn’t there to catch him. They walked in and Ben sat down on the chair not having his full strength back and Bradley hugged Leah. The doctor turned to them and smiled.

“Both of them are just fine. She was lucky to have only sprained her wrist and there was a placenta tear but we repaired it and everything was successful. She should be waking here in a few minutes since we didn’t want to use much anesthesia on her and the baby. The nurse and I will be back in a few to check on them both.” He said and they nodded and then left and that is when Leah and Bradley took their seats.

10 minutes later Natasha was waking up to bright lights and to her sleeping fiancée with his hand on her stomach and Bradley and Leah, who were awake. Leah was the first to notice “Hey.” She said softly and Nat smiled.

“How long has he been asleep?” Nat asked referring to Ben.

“Not too long. Want me to wake him?” Bradley asked and she shook her head.

“No, I will.” She said and they nodded and then she slowly turned to him and brought her right hand to his face and began to stroke it and started to speak softly. Once she saw him show his signs of waking up, she smiled and after a minute or two he woke up confused but then he saw her awake and was awake in an instant.

“Baby.” He said and got up and kissed her forehead his hand never leaving her stomach. “You’re ok.” He said and she nodded.

“We’re both ok.” She said and it was quiet for a minute. “I saw Goose and Carole while we were in the car.” She said and everyone was silent. “They told me to tell you that they love you and that I needed to come back to help Leah keep you boys straight.” She said and they chuckled.

“Yea that sounds like dad.” Ben said and Bradley nodded. The nurse and doctor walked in and checked on them and told them that they wanted to keep her in the hospital for a few days just to be sure and they agreed. Bradley and Leah would still be there they told work that they had a family emergency and had to be gone for a few weeks and they understood.

After a few days Nat got the all clear to go home and that is exactly what they did. It was really nice having Bradley and Leah there and they never got in the way and if Nat and Ben wanted space, they gave it to them. The doctor’s told them to take it easy and that is exactly what they were doing and why Bradley and Leah stayed.

Goose and Carole were looking down on their children and smiled. All of them were alive and healthy and their granddaughter was active but not too active sensing that her mother had something done and didn’t want to injury her further. “They’re going to be ok.” Carole said as she snuggled into Goose and he threw an arm around his wife. He kissed the side of her head and smiled.

“Yes, they are.” Goose said “Our granddaughter is going to be one spoiled little girl and is going to be one little fighter.” He said.

“Yes, she is. I can’t wait to watch her grow up.” Carole said

This accident just brought everyone together and they formed a stronger bond because of it. Ben, Natasha, and Y/N were safe. They were under careful watch of Bradley, Leah, Goose, and Carole. Nothing could bring them down they were a strong family and nothing was going to break them. They loved each other and were going to take care of each other no matter if their sick or just having a bad day. They're family and to them family sticks together no matter what unless you pull their Naval Academy papers then that’s a whole different story.

Tag list:

@kmc1989

@els-marvelvsp

@atarmychick007

@nyx2021

@grandstrangerphantom

@angenu01-blog

@talesofreading

@callsigns-haze

@roosteraloha

@laura-naruto-fan1998

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[thelampisaflashlight]

The Long and Short of it All

[A ficlet about Dew trying to repair other people's friendships, feat. my oc, Bea.] Below the cut.

Dew scans the rolling fields of tall grass swaying in the wind, hands cupped by his forehead to block the winter sun from his vision, lips curling into an easy smile at the first subtle peek of short brown hair amongst the golden waves.

"Hey!" he calls, lifting one arm into the air and waving it vigorously at the figure that pokes their head up from where they're kneeling upon the ground, "Bea!"

A pause as the woman squints, and then grins, offering him a small wave in return as she eases herself from the dirt, her gloved hands braced against her stained knees.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't my favorite little fire starter!" she laughs, slipping her gloves off as she climbs the small hill he's stood upon, tucking them into the front pocket of her overalls, "What brings you to this side of the lake?"

"Mountain sent me," Dew says, taking in the view from atop the hill; The lake shines, bitter cold but not quite gone to ice, surrounded by a thousand bare trees sticking up from the earth like teeth, with the occasional still green holly or pine, "since he knows you're still pissed about the greenhouse."

Bea makes an airy, "tsk" sound and sighs.

"I told him time and time again that-" she shakes her head, cutting herself off, "Never mind all of that, what does he need?"

"It seems your plants are being... temperamental." Dew explains, "Normally, all of the plants around the abbey listen to Mount, but the ones you've planted are being, in his own words, 'Finicky little brats'... Not sure how a rose bush can be a brat, but he says he can't get them to grow the way he wants them to."

"If he wants my help," Bea crosses her arms, "then he needs to apologize first."

"He has told me he regrets what he said-" Dew starts.

"To you, maybe." the other frowns, "But not to me. He even sent you here instead of coming himself. Who's being a brat now?"

Dew sticks his hands in his pockets, toeing the ground a bit with his sneaker, "I mean..."

He fidgets and casts his gaze downward.

"I... I don't know why you two... Couldn't you come and talk to him?"

Bea's hands twitch.

"...Why should I do that?" she asks, brown eyes narrowing, hurt apparent, "He's the one who-"

"Because between the two of you," Dew begins, "you're the one that's the most stubborn, you... You're allowed to be mad, upset... but, if you don't come and see him, it's only going to get worse. I mean, I know, from experience... That's how you lose a friend."

Dew watches Bea consider his words, watches the tension leave her body as she drops her arms at her sides.

"...I'll meet him halfway."

"That's-"

"Halfway." she repeats, "If he can prove he's willing to try and fix this, then I'll at least do that much."

"Halfway." Dew echoes, then nods, "Okay, got it."

"Honestly..." Bea pulls her gloves back out of her pocket, slapping them against her thigh to shake some of the dirt from them, "...I've kind of forgotten what we were even arguing about."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." she snorts, "I think, ya know, I think I'm just so used to people leaving 'cause of..."

She gestures vaguely at herself and Dew frowns, knowing all too well what she means by it.

"...I didn't used to be like this."

"It's hard." Dew agrees, looking back out over the lake, at the light hitting the surface, making it glitter and shine, "You can't expect a dog that's been beaten down to trust even a gently offered hand."

"We're dogs now?" Bea laughs, voice pitching slightly.

"Metaphorically speaking." he shrugs, "...Mount doesn't mean... didn't mean to scare you like that."

"I know."

"Do you though?"

The breeze trails between them, a stray snowflake drifting through the air, landing on the gardener's shoulder, and melting into the fabric of her jacket.

"...I dunno." she whispers after a moment, "...Confrontation sucks."

Dew just nods.

"Halfway." she says again, straightening her back, sounding a bit more confident, "Halfway and I'll... I'll talk to the plants... Fuck that sounds so stupid."

"I almost forgot that's why I came out here." Dew barks out a laugh, "You... earth adjacent folks are so weird."

"Oi, you're the walking matchstick here." Bea fires back, "You wish you could sweet talk the trees."

"Actually, I don't, because I think if I started talking to the flora, the higherups would have me carted away."

"True enough." Bea hums, starting down the trail leading to the lake.

"Do the plants ever talk shit about people?" Dew asks, following behind her at an even pace.

"It's less talking shit and more asking for it." Bea casually remarks.

"Gross."

"Hey, whatever helps them grow-"

#lamp writes #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #mountain ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band fanfic #ghost band oc #sibling of sin #sibling of sin oc #sister of sin #sister of sin oc #I dunno I just feel like Dew is the type of person who would want to make sure his friends get along #I also felt like writing about Bea

[justasimp1]

Micheal Afton x F! Reader

Fluff + Smut + Angst

Vacant

Micheal had been acting weird all day. You assumed it was his family troubling him. But you could feel something else was clouding his mind. You brought the cigarette to your mouth, taking a long drag, watching his movements. "So you brought me out here to sit in silence?" You scoffed a laugh, looking out the car's window.

The moon was bright, glowing on each membrane of your skin. The trees surrounding the car swayed with each gust of the wind, it sparked goosebumps every time the branches would connect. Micheal let out a long hum, let the letters wouldn't fall out correctly.

You brought your knees to your chest, the balls of your socks fidgeting on the cushion. You didn't know why your heart was pounding and a strong stream of blood was warming with great intensity. But you knew something was about to go south.

You bit your bottom lip, conjuring every alternate version of what could be on Micheal's mind. "Spit it out, Afton" You mutter as you listened to him fumble over sentence starters. You pushed the fizzling bud on the dashboard's ashtray.

You turned towards Micheal, eyes flickering to his parted lips. "There is this girl..." Micheal slowly spoke like he was trying to ease an angry animal. Your heart dropped, none of your scenarios could lead to this one. You bit your tongue to distract your brain from continuing the burning sensation lingering in your eyes.

You didn't notice how hard your fingernails were digging into your palm. 'Of course, it was bound to happen' You gulped trying to face the facts. He's attractive, his soft brown eyes could make your legs weak, and the tiny meaningless touches easily made you head over heels.

Any girl would've been lucky enough to get a glimpse of this and to have it reciprocated by Micheal would be a blessing. "Oh," You pressed your lips together, pulling off a fake smile. You rubbed your sweaty palms on your exposed thighs.

"So like...is she making you ditch me or something?" You muttered, chewing on the gummy inside of your mouth. "No, I'm not dating her," Micheal said with obvious pain in his voice. You hummed, picking at your cuticles.

"I like her so much. She's helped me through a lot of shit and sometimes I think she doesn't even comprehend how special she is" The words flowed out his mouth easily, his eyes gleaming with absolute adoration.

"She's a fortunate girl" You smiled, refusing to look Micheal directly in the eyes. Micheal's hand brushed your cold thigh, his fingers lightly dancing over your skin. "Y/N..." "What?" You hummed, continuing to pick at your skin.

He brought his hand up to your tense jaw, he turned your face up to look at him. Your eyes widened watching him lean in close. Inch by inch his eyes scanned your features. "The thing is..." Micheal gulped, his life possibly flashing before his eyes.

"The girl is you. And has always been you" He murmured tongue dragging over his lips. You pushed forward a little, connecting your lips, slowly nudging closer. It felt impulsive and confused but the aching longing for his touch was strong.

The kiss eventually became steamy, leading to submissive pants from Micheal and you rubbing your thighs together. You climbed over to the driver's side, straddling his lap. You pulled apart for a breathless moan as he kissed your neck.

Your hands intertwined in his hair, caressing the roots. You grinded on him, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Micheal grabbed your hands. "Y/N if we do this, I can't go back to just being friends. I'll be yours" His voice was soothing, bringing your gaze to his flushed cheeks.

"O-Okay" You hesitantly nodded your head. Even though nothing changed you suddenly felt more nervous, the itching urge of self-consciousness swallowing your confidence. You gulped, hands slowly unclasping the buttons.

"Don't get shy on me now, love" Micheal pushed the seat back a little, a long groan leaving his mouth as his eyes could examine you in a singular dip. Your hands traced over the shallow creases of his abs.

You tried to manage your breathing while your fingers traveled lower to the hem of his pants. Micheal rose slightly, allowing the material to slide underneath his thighs. You brushed a finger on the twitching tent in his boxers.

Micheal squeezed his eyes, whimpering. You looked at him, a tiny grin pulling at your lips. "You're going to make me cum if you keep staring" Micheal swallowed, gripping a globe of your ass.

"Sorry" You mumbled, glancing to the side. "Nothing to be sorry about" Micheal lifted his face to meet yours, tongues sloppy on each other. You could taste the sweet mints he always ate when he was nervous.

You moved your body closer, his boxers bulging right under your damp underwear. Your free hand gripped the edge of your skirt as you rocked forward. Micheal made a trail of wet hickies down your throat, he paused at the low wide u-neck of your shirt.

Your heart halted, you brought the shirt over your head, tossing it to the passenger side. The car was dim but Micheal could make out every smooth curve your body had. "May I please?" Micheal's hand trailed up your spine and to the hooks of your bra.

Your eyes fluttered close, and you nodded. "Words, love" "Yes" You whispered, the AC creating goosebumps along your exposed skin. A small click happened before the bra became loose. Micheal dragged it off your arms.

Your nipples hardened when Micheal's warm breath fanned your breast. "They're so pretty" He murmured, dazed by the perky structure. He licked a long strip on the surface, sucking the erected nub.

"Micheal" You squirmed. "I'll do anything you want, just tell me" His words were muffled by your skin dripping in his kisses. "I want you to fuck me" The words sounded so sinful coming out of your mouth, you cringed at your needy desperation.

"Don't be afraid to tell me to stop" Micheal hummed, pushing his boxers down, the spring of his cock hit your soaked panties. His fingers dipped under your skirt to push aside your panties. "You're so wet" Micheal moaned.

He adjusted your hips so you could sink on his leaking tip. The penetration knocked the air out of your lungs, you gripped his white button-up. "Relax, love" His voice creaked, feeling your warm walls tighten around him.

Once you got down to the shaft, you could feel your hole throbbing at the newly expanded sensation. Micheal brushed away the tear rolling down your cheek. "We can just stay like this if you want" He rubbed small circles on your back.

"No, I'm ready now" You shook your head, straightening your hunched posture. Micheal put both hands on your hips, guiding you at a good pace. You leaned into his touch, slowly starting to bounce with his rhythm.

Moist humid air stuck to your skin, adding to the thin layer of sweat covering your skin. You felt your boobs hop with you, smacking on your skin. His length prodded deeper within you as you arched your back.

Micheal moved his hands to your ass, tugging them apart and massaging them together. Your eyelashes became sticky with dried tears. And his cock was making you choke on your own words. "Tell me how you feel" Micheal groaned, his tongue dashing over his bottom lip.

You would roll your eyes if they weren't seeing stars. You thought your loud moans were enough proof that it was more than good. "Good" You stuttered out, feeling your stomach tighten. Micheal hummed, his finger gliding in between the valley of your breast and into your mouth.

The salty skin dipped further into your throat. You wrapped your lips around his digits, bobbing your head long his long fingers until they were dripping in hot saliva. Micheal closed his eyes, imagine your knees on his room's carpet, your hair gathered in his fist while you swallowed all his cum.

"You're so fucking hot. God, I wanna cum inside you so bad" Micheal opened his eyes, taking in the true scene. You bounced faster on his trembling length. His fingers moved rapidly in your mouth until you were choking from the movment.

"You want me to come inside your tight fucking hole?" He whimpered, the hand around your waist desperately pulling you closer to him. His fingers pushed down on your tongue, pulling your jaw down for you to respond. "Yes, Michael" You moaned, throwing your head back.

Micheal rutted up into you, his hips smashing upwards. You felt the tight cord snap, sending your pussy convulsing. You felt your cum spilling over Micheal's shaft. Micheal kept pushing up into you. His warm rod of thick white explodes inside you.

You shook as Micheal kept fucking up into you, your vagina pulsing as the semen fills you up. You panted, chest rising and falling quickly. Micheal pulled his drench fingers out of your mouth, rubbing them along your tits.

He shoved his lips on yours. His hands wrap around your naked form. "That felt amazing...right?" He looked at you with pleadful eyes. "Yeah, it felt really good Micheal" You giggled, cupping his cheeks.

Masterlist

#fanfic #x reader #fluff #smut #angst #micheal afton smut #micheal afton x reader #micheal afton #michael afton smut #michael afton x reader #micheal afton fluff #micheal afton angst #micheal afton x reader smut #micheal afton x reader fluff #micheal x reader #fnaf micheal x reader #fnaf micheal x reader smut #fnaf micheal #fnaf micheal smut #fnaf smut #fnaf fluff #fnaf micheal fluff

[thegainingdesk]

The Crossroads of the Goddess

Zach heard the front door open and close, and frantically shoved his erection into his pants and buttoned up his trousers. Zach took one last look at the image on his phone, a man easily weighing over 400 pounds, hoisting his gut up with one arm, the other arm straining down to grip a small nub of cock still visible poking out of the soft pillow of fat at his groin, before he closed the window, hiding all evidence of his wrongdoings.

"You're back early," Zach said to Ellis as he came down the stairs.

"You're one to talk" Ellis snapped. "Why aren't you at the gym?"

Zach stifled a sigh. It was going to be one of those evenings. "I just think I pulled a tendon, I was going to take it easy for a while," he lied.

Ellis scoffed. "Do you really think that's a good idea? Do you remember what you looked like when we started going out? That gross little pot belly?"

"I remember," Zach said sadly. What Ellis remembered as a pot belly, Zach thought back on as a starter belly, the seed of something that could have been so much more.

"Then you understand why you can't just decide to take days off at the gym." Ellis marched into the kitchen and pulled out two tupperware containers filled with portioned out rice, chicken breast and broccoli. "I'm going to take some out of yours," he told Zach matter-of-factly. "You've not spent the energy at the gym so it'll be excess calories."

Zach felt his stomach ache as he watched the food fall into the bin.

-

"Would you like sex tonight?" Ellis asked bluntly, not looking up from his phone.

Zach looked up from across the room. He was gripping his phone tightly and unnaturally high, so that he was sure his screen was hidden from Ellis. "No, it's fine," he said. "I'm quite tired." He went back to reading a story about a man who was magically gaining one pound a day, imagining himself as the protagonist.

"Okay, that works for me," Ellis replied. "I might go to the gym early tomorrow so that I can get to work and prep for that meeting."

"Oh, umm, yeah. Good luck with that, you'll do great," Zach tried to offer.

Ellis stared. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. Zach recognised the tone Ellis used when he wanted an argument. "Do you think it won't go well?"

"No, that's not what I- I was just trying to say something nice," Zach said quietly.

"Well I don't need luck, I'm good at my fucking job, alright? Why don't you try and remember that while you sleep in the spare room that we can only afford because of my job."

Zach bit his tongue, knowing that pointing out that his job paid more than Ellis' would just make things worse. "I'm sorry, you're right,' he said instead, as he did so often.

Ellis left the room in a huff.

Zach rubbed his face with his hands and stood up to get some bedding for the spare room.

-

A woman stood at the crossroads in front of Zach. Despite the cold wind he felt through his pyjamas, her long dress and hair were unmoving. Zach almost began to think she was a statue until she began to speak.

"I am Morgana, Zachary. We have both been brought here by the Goddess to this space between time." Her voice was imperious, strong and clear. Zachary thought he could hear the ocean in it, could hear memory and mercury and power. As he approached, she smelled of gunpowder and ancient forests. "Actually, could we speed this up? I know you're in awe and stuff but actually I've got this date with this hot lesbian who looks like Aubrey Plaza and I'd quite like to go get eaten out, if it's all the same to you." Zach could hear impatience in her voice now, and a slight whine.

"Am I dreaming?" Zach asked.

"Are you- is he dreaming, he fucking asks," the woman, Morgana, said. "You went to sleep, right, and now you're stood at a misty crossroads with a mysterious and powerful woman. Yes you are fucking dreaming." She felt distinctly less mysterious and powerful now, but Zach thought it better not to say anything.

"This doesn't feel like a normal dream," Zach said.

Morgana rolled her eyes. "You've read the Sandman? Or at least seen the show?"

"I'm listening to the audioboo-"

"Oh, I haven't listened to them yet, are they good? It's that sort of shit, anyway. Dreams define reality, reality defines yada-yada-yada." Morgana looked at a watch on her wrist. "Anyway, I've been sent here as an emissary to the Goddess as the patron saint of sad sacks or something, despite the terms of our agreement being quite clear, and previous exchanges being very adequate!" She said this last part up to the sky, her voice raising to its previous grandeur, but still tinged with the whine she'd adopted. She looked back at Zach. "You're not happy," she said simply.

"I'm not happy," Zach replied, just as simply.

"Good," Morgana said. "Not good, sorry, but at least, like, you're the right person."

"No, it's fine," Zach reassured her.

"I'm here to give you a do-over, another chance," she told him. She pulled out a pocket watch from somewhere in her dress. "This dress has pockets!" she told him gleefully. "I'm going to send you back to a point in your life where you made a choice," she continued. "And let you make that choice again, see what might have been. Then I'll bring you back here, and you can decide." She looked closely at Zach.

"Why me?" he asked.

"Because you're sad," she replied.

"But why me?" he repeated. "There's loads of sad people. People who would choose differently. Why me?"

Morgana shrugged. "Luck of the draw, guardian angel, interesting narrative device. Take your pick." She raised the pocket watch. "I hope you make the most of this chance Zach."

The pocket watch opened.

Zach fell, through the ground, through a swirling mass of colour and sounds and smell and sensation. Zach fell through clouds made of time and felt winds made of potential. Zach fell and fell and fell, spiraling so fast and so long he thought he would die. The clouds dissipated, the wind stopped, and he could see the ground below him. He was going too fast, he had to slow down, he could see buildings and streets and gardens and oh god he was going to hit the ground he was going to hit the ground and die and this was it this is how he died the ground was so close now there was nothing he could do he was going to die he was going to die in his pyjamas and the ground was coming closer and closer as it hurtled up to meet him he was about to crash into it and he would die and that would be it.

Zach stood outside The Rabbit and Stoat, a pub he remembered fondly from his time at uni. Wasn't he dead? He was sure he was about to die. He didn't feel dead.

He looked down at himself. He was wearing his favourite shirt from uni. Light blue with little pictures of otters all over it. What had happened to this shirt? His jeans were tight as well, far tighter and sexier than he'd wear nowadays. In fact, wasn't this-

"My date outfit," Zach said out loud to himself. "This is my old date outfit, I'm about to go on a date."

"Good for you love," an old woman said as she walked past.

Zach examined himself in the reflection of a nearby shop window. His skin looked youthful and fresh, and he laughed as he caught sight of the wispy stubble that grew along his sharp jawline, remembering how proud he was of what was in hindsight, barely a beard at all. His hair was the same dark orange he remembered, although perhaps his hairline was a little fuller and further down than he was used to.

There was nothing else for it. Zach squared his shoulders and walked forwards through the door, and looked around. Morgana said he'd be going into his own past, so he should recognise someone surely. And old flame? Some poor Grindr date he'd met once and rejected?

Zach froze when he spotted him. Josh. Sat nursing a pint and eating a bag of pork scratchings, handsome and tall and bearded and… well, and fat. A gut hung over his waistline, his shirt hugged his torso, and a heavy beard failed to hide heavy cheeks.

Josh was where it had started. The gainer porn, the stolen glances at beer bellies and dad bods in public, the obsession with all things fat. His relationship with Josh, all too brief, was the spark that ignited it all.

Josh was also where it ended. After they broke up, Zach was too scared, too self-conscious, to ever act on his desires again. Instead, Zach had to make do with his mind wandering back to Josh time and time again, while he returned to convention and expectation.

Josh had spotted him, and he raised his hand in greeting, a smile further rounding out his chubby cheeks. Zach forced his legs to move.

"Hi, Josh right?" he asked as he approached.

"Yeah, yeah. Zach?" Josh extended out a large hand, which Zach took. A jolt of electricity ran down Zach's spine. "It's so awkward on a first date isn't it, trying to guess what the other person looks like based off a few pictures."

Zach gave a small, nervous laugh. "Yeah, awkward."

Josh grinned, downed his drink and stood. Zach forgot just how big Josh was. Over 6 feet tall and broad, he'd have been heavy without the gut. Zach's eyes briefly slipped down to the meaty bulge at his crotch.

"I'll get the first round," Josh said with a wide smile. "What'll it be?"

Josh came back shortly after carrying two pints and a bag of scampi fries. Zach was mesmerised by his thick thighs and the pot belly they supported. Josh placed the pints down and settled down himself, grinning at Zach, opening up the bag of crisps and putting them on the table between them.

"So, tell me about this Zach character I keep on heating about," Josh said with a wink as he took his first sip.

The date was as easy and carefree as Zach had remembered. Josh was charming and funny and smart and so very sexy, and Zach felt his confidence growing as the date went on, flirting back, making his own jokes, hell, he even felt pretty sexy himself. Even if this was just a dream, Zach was determined to make the most of it.

As the night wore on, and the two drank more and more, each round accompanied by snacks, it became more difficult to keep their hands off each other. They would steal glances around the bar, checking no one was looking, before grabbing a squeeze of a thigh, or a pec, or of Josh's gut. Eventually, the two couldn't contain themselves, moving into a dark corner to steal a snog. Josh's hand moved slowly across Zach's tented chrotch, and he had to stifle a moan.

"We should go," Zach whispered.

Josh nodding, breathing heavily. "I live round the corner," he said. "If you wanted to?"

Zach didn't reply, simply pulling Josh up with him, and the two stumbled out of the pub laughing.

By the time they'd reached Josh's room, the two couldn't keep their hands off each other, and Josh began to unbutton Zach's trousers before they even got in. "Your housemates…" Zach began.

"Fuck 'em," Josh growled, before continuing with his groping and kissing. The two stumbled through the door, Zach clumsily unbuttoning Josh's shirt, finally getting to run his hands along that wide, heavy gut, sinking his fingers in, feeling the size and weight of it.

Josh smirked. "You like that, do you?" Zach simply nodded and kissed Josh hungrily, never taking his hands off of Josh's gut.

Josh maneuvered Zach backwards and pushed him down. Zach didn't hit the bed. He thought for a second that Josh had miscalculated and pushed him onto the floor, before the room dissolved into clouds, and he fell further and further down. Far above him, Josh seemed to blur and spread like ink in water, until he too eventually joined the storm that Zach was falling through.

He felt his shirt tighten around him, buttons straining against a thickening body. His jeans slid down, until there was a gap of several inches between the waistline and the hem of his shirt. As he fell, he pressed a finger into the fresh fat of his newly grown stomach, watching as it sunk into the second knuckle.

He landed on his feet, still wearing the same clothes, now in his own bedroom from uni. Light streamed in through the wide window he'd loved so much while he lived there, and he stood in front of a full-length mirror.

His shirt and jeans, once his favourite, once a mainstay of dates, were comically small now. A paunch swelled out over his waistline, and buttons gaped around soft flesh. A full-blown muffin top rose like dough between his shirt and jeans, filling a gap that could never hope to be closed.

In the mirror he saw Josh walk up behind him, chuckling. Leaning down, he kissed Zach's neck from behind and stroked Zach's gut with both hands, one finger dancing around his belly button. "Mmm, I'm not sure this fits anymore," Josh teased. Zach could see a smile growing on Josh's face, and his gut pressed into his back. "To be honest, I thought it was a little small when you wore it to that buffet last month, but you were just so cute that I couldn't bear to say anything."

Zach turned around, his face flushing. He remembered this moment, in vivid detail. It had played in his head hundreds of times since. He knew what happened next. He'd stormed out, tearing off the too small shirt and throwing it in the back of a cupboard, never to be seen again. He calmed down, but there was a tension in the relationship from that moment on, and they broke up a few weeks later. It wasn't long before he met Ellis, who whipped him back into shape.

It took a long time for Zach to respond. Eventually his eyes flicked up to meet Josh's. "Do you mind?"

Josh's smile grew wider and he leant into Zach's ear. "I fucking love it," he whispered, before kissing Zach slowly. He pulled back. "But best find another shirt for tonight. I'm not sure the fine patrons of Nandos will appreciate it quite so much, eh?" Zach laughed, relieved. Josh began to unbutton his shirt for him. "You want me to get rid of this for you?" Josh asked.

Zach shook his head. "I might keep hold of it," he said. "A reminder of the good times." He looked into his wardrobe, most of which, he admitted to himself, was no longer fit for purpose. "I'll go through all of this tomorrow though, donate a load to a charity shop." He pulled out a shirt that once fit perfectly, and winked at Josh. "I'm not sure I'll be fitting back into them anytime soon."

The room once again collapsed, and Josh's bulky body dissipated into the ether. Zach felt gravity twist and pull and warp in unfamiliar ways, tossing his body like a rag doll. Just as quickly as it had started, an unfamiliar room coalesced around him.

He found himself lying on his back, Josh straddling his waist above him, holding a box of donuts. Zach could feel Josh's hard cock press into his own, and was surprised to see how close their respective bellies were to touching.

"This is so hot," Josh said, pushing a donut into Zach's mouth. "I can't believe you're finally the same size as me, it's insane." Zach tried to chew, taken by surprise by how forcefully Josh had pushed the pastry in.

He looked down at himself. While he was shocked by Josh's statement - Josh was just so big, they couldn't really be the same size, could he? - he couldn't deny that it was believable. While Josh looked roughly the same size as he remembered him, maybe a little bigger, Zach's own body had swelled in size, his once small paunch now filling his middle and spilling up and out, covering up both his and Josh's cocks from his point of view. Josh's thighs were spread wide to accommodate Zach's fresh girth. Zach knew that Josh still probably weighed a fair bit more, due to having a taller and broader frame, but their guts were very much matched.

Zach swallowed the donut that Josh had fed him, but immediately another one was pushed into his mouth. He tried to speak around it, but only muffled sounds came out. Josh grinned. "Shh, shh, don't worry about a thing, you just concentrate on eating and growing for me." He tossed the now empty donut box to the side. Zach swallowed the barely chewed fried treat, suddenly aware of how tight his stomach felt.

Josh leant over to something on the bedside table, his own gut drooping down as he did so. When he straightened up, he was holding a large jug of some thick, brown liquid. "I blended some Ben and Jerry's into it this time, I think the chunks should have broken up enough."

Zach opened his mouth to respond, but the only thing that came out was a low, rattling burp. "I'm so fat," he said simply, once he'd finished.

Josh grinned and brought the jug closer to Zach's face. "You're so fucking fat," he said. "And this is just the beginning, just you wait and see." He began to pour the shake slowly into Zach's mouth. At first Zach choked a little against the cold, but quickly found his rhythm, muscle memory kicking in. The taste was sweet, and oily, and rich, a mad deluge of flavour and calories. The texture was thick and gritty, so that he had to concentrate on swallowing.

With Josh's free hand he reached down. Zach could feel him searching between the two soft pillows of fat that swaddled their torsos, until he found Zach's hard, leaking cock. He began to pump his hand at the same pace as he rocked his hips, the friction of the two motions working together to make Zach's eyes roll back into his head. He heard Josh moan above him. "You were so skinny," Josh sighed, his voice strained and barely audible. "Now look at you. I thought that I'd just put a bit of a gut on you, get you a few stone heavier, but you wanted it so so much, you just couldn't stop yourse - oh, oh, ohhhhh." The pace of his rocking became erratic as Zach felt a warm wetness spread across his belly. Without stopping his swallowing, he reached up with one hand and rubbed Josh's gut, now comparable to his own. Thankfully, Josh continued his attentions to Zach, and Zach wriggled beneath him until the large jug was completely empty. Josh tipped it up to drain the last few drops, and Zach gasped as he too reached his climax.

Josh rolled off of Zach and lay down next to him, both panting. Zach tangled his fingers through the hair on Josh's belly. "Did you not want to get fatter too?"

Josh laughed. "Would you like that?" he asked, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, yeah, I could see myself putting on a bit more. Can't be looking too skinny next to my big man, can I?"

Zach smiled and sat up, surprised and aroused at how much effort it took. "Right then, I'll go get some more ice cream." He turned back to Josh. "It's your turn."

As he reached the door, the room span and fell apart. Clothes formed around his body from the fog around him, and shafts of sunlight came down from below as shadows rose above him, growing higher and higher until-

"Say cheese!" an elderly woman told him, before a bright flash dazed him. The woman shooed him away, before grabbing a small, timid looking woman in the same graduation cap and gown that Zach was wearing and hurriedly taking her picture too.

"Here you go," a man with a receding hairline said to Zach, holding up a tablet to show him a picture of himself against a plain blue backdrop, holding his diploma. "That alright?"

Zach studied the face in the picture. He had to be over 300 pounds, he thought. His cheeks were heavy and round, and while he'd attempted to grow a beard in a clear attempt to hide his double chin, it was far too sparse to do anything to disguise just how plump his face was now.

Josh walked up and kissed his cheek, grinning proudly. "Well done! I was sat with your parents for the ceremony." He gestured over at his parents, both looking a little dismayed at the size of their son.

Zach looked Josh and himself up and down, and realised his parents might have good reason for their dismay. Zach had ballooned, his graduation gown covering him like Homer Simpson in a muumuu. Even Josh, as heavy as his frame naturally made him, probably weighed less than Zach now. Even so, Zach noticed how Josh's suit stretched to accommodate him, and it was clear that Zach's growth was contagious.

"Hullo son," Zach's dad said, walking over with a thin smile and shaking his hand firmly. "We're so proud of you, of course." Zach's mother hung back a little, the slight woman staring silently agog at the size of her son. "We thought we'd take you for some cocktails," his father continued, "to celebrate before we head back home. There's a bar down the road that looks quite nice."

Josh cleared his throat. "Oh, we booked a table at a restaurant, actually Fred. You're more than welcome to join us, of course, we booked it for four."

Zach's dad's face twitched. "A restaurant, of course. Got to eat sometime I suppose." He looked at his wife, who shrugged nervously. "Uhh, yes, we can come along and maybe have something light, can't we Mary? Bit of a funny time to eat isn't, not quite lunch, not quite dinner." He made a show of looking at his watch.

Josh laughed and patted Zach on the shoulder. "Oh, we're not too bothered about mealtimes are we Zach, we just sort of eat when we feel like it."

Zach's mum made a sound like a squeak. "Yes, well, umm, maybe that's something to think about a bit, eh?" his dad said. "Well, we got you something, to say congratulations, anyway, on graduating, and the job." Zach's mum took her cue and pulled a small box out of her handbag.

"Job?" Zach asked, looking confused.

"Merton and Wainwright," his mother said in her small voice, speaking for the first time and handing over the box. "Very prestigious, we really are very proud." She gave a small thin smile and leant up to kiss his cheek, but when she realised she couldn't reach over the swell of his body, settled on patting his arm a few times.

Zach opened the box and looked at the expensive looking watch inside. Merton and Wainwright - not a name he'd thought about in a longtime. He'd interviewed with the law firm shortly before graduating, but their feedback had been that he was bright but lacked a lot of confidence. He'd gone on to get a series of perfectly fine jobs at a number of other firms, never quite settling, until Ellis had kicked up a fuss about not having bought a house yet, so Zach had settled down for a bit of stability, and they'd bought their perfectly nice modern-build in the suburbs.

"Right, yes, of course, Merton and Wainwright," he said. "Thanks so much, the watch is lovely."

"On second thought, maybe best we leave you to it, eh?" Zach's dad said. "I'm sure you've got plenty of friends to see." Zach hugged them both, eclipsing both of their bodies with his, before they awkwardly shuffled off.

"They're not big fans of your new and improved look then?" Josh asked Zach.

Zach shook his head. "You know, that actually might have been the least awkward conversation I've had with them in years."

Josh laughed. "Come on, let's return your cap and gown. I'm hungry, so you must be starving."

Zach reached for Josh's hand, but his fingers passed through, the world once again spinning into a blur. He knew what to expect by now, so just closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the rushing sensation he felt.

He opened his eyes to the bright glare of fluorescent lighting, and the sterile floors of a supermarket. The bottom of his gut was cold, where it hung out of his t-shirt and sat directly on the handle of his trolley. He attempted to lift it off but it was large enough that if his hands could reach the handle, so could his gut, and he had to choose between his gut bumping into it continuously, or laying on top. He elected for the latter.

He walked forward slowly, having to focus on moving each thigh out and forwards, rolling each around the other in a slow, methodical waddle. He could feel his love-handles, each uncovered by his t-shirt no matter how he pulled it down, bounce up and down with each step. He felt something collide with his side, pressing into the wall of flesh like playdough before bouncing away.

He turned to see a man his age apologising. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking at where I was going and I sort of-"

"Ellis?" Zach interrupted.

Ellis looked confused. "Sorry, have we met, I'm not sure that I remember…"

Zach realised his mistake and quickly made up a lie. "No, no, well, yes, but ages ago, some uni party. You went to Newcastle, right?"

Ellis smiled slightly. "Uhh, yeah, that's right. Sorry, I really don't remember your name, you must think I'm so rude."

Zach waved his hand. "It's Zach. Don't worry, we only met briefly, I've just got a good head for names. And anyway," he gestured down at himself. "I look pretty different now."

Ellis gave an unsure chuckle. "Tell me about it," he said, patting his own gut.

Zach looked Ellis up and down, surprised that he wasn't the skeletal gym-bunny he remembered. Ellis was actually fat. Nothing like him or Josh of course, but far fatter than he'd ever expected to see him. Ellis' t-shirt clung to doughy moobs and love-handles, and his arse looked positively gelatinous. The faintest hint of chubby cheeks and a double chin warped the face that was oh-so familiar to Zach.

"Babes, there you are!" Zach looked up to see a god walking towards them, pushing a trolley and smiling at Ellis. The man must have been well over six and a half feet tall, with the muscles of a bodybuilder and a waist smaller than any part of Zach's body. The man's complexion was flawless, his eyes were a dazzling blue, his jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. As he reached Ellis, he reached down and unsubtly squeezed his large, soft arse. "I thought I'd find you in the ice cream aisle." He turned to look at Zach, eyes taking in his body appraisingly. "I see you've met a friend!"

"This is Zach," Ellis said. "We were at uni together."

The marble statue of a man grinned wider. "Well well well, we'll have to invite you round sometime Zach. I'm Dylan. It looks like Ellis could learn a thing or two from you." He peered into Zach's trolley. "And look Ellis! He's got all your favourite types of ice cream as well." He leant down to whisper in Ellis' ear, loud enough for Zach still to hear. "Why don't you go and grab every single thing that your friend has in his trolley for yourself, hey? Would you like that?" Despite speaking to Ellis, he didn't break eye-contact with Zach.

Ellis nodded, and Zach could see him reach down to adjust his crotch, before dutifully obeying, checking Zach's trolley diligently to make sure he didn't miss anything. "Thank you," he said quietly to Dylan.

"What was that Ellis? I couldn't hear you," Dylan said loudly, smiling down at the shorter man.

"I said thank you sir," Ellis said, flushing bright red.

"What manners! Well Zach, lovely to meet you," he reached out and shook his hand. "Hopefully you'll be seeing a lot more of Ellis in the near future." He reached down and stroked one of Ellis' love handles, causing his t-shirt to ride up and expose soft, pale lard.

"Christ," Zach heard Josh say behind him. "Who was the giant?" He turned to see Josh with an armful of biscuits, which he tipped into the trolley.

"New boyfriend of someone I met at uni," Zach said, watching the two of them walk away. "And I don't think he was that big, was he?"

"Well no, I reckon weight-wise we probably both had him beat." Josh shook his own gut, mammoth by most standards, but dwarfed by Zach's. "Tall though. And hot. Will we see them again do you reckon?"

Zach shrugged. "Maybe. Hopefuly. He seems a lot happier now. He was always a bit miserable when I knew him."

"That's good then," Josh said.

"Yeah, yeah it really is," Zach replied. He picked out a couple more tubs of ice cream and added them to the trolley as the harsh lights of the aisle were shrouded in shadow. The world revolved around him and he fell once more.

A bed formed underneath Zach, in an unfamiliar room. Zach sank into the mattress, deeper and deeper, the bedsheets curving above him in a large dome. He struggled to sit up, using both arms and legs to push himself into a sitting position. His gut pushed his thighs apart until they were almost at right angles, with his gut sagging onto the mattress, the duvet slipping down its wide slope to reveal its full glory. He was surprised that even this simple action left him slightly out of breath.

Josh's gut entered the room, followed by the rest of him. With both hands he supported a tray on top of his belly. "Happy one year anniversary babes!" he said, a smile beaming on his face.

Zach looked down at his hand, where a simple wedding band cut slightly into his ring finger. He looked up. "Happy anniversary," he replied.

"I thought I'd bring you breakfast in bed, but don't worry, there's more downstairs, it's just what would fit on the tray," Josh said, placing the heaping tray down on the bed next to Zach and moving around the bed to kiss him on the cheek.

Zach picked up a slice of French toast and took a bite. "This is a lot of food," he said, eyeing up what must have been several pounds of food.

Josh laughed. "You've finally realised you eat quite a lot, have you?" He rubbed Zach's soft gut. "Shall I take some away then?"

Zach's stomach rumbled. "No, no. I was just saying." He took the top off a boiled egg, and dipped a slice of bread in the yolk. "Are you not eating anything?" he asked.

"Don't worry, this is all yours, you won't starve to death. I had something downstairs." He reached his fingers down Zach's gut, towards his crotch. "I can't believe your appetite sometimes, but then, look how big you've gotten after all these years." He squeezed his hand under Zach's gut, and Zach could feel him rummaging around, until he grasped Zach's cock and started to work it. Zach picked up several rashers of bacon and put them in his mouth, whole. "Is this big enough, do you think?" Josh asked as he stroked, his flabby arm jiggling with the motion. "Or will you keep going?"

Zach's eyes rolled back in his head. "More," was all he could say around the bacon. On instinct, he brought one hand up to play with his stretched nipples, the other grabbing more food, even as he tried to swallow his current mouthful.

"I could tell that first night, you know," Josh said. "Have I ever told you that? The way you stared at me, all those comments about how 'big' and 'strong' I was, how you couldn't keep your hands off that cute little gut I had." Zach moaned and did his best to thrust into Josh's hand, but his weight hindered him. "Do you remember how big you thought that gut was? How fat you thought I was? Could you imagine being so skinny ever again? I knew then that you'd want to get big as well, but I never imagined how far you'd take it. How small you'd make me seem, even as I gained right alongside you." Zach's moans reached a fever pitch, toast crumbs falling out of his mouth and onto his chest, as he came with a mighty shudder. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply between mouthfuls as he recovered.

Zach felt the weight of the bed shift around him, and opened his eyes to see Josh removing his sweatpants and lifting up his gut to reveal his once mighty cock, now more than half submerged by his fat pad. "Turn around," he grunted.

Zach struggled around, twisting and grunting and having to physically heft his gut to move it. The tray got pushed onto the floor with a clatter as his gut brushed past it. Finally, Zach was on all fours, his gut pressing against the mattress. He felt the mattress sink further as Josh knelt behind him, and felt the weight of Josh's gut on his back.

Zach could tell that Josh's cock wouldn't be able to overcome the twin obstacles of Josh's crotch fat and Zach's arse cheeks to reach his hole, but it seemed like he was building up enough friction to enjoy himself anyway, from the way that he groaned and animalistically gripped huge wedges of Zach's fat on his back and sides as he thrusted. The bed must have been specially made, Zach thought, because although it groaned and creaked under their combined weight, it was holding up valiantly.

After some time, Josh gave one final grunt and rolled to the side. Zach collapsed, relieved that his shaking arms no longer had to support his weight. Slowly, he rotated himself once more onto his back. Both lay panting for some time before Josh cleared his throat.

"I know we said we wouldn't do presents, but I found the fabric and remembered how much you used to love that shirt," he rolled off the bed and walked slowly over to the wardrobe, standing on tiptoes to take something from the top. He looked back at Zach and winked. "Figured you probably can't reach up here anymore." He turned back holding a wrapped gift, holding it out.

Zach tensed his body, and threw his weight to one side, rolling onto his side. Josh placed a hand on either shoulder and leant his strength to help Zach sit up on the side of the bed. Zach shooed him away, before haltingly standing. He took the present Josh was holding out, and began to unwrap it.

Inside was his old date shirt, with the same pattern of little swimming otters, but huge. There seemed to be entire yards of it. "I love it Josh, thank you," Zach said, leaning over to kiss his husband.

"Try it on then," Josh said, smiling. "I hope it's not too small." Zach laughed, imagining the circus tent he was holding being too small for anyone.

As he laughed, the room spiraled into colour and light and shadow once more. This time though, he felt himself rise through the maelstrom, up and up and up. He realised, as he did so, that the fat enveloping his body shrank and dissolved. His soft, sagging flesh rose and firmed, withdrew into a pert belly and tits, which further shrank and shrank and shrank, until he once more had the taut abs and toned muscles Ellis had cultivated on him over the years. As Zach's feet touched solid ground, he mournfully stroked his now thin body.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

He looked up to see Morgana, now dressed in an oversized Phoebe Bridger's t-shirt, her legs and feet bare. She tapped her foot impatiently.

"Date with Aubrey Plaz-a-like go well?" Zach asked.

"Absolutely bloody incredible," Morgana said. "But I didn't expect to come back here to find out I'm the patron saint of chubby chasers all of a sudden." She motioned with her arm behind Zach.

"What? I-" Zach turned to see what Morgana was gesturing at. Two Zachs stood before him, both dressed in the same light blue otter shirt, but while one was the same weight as he was now, the other was the same mammoth proportions of the vision he'd just experienced. Both were perfectly still. Neither had eyes.

"So not only am I apparently at the Goddess' beck and fucking call now," Morgana grumbled behind him. "But now apparently my speciality is fulfilling the deepest, darkest, heaviest wishes of the fat fetish community."

"This has happened before then?" Zach asked, looking over his shoulder at her.

Morgana sighed and walked towards the two eyeless Zachs. "Not this exactly, but when I-" She looked over at Zach and seemed to consider something for a moment. "Anyway, the Goddess made one of my friends monstrously fucking fat as well, and now it seems like, through me, you get the same thrilling opportunity." She rolled her eyes and looked the larger Zach up and down. "Not to yuck your yum or whatever, but I don't get it."

Zach turned back to the two stationary figures. Behind them, the sky was beginning to brighten, the first sign of dawn. "So what do I do now?"

Morgana peered into the smaller Zach's eye sockets curiously. "Choose," she said simply.

"Choose what?" Zach asked.

"Which one," she gestured at the two Zachs. "You made a choice once." She played with the hem of the larger Zach's shirt. "You've seen the consequences. Two lives. One you. Choose."

Zach looked at the two of them, avoiding their faces and their blank, hollow stares. He looked at the toned muscles of the smaller Zach. Remembered how out of breath even the smallest action took the larger Zach. He remembered how people would look at his sexy body in the gym. He imagined the disgusted stares his body would attract. He thought about Ellis. He thought about Josh.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped towards his choice. He felt himself sink into the body, losing form and shape and features, becoming one with the unmoving statue. He opened his eyes to see an achingly thin version of himself without eyes. It stood for a moment, before a strong gust of wind seemed to shake it for a moment, and the fine dust that made it up dispersed and swirled around, carried away on the breeze.

He turned to look at Morgana. "Sun's almost up," she said with a small smile. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get eaten out by a hot bitch again."

A bright glow filled the horizon, filling the landscape with light. Zach threw up one hand to shield his eyes, but struggled against the duvet covering it.

He looked around at the dark room he was in. He lay, enormous and quivering, in an empty bed.

"Josh?" he called out. "Josh?"

He clambered out of bed as quickly as he could, shaking the furniture around the room. He left the room, not bothering to put any clothes on. "Josh?" What had he just done? Had he just given up his life, everything he'd known, for a fantasy that didn't even exist? Was this his fate now? Fat and alone?

He thundered down the stairs, the house creaking with each step. Somewhere in the house, he heard the sound of glasses and crockery rattling against each other.

"Babes?" he heard through an open door. Josh appeared in it, wearing a huge dressing gown which barely reached his knees. "What's going on?"

Zach stood on the bottom step. "I uh…" He tried his best to catch his breath. "You weren't in bed."

Josh sighed softly. "It's this cold, I couldn't get to sleep and you were like a bloody radiator," he said, his voice bunged up and hoarse. "Come in here, I'm watching some old Doctor Who."

Zach followed him through to a living room, where he crashed down into a crater in the sofa that he assumed had been formed by himself over time. Josh draped a blanket over his naked body, and grabbed one for himself.

"Didn't bother putting on any clothes?" Josh asked.

"I was worried," Zach replied.

Josh smiled and rubbed Zach's thigh. Zach returned the smile and turned to the TV to see Tom Baker hiding from an oversized mummy.

"Hungry?" Josh asked.

"You'll miss the episode," Zach protested.

"Ah, I've seen it loads, it's a classic. Besides, I can hardly expect you to get up and fetch it, now that you're sat down, can I?" He groaned and strained as he stood up. "I tell you what, I think soon we'll reach a limit on how big we can get purely based on the amount of calories we'll burn just getting up to get food."

"Not for a while yet though," Zach said.

"No, not for a while," Josh agreed, rubbing a hand through Zach's hair as he passed, his love handle brushing against Zach's arm.

As Zach relaxed, the dream that woke him up left his head. A witch was there maybe? And he was so thin! At one point, he remembered, he'd freaked out when he'd outgrown a favourite shirt, eventually leaving Josh for their friend Ellis, but he'd turned into some fatphobic twink rather than the soft sub Zach knew. He laughed to himself - outgrowing clothes was now a regular, and greatly looked forward to, occurrence.

Josh came back in and handed Zach a thick sandwich, piled high with fillings, an entire sharing bag of crisps to the side . "Anything good happen while I was out?" he asked.

Zach nodded. "Oh, yeah. The daleks and the cybermen have gone to war with those" he gestured at the screen, "mummy things."

Josh fell down on the sofa with a soft "oof!" "You're not even paying attention! You can make your own sandwich next time." He took a bite out of his own giant portion of food.

Zach looked down at his body. "Do you ever regret it?" he asked. "Getting so fat with me?"

"Well first off," Josh replied. "No. Secondly, I don't think you're in any position to call anyone fat. And thirdly, what's all this about? You going to start P90X and live off celery?"

Zach shook his head. "Just a dream I had."

"Do you?" Josh asked, peering closely at Zach. "Regret it? You've taken it a lot further than me, it's okay if you want to scale it back a bit."

Zach smiled. "No regrets," he said.

Josh returned his smile, reassured, and turned back to the TV. "Good, because I don't think you're capable of dieting."

Zach leaned over and grabbed a handful of Josh's gut. "You're one to talk. We'll see how good at dieting you are when you're my size." The two kissed.

Zach smiled as he forgot his dream entirely. No regrets.

#gainer fiction #gainer story #gaining fiction #weight gain #weight gain fiction #weight gain story #male weight gain #wg story #the Crossroads of the Goddess #the goddess cycle #i guess?

[guideoftime]

▴ — @dutifulsilence ;; Sheik & Link starter call.

   As the Royal Archivist Sheik’s job was to clean up the library, organize the Royal Books and salvage what he can. He’s spent many hours inside the library, organizing things and reading through books. He’s spent even longer hours hand copying books and rewriting the ones that needed to be fixed. Preserving Hyrule’s history was incredibly important to the Sheikah, seeing as his Tribe was often known as record keepers, who carried down the ancient legends of the Royal Family and the Heroes of Hyrule. Of Ganondorf. Sheik enjoyed his job, had actually elected to take it when Impa asked for someone to volunteer to do it. The job had, at one point, been hers. 

   No one else wanted to deal with the library and he knew why. After a hundred years, plagued by the calamity, it was bound to be a mess and what a mess it was. But Sheik loved books, loved learning, and loved learning about the history even more. His particular area of interest was with the Princess of Destiny and the Hero of Hyrule. This fascination was only fueled even more when he was inside the library, reading and collecting books.

   A part of him had hoped when reading he would find some answers to his dreams. So far, he hasn’t. 

   Being inside the Castle when it rose up from the ground had been incredibly terrifying. Sheik had grabbed as many of the important books as he could, and then when monsters started appearing he threw himself into one of the secret passages and elected that saving the books was not nearly as important. He kept a couple, stuffed in his bag, and then hid to try and protect himself. He was not dressed for combat, and the only weapon he had on him was a couple of daggers and his harp. He didn’t think he could play the monsters to death though something told him to try to. 

   The bag was tugged onto his shoulder and Sheik pulled a dagger from it, gripping it tightly in his hand as he was determined to get himself out of here. 

   Easier said than done. 

   Sheik cannot fly. He can jump and throw himself quite far, he was a rather incredible Sheikah Warrior, one of the best (don’t ask Dorian and Cado), but he could not fly. Hyrule Castle was quite high above the ground now and peering over the edge debating the way down was not fantastic. He had fought hard to get over here, had ran for the majority of it, and despite his best effort was a bit injured. Fighting in this uniform wasn’t ideal, it definitely wasn’t the Sheikah suit he was used to fighting in. 

   How the fuck was he getting down? 

   “You’re just going to have to jump, Sheik.” He tells himself, standing back up and pulling the bag off of his shoulder. He grips that tightly, spins it in the air and then throws it with everything he had. Lessening the weight on him was how he was going to protect himself. He tugged the heavy, puffy, top off and tossed it to the ground. Rolled his pants up a little bit and then reached behind him to quickly braid his hair. Clothes a bit easier to move in, and his hair not going to get in his way, Sheik moved back and got himself into a good running position. A quick count to ten, he took a breath, and then began running. 

   It’s worse than just free falling. 

   It’s like giving up control of his body. 

   He hates it. 

   When he got to the ground he hit it hard and rolled with a force that knocked the wind straight out of him. When he finally stopped rolling it felt like he hit something, which had stopped his movement. He coughed into the ground and tried to force air into his lungs, sucking in a deep breath and trying to clear his head. When he could breathe finally he pushed himself up, his chest aching with how hard his lungs were working to get air back into them. He picked his head up, hair already falling out of the braid, his crimson gaze blinked at the person above him. 

   “Hero.” Well, this was embarrassing. 

#▴ — path / royal archivist #dutifulsilence #( i hope this is okay!! ) #( sorry it got so long I wanted to give some detail! )

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Hello again!! I would like to request another matchup, but this time it’s for an Original Character of mine for Hazbin Hotel. If that’s alright.

Name: Summer Hellfire

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Pansexual (Loves everybody!)

:ENFP-J

Age: 28

Appearance: She’s 5’11” and a Doe looking demon. She has antlers like Alastor, but instead of black they’re a white, cream color. She prefers to wear suits, like Charlie, but they’re more baby blue or a light color like that; she also likes to wear skirts as well. Her style is formal but cute. She has a black nose with a round maw. Her eyes are a lovely shade of emerald green. Her fur is soft and caramel color. While she has fur she also has shoulder-blade length hair that’s a natural beautiful wave. She also has three freckles on each of her cheeks.

Personality: Oooh, boy. For starters she’s absolute definition of sunshine and optimism. Living in hell but she’s the epitome of happiness. She’s a very caring woman and always think demons should be given the benefit of the doubt. She matches Charlie and her optimism. She as well believes that there’s some good inside everyone. She loves all but hesitant at letting people getting to know her at a deeper level (I’ll get to that in a sec). But, when you make her mad, upset or insult her friends, or harm someone she cares about, man, all Hell will break loose. She will show you what she’s really capable of. She might seem like all cupcakes and rainbows, but when you get on her bad side you better prey for Luci. She can get a bit emotional at times, and worries that she’s annoys everyone by coming off too strong or too overly friendly.

Likes: Has a very large sweet tooth and loves anything sugary. What people find a bit surprising is that she loves soury sweets the most. She loves spending time with her friends. She LOVES animals!!! She appreciates going out for a few parties but she tends to be a bit of a light weight. She for sure agrees with Alastor that you’re never fully dressed without a smile. Watching the sunset and exploring the other rings.

Dislikes: Liars. Just unnecessarily rude and disrespectful people. Being an optimist, she doesn’t care for debby-downers.

Background of her character:

Summer Hellfire was born in the Wrath Ring, shockingly. But never likes to talk about her childhood as she grew up in an orphanage. Her parents never died, no, they never cared for her or loved her; they sold her away to the orphanage, leaving her behind. That’s her greatest fear: To be unwanted, unloved. That’s why she gives everyone she meets a smile or a compliment, no matter where they’re from. She moved from one home to another, over and over, but no one wanted to keep her, making her fear grow and grow. When she was too old for the orphanage, aging out, she wandered Hell with no purpose. She aimlessly wandered around the ring of gluttony, hoping to get rid of her sorrows with sweet treats. That’s when she met Bee. The Deadly Sin took her in and she basically became her big sister, finally giving her a place to belong. The moment Summer caught wind of Charlie’s Hotel, she immediately took this opportunity to give demons something her parents never did, a chance. Summer still goes to Bee’s parties when she can and as well as keeps contact with Ozz. That’s how she met Fizz and the rest of the gang and Stolas.

Yeah, is that too much background? This just turned into a character organizer, my bad, I got a bit carried away with writing the character. Sorry, but hopefully this is enough to go off of for the matchup.

~~~~~ MATCHUPS ~~~~~

HAZBIN HOTEL OC!

Vox

~~~~~ HEADCANONS ~~~~~

Vox heard of you long before you appeared by Alastors side that day he challenged him.

You were well known by every overlord as you were a hell-born close to ring leaders and the daughter of hell for crying out loud.

When the name Summer Hellfire is whispered through the overlord meetings, he just had to get a look at you. Of course, that damn deer demon had to be right there too.

Not only did you witness him get severely beaten by Alastor, but he also had to hear your giggles broadcasted on the radio for all to hear when Alastor said his peace.

Vox chose the Vees purely out of political control, sex sells, fashion sells, and no one has the attention span to stop him. It was perfect, but here, you and Miss Sunshine Princess were taking away his revenue.

He couldn't tell if the feelings he had for you were from hate or lust. So he did what he did best: hacking into your life.

Through those months of observing from the sidelines, he learned so much about you. He honestly felt horrible the more he learned because he felt like he was robbing you of the opportunity to tell him yourself.

Vox also felt really alone, which is why he surrounded himself with social media in life and death. That way, he never had to be truly alone.

The day Alastor found out what he was up to and informed you was when Vox fell head over heels for you.

You were so elegant and beautiful, half-transformed, walking into his building and asking him if he wanted to 'dance with the devil.'

Instead, he humbly apologized and expressed his desire to get to know you. Though you were hesitant to forgive him, you did let him live unscathed.

From then on, Vox made it a point to meet you in person, even if Alastor was there with you. He was going to prove to you that he was far superior to the deer demon.

You were a big influence on him, and the other Vees weren't too keen on it. Without a big TV man, how would their media sell?

When they came after you, honestly, it was surprising that before Charlie or Alastor could come to your rescue, Vox was already taking punches for you.

Of course, you are a big girl and can handle yourself soon, sending the two other Vees on their way.

After witnessing the kindness Vox had hidden deep within him, you allowed him one date to wow you, or you were out.

Oh boy did he deliver, he may be ostrizied from the porn avenue and fashion streets but he had so many other places in hell to wow you with.

Luckily, giving this odd TV man a chance allowed you to find someone who not only cared about your views and story but also was willing to be redeemed.

~~~~~ BLURB ~~~~~

Vox was watching you on the big screen in his office. You were so beautiful and honestly a little too kind. He didn't mind; he thought it was a unique quality for you. Something about your kindness and pizzazz differed from that of the princess of hell. He had been carefully observing you and the others in the hotel for a few months now, making sure to avoid Alastor at all costs due to the Radio Demons' need to interfere. He was a decent man. He never watched you or any of your friends when you were indecent or when there were severe private matters at hand. However, he was mostly always looking at you when group meetings were held, or he was aimlessly scrolling.

It was getting harder and harder to hide his growing affection for you from the Vees's they always had to be around nagging, "Wathcing that Summer chick isn't finding out how to beat Alastor," "Are you forgetting the mission here? It to be the most powerful?" or even, "We only need us three no one else why are you so interested in her?". He honestly didn't know why other than you were just different, a warm light in a dark shit hole. That's when he noticed the distortions on the screen.....fffuck. Before he knew it, every TV was shut down, and static blared through the room. Alastor caught him.

Vox was trying to figure out how to control the damage. I mean, come on, you obviously were gonna hate him. You had to. That's when he heard the front door of his tower get busted open. Rushing out to the foyer, he saw you at the end of the stairs, half-transformed and honestly gorgeous. You looked ethereal and waaaaay too damn powerful for any of the people here to take on. "DO YOU WANT TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL TV MAN?" He was taken aback by your straightforwardness before he realized you were just pissed, not actually asking that of him. He sank down to his knees and began to spew out apologies left and right about why he did what he did. Thank god the other Vees were out, and he could delete any possible media footage of this before it got out. You took pity on him for some reason, but from that moment on, he swore he would show you that he was the best for you.

~~~~~ EXTRA ~~~~~

( You and Vox were out on your first date; he was still scared and beaten from his fight but swore he was okay. Well, till it started raining)

Summer: Vox, the weather looks like it's getting bad. Why don't we head back?

Vox: Oh, a little water won't hurt me, dear. I'll be fine.

Summer: You still haven't healed fully yet. I don't think this is a good idea.

Vox: No, you told me about one date, so I will knock your socks off. I want this to work. I promised.

Summer: Vox literal sparks are shooting out of you when water touches the crack on your head. Let's head back and let you heal a little more. I'll give you another date.

Vox: (does the pointy finger thing) Promise?

#x reader #match up #headcanon #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel #hotel hazbin #hazbin #hazbin hotel x reader #lunarwritings #moons #hazbin hotel vox #vox #hazbin vox #vox x reader #vox hazbin hotel #vees #the vees

[ferinehuntress]

  ◈　 ⇢  　@zaunseye　 ⋯　 Closed Starter . 　 　 　❝ Ahri finds a meal in the middle of Zaun . ❞

　⊰ ⸻ ⊱ 　𝐀𝐡𝐫𝐢 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐲. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 　 the way this dark-haired woman berated a rat vastaya. There was no hunt in it, she simply killed him and laughed over the dead body as he suffered. something about 'too many rats anyway' and 'one less body to worry over'. Ahri's tongue brushed over her lips, the smell of her beating heart echoing into her ears. The hunters always became the hunted when their arrogance gave wind. She could smell it, the sickenly twist of bitterness made her nose scrunch up. Golden eyes peered down at the group she joined with. A scrawny man barely at five feet, a fish-like vastaya with fins against the top of her head, and the average height of her prey, with dark brown hair and scars across her face. Her pale skin spoke of little sunlight, but her scars spoke of battles once fought.

　Claws dug into the stone as she crouched, her tails flicking around. The woman didn't even know she was dead yet, but she was. The moment Ahri decided she would be her prey, her sentence was set. As the trio wandered into the alleyway, Ahri dropped down and dragged her claws against the ground. The sound caused the group to twist around. They were already in her grasp, as she released the pheromones, lulling their senses. She didn't care what scent it took on for them, all she knew was that it had infected their minds, drugging them to her control as she let out a little yelp. She stood up on her feet, her claws digging into the ground. Each tail reached out and grabbed the fish vastaya and the scrawny man and shoved them against the walls.

　"Run," Ahri whispered, as she twisted her pheromones to immediately induce fear. The woman who had been so arrogantly confident suddenly produced wide eyes of terror and twisted on her feet to run. Her hand reached for the knife as Ahri lowered down and started to change. Blood pumped through the veins, fear permeating the air as Ahri fed upon it. She jumped up against the wall as the 90-degree turn and lept forward, slamming the woman onto the ground. She slashed with a knife, cutting into Ahri's arm as Ahri grabbed her wrist and broke her hand. A guttural scream of pain left the woman's mouth as Ahri got off of her and slammed her up against the wall. She let out an eerie fox scream, only causing the other to panic.

　Immediately, her mouth wrapped around the woman's throat, and clamped down shut. The woman screamed and struggled, blood choking in her throat as Ahri refused to let go. Despite all her struggles, Ahri just bit down harder and dragged her back as she felt the woman punching and fighting. Slowly it died down, though the woman wasn't dead yet. Letting go of her neck, she ripped at her skin, eating at her flesh. The woman was gurgling with terror and pain as Ahri started to feast upon her alive. Foxes started to eat their prey when they were living.

　Her ears flicked forward though, and her claws pressed down against the woman's chest as she struggled and kicked in pain, her claws digging right over the woman's heart as she looked forward. She could smell the presence of a man, and her tails spread out, all nine of them. She snapped her jaws, as blood coated down her chin, dripping onto the woman's face as the woman was slowly dying underneath her grasp. Ahri's display didn't speak words, but actions.

　This is my prey. I found it first!

　The growl echoed, as she swallowed down the meat as her mouth watered. Still watching the man, she allowed a scent to weave through the air, working to charm him. Enough so that he did not interfere, she would not give up her dinner. Immediately she looked down and using her other hand, started to draw out the essence of the woman, the glowing blue light swirled around her hand as she could feel the life in the essence.

　She would feed well tonight.

#zaunseye #[ panda speaks ] — tracker . #thread: monster meets monster #cw: cannibalism #I mean is it really? Ahri isn't human but well... better safe then sorry #cw: gore #cw: blood

[valentinaancunin]

So hey I finally finished that story, I hope people enjoy it. Be mindful that I am NOT a writer but I'm proud of this story. THIS CONTENT IS MATURE, CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, DEATH, CHILD LOSS, AND GORE

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Background information on the future reading material

Hello! This is going to be some background on why I’m writing this, what inspired me, and how this is going to be portrayed. For starters, this is going to be a sort of fan fiction/character origin story prior to the events of Baldur’s Gate 3, a game inspired by D&D with roleplaying aspects and turn-based fighting. The character I am writing about is Theresa “Onyx'' Blackhand. Onyx hails from the colder northern region, Icewind Dale. She lived in a small rural area called Aneira with her adoptive brother, Tanith, and her mother, Eulalie. The year is 1490, two years before the events of Baulder’s Gate 3, and it is set in the height of winter, a rather awful blizzard is running its course through the town and our adventurer is going to see the apex of nature's wrath. This story is going to be told in the eyes of our main character, of course.

Some background on me, the writer (who isn’t the best at writing). My name is Ava but I go by Valentina online and I am an artist and dungeon master! D&D has inspired a lot of what I do and the media/games I play, and in general, has changed my life for the betterment of my creativity. The Baldur’s Gate community has given me so many amazing artists, writers, and players to be inspired by, not to mention the writers and actors who are in the game itself. I wouldn’t be where I am today without the inspiration of others, friends, and partners who encouraged me to pursue my passions of the fantasy and D&D worlds I’ve created. This is a test and dedication to the many more worlds, characters, and friends I’ll make along the way through shared interests. I thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read my rambling and indulge in one of my favorite characters I have come up with, background, gameplay, and story wise. 

Winter, 1490; A Warm Welcome

Howling, freezing wind cuts through me like a blade, cutting right through the layers of wool and hide I wear out in this tundra. My face is burning, hair covered in a thick coating of ice, sticking to my scalp and face like tree sap.

“Is this the clearing Tanith was talking about? This is awfully deep in these woods…” I said to myself, wondering how he could navigate through this storm. This winter has been worse than in seventy years, he shouldn’t be outside now anyways. Mother is getting worried sick about him. This is the third time this week I’ve had to dig him out of trouble, little wriggly worm he is. “Tanith? Tanith! Where are you? It’s too late to be outside, the storm gets worse at night!” I yelled out into the clearing, but my words were quickly snuffed out by the wind once again. Just as I was about to give up and find help, torch light shines through the clearing, Tanith standing there with that slimy grin on his face.

“I knew you would find me! Now c’mon, there’s something I want to show you!” he shouts as he darts off into the tundra again. I chase after him despite my skeleton shaking in this cold. Why is winter so brutal this year? Mother and Tanith have been acting strangely as of late. My heart is racing, where is he leading me? We finally stop running as we reach the top of a cliff, surprisingly high above the city below. The lights are mesmerizing, staring down into the flurry of snow and ice almost seems magical beneath the tons of houses and factories brimming with life. 

“You know, I’m glad you dragged me out here. This is a wonderful sight to see” saying as I grab him into a side hug, holding him tightly for warmth and security. 

“You really need to stop going out at odd hours of the night, Mother is getting worried sick about your habits as of late”

“I know she is but I’m restless! Being inside all day is no fun, and I can’t see friends through all of this snow! I can’t wait for winter to end” Tanith says in an unhappy huff, burying his face into my coat. There’s a certain unease in the air tonight when the wind stops blowing, it slowly wraps my heart in black tendrils and brings sweat to my brow. 

“I know, I can’t either. Say, how about we go back home now? There’s still some sweet rolls left over.”

“There are? You didn’t eat them all?” 

“Not yet!” I say, darting off in the direction we came, Tanith close behind. He passes me in just a few strides, the speedy bastard. He has always been fast, no matter if he’s carrying heavy wood or our mountain of a dog. We finally reach the back door of our cabin and burst in, letting out a sigh of relief as we feel the warmth of the fire seeping throughout the house. Mother is sitting by the fire, we startled her by bursting into the door unannounced.

“There you two are, I was getting worried sick! You look positively dreadful Theresa, sit by the fire.” Mother says, wrapping a wool shawl over my shoulders and gesturing towards the large wooden chair. Tanith joins me shortly, bringing a tray of sweet rolls with him. His eyes are glistening but something is missing, his usual spark of joy is no longer there. There’s something he isn’t telling me.

A dreadful proposal

We all retired for the night but I can’t sleep, my head is spinning and my heart is racing. Were the sweet rolls bad? Was I out in the cold too long? I can’t be sure, but time is at a standstill and I am tossing like mad. Minutes felt like hours but before I knew it, our front door swung open. Mother and Tanith weren’t awake, so it must have been the wind. I got up in a dizzying state and stumbled out of my room to close the door when I saw this man standing in the door frame, almost filling it out, the light from the fire making his features positively grim. His stature was sunken although he was built to the nines, his face looked like a husk of a man, his arms, big and dead, like a once mighty oak tree taken by rot and decay. Is this man undead?

He stood in pure silence as he took a step into my home, halfway to me already with his long stride, and stopped mere inches from me. I can see the whites of his eyes, or what would be white if they weren’t bloodshot and glassy. Finally seeing his face in the light, he was covered in blood. I tried to gain my composure quickly and grab something, anything, to hit him with, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and knocked me out cold. The next few hours I would fade in and out of consciousness, seeing snow pass underneath me, then cobble, finally back to snow. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m worried about my family. What has he done to them? Are they even alive? My head is pulsing with pain and heat, a roaring heat as if I were in the depths of Avernus. We were going uphill on rocky terrain, the dense wood of a carriage underneath me hits my bones with each bump like stone.

After almost a day had passed, I awoke in a chair, bound at my wrists and my ankles tied to each leg. Why am I receiving this punishment? Did I see something I wasn’t supposed to see looking over that cliff? I let the memory flood my mind and I couldn’t see anything but snow blowing across my vision and the twinkling of the lanterns below. Looking around the room, it’s more like a cell. A singular bed roll laid in a dark corner, a wash basin, and an old door, about to fall off its hinges if it took a single blow. The air is rather humid, thick with the smell of iron and wet stone. I look at my restraints and they seem simple to break out of, too simple, in fact. Just as I try to move towards a wall, someone walks into the cell. It’s the same man as before, but now I can see his face. Dirty brown hair, gray eyes that hold no glint of light in them, and a rather large nose, badly patched up after a break. His face screams a hard, tortured life. 

Before I know it, he strides over and unties my restraints, grabs my arm tightly, and makes me stand. I tried to land a blow with my other arm, but he grabbed my fist in an instant.

“Who are you?! What have you done with my family?” I shouted, looking over this shell of a man. His body ached and creaked like an old house, and I can see the outline of his muscle and bone on every part of exposed skin.

“Mustn't talk, the Lord is waiting” he said with a deep voice, almost vibrating the air around him. There was something otherworldly about him. Is this the work of a necromancer? “He needs to see you. Your family is waiting.” he leans in, and whispers ever so softly “I don’t want to have to hurt you again, the Lord is making me hunt others for his game of cat and mouse.” His eyes finally have life to them, wet pearls of sadness and regret. His breath smelled of rot, his hair was as stiff as straw. How many others did he bring to this “Lord” he spoke of? What is going to happen to me? 

With my arm still held by this undead husk, we walked a short distance to an audience hall. Decorated lavishly with gold and marble, red carpets, dark wooden chairs and tables, and statues of hardly clothed men and women, all eyeing a chair in the center of the room. I see them, my family, finally after what felt like an eternity. The stranger lets my arm free and I rush over to where they stand, clinging onto both my brother and mother so tight.

“Tanith… Aneira, I never thought I would see you again, where are we?” I glance above Mother’s head and see the snow building up through an unreasonably large window. The day is bright, almost blinding against the snow. I’m in familiar territory, thankfully.

“Theresa I hadn’t a clue where you were! I awoke to such an awful sound when those men came in and grabbed Tanith and I. My heart felt like it was leaping out of my chest. At least we have you now, my love.” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. Just as this sweet moment couldn’t get any better, the double doors at the end of the audience room open, creaking and moaning with every movement. 

“Ahh, these are our most esteemed guests then, hm? I was expecting more… hardened looking people for being a family of lumberjacks, afterall. My name is Lord Ransley, it is a pleasure to meet you." The man spoke, confident, dominant, and radiant. He was eyeing me curiously, looking for something within my appearance that I hadn’t a clue what he wanted to see. He carried a tome on his hip, lined in gold and the cover had a yawning mouth with a purple gem shoved into the center. This has to be the necromancer of the house, and apparently the Lord as well. Looking around again, the unseen halves of the statues were all bone and muscle remnants, real muscle and bone. The room stunk of decay and humid bodies. “You are rather extraordinary, you know? A half-elf with such muscle definition, tall stature, and eyes that hold the world within them…” Ransley says again, walking around me like a curious dog, grazing his hand over my biceps and back. I shift away from his touch, feeling a rush of cold go down my spine. He grabs a lock of my hair and shudders, as if he’s enjoying himself, pleasuring himself to my physique. 

“What exactly are you looking for in me, your lordship,” I said harshly “and why knock out and kidnap my family, bring them to an unknown house, and gawk at them? Is this for your own sick pleasure?” I spat, locking eyes with this short statured freak.

“Ohh, feisty are we? Fret not, my large friend, I will answer your questions after you answer one of mine. Then you and your family will be able to go back home and live your lives as they were.”

He paces around me, studying my figure until he gets right in front of me and asks “Your father had something of mine that he stole, and gave it to you. That large steel amulet you wear, it belongs to me. I know what power it contains, and I know that you can’t live without it. How does having cold lungs feel, little love? If you give me back that necklace, I may just help you with your affliction, but if not… Well, your family is not going anywhere.” Little Love. The nickname dad gave to me. Hearing the words was like a sharp puncture in my diaphragm. 

How does he know about my lungs? I’ve had this affliction ever since I was young, I caught a cold and since then I have had an icy cold breath that can freeze anything it touches. This amulet is the one thing that keeps me able to keep breathing without freezing the world around me. I can’t risk letting this go, even if it is Ransley’s. I have to figure out a way out of this house with my family. Ransley slips a hand to my neck and pulls the necklace out from under my collar, eyeing it lovingly. His breath is hot on my skin as he puts his lips to my ear and whispers “We can accomplish so much together, little love.”

“You want me to give up the thing that makes me able to breathe normally? Do you want your house to be in icy ruin?” I say, my anger rising with each touch and word he says.

“No, my dear, it would be a shame to see my lovely home go down. Are you really not going to give me back my possessions?” he says, taking a stride towards my family “Pity… I thought you would be smarter than this.” He walks up to Tanith, who is as white as snow, and puts a hand under his chin, studying his features.

“If you have a quarrel with me, then keep me here. My family doesn’t need to be a part of this. They never were in the first place.”

Aneira and Tanith are humans, they have lived only a fraction of the life I have lived. They deserve to live their lives to the fullest, I fear that Ransley is planning something drastic.

“Fine, if you will not give me that amulet, I will take it off of your corpse. You will make a fine addition to the many beautiful faces I have in my war room” he says, as he turns away to grab a sword displayed on a plaque behind a large chair. He touches the blade, running his fingers along the edge in ecstacy, as if he’s going to enjoy hurting me. Looking around the room, there are two guards. Easy targets, they aren’t as strong as me and they can barely hold the hammers they’re equipped with I think to myself. How are Aneira and Tanith going to escape? The double doors Ransley had previously pranced through is the only way out. I give each of them a shove. “Aneira, Tanith, run!!” I shout at them, darting for the hammer a guard is equipped with, knocking him on the floor with one shoulder charge. He falls to the floor, the flesh under his armor breaks off in chunks and his bones shatter once they hit the ground. More undead. Turning to face Ransley, he is running towards me, sword pointed towards me. I thrust my hammer and knock his sword off its course, and take a swing at him. I hear bones crack, it hits, by the Gods it hits. 

After he gets his footing again, he steadies his gaze towards me, preparing for a swing. I brace and block his first blow, his arm going limp at his side. From his other sleeve, he pulls out a dagger and slices across my shoulder, a deep cut that would take a while to heal. I wince out in pain and his eyes light up like a fire. What a sick, twisted freak. With a one armed swing, I knock the dagger out of his hand and strike another blow quickly with my hammer. Something is welling up in my chest. It’s warm and radiant, I feel strength ebbing out of me.

“Listen to me, Lord, I have no clue why my father stole this amulet from you, but you aren’t getting it back. You threatened my family and my life, you have no right to hurt my family. I will end you swiftly and painfully, for you have no say in my fate!” I say, and as the words roll off my tongue, the hammer I wield is basked in a radiant light. Power. I feel power flowing through me, a divine power. Who granted me this power matters not, at this moment I have my opponent under my grip. Ransley’s arm is limp at his side, he still wields his sword in the other. He lunges at me, swinging his sword from above, I block with the handle of my hammer. Even with one arm, he is still rather strong. Taking a good look at his physique, he himself is partially undead, he has great strength but each blow he takes, he weakens. I fling him off with a side swipe and take a swing at his back, hitting his tailbone and knocking him on the floor. With one hand, I sit him forward and drop my hammer. Taking swings at him, my fists get coated in crimson. His breathing is shallow and slow, I drop him back on the floor with a loud thud and pick up the hammer. My breaths are short and icy, the coldness in my lungs is unbearable. Looking down at Ransley, I broke his nose and jaw pretty good. He won’t be standing up any time soon. His breathing is gargled and mashed, his windpipe must be broken. I need to let him suffer a slow death, choking on his blood and bile until his last breath exits his lips. 

After leaving the audience hall and taking a look around, I find Lord Ransley’s room. In my search, I found his personal journal which reads “Barnes stole the Amulet of Curse Binding from me and gave it to his sick, weak daughter. Pathetic. If she is too weak to shake an illness, she is too weak to live. I will find him one way or another, our deal isn’t finished.” Deal? What deal had my father made? Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now. I don’t suspect that Ransley will recover from a crushed windpipe. Flipping through the journal, another entry catches my attention. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand, my bones are brittle and weak. My flesh is starting to fall off of me. Myrkul needs to hear his servant, to provide his blessing unto me.”I shudder at the thought of being an undead, having no control of the decay of your physical form while you remain conscious sounds like the ninth circle of Avernus. As I put the journal in my pack, that blinding light illuminates my vision again. A woman in white robes, with even whiter hair, stands before me. 

“Child of light, I am the spirit Evangeline. You show great power in judgment and vengeance. I have imbued you with the divine power I once had. I propose an oath to you, an Oath of Vengeance, avenge those who have fallen to dark powers and dark people, cast out evil from this world in my name and spirit, oh divine vessel. Your hammer is your oath, and your divine being is my spirit. This is my word.” 

She disappeared as soon as the last word was uttered from her mouth. Was this my purpose now? To purge the blights of evil from this world? I bolted out of the room and my head started spinning. I was too enthralled in a fight and forgot where my family had gone. Rushing through the seemingly endless halls of this house, I found more guards and the mysterious man who kidnapped us all waiting for me at the exit, my family lying on the floor. They peered up at me with glossy eyes, pleading for me to go and leave them to the guards. The mystery man tilted his head up and gave me a nod and after, he whips a sword out of his coat and stabs the guard on his left until he collapses to the ground. I take a stride and aim at the next guard rushing towards me, striking true to his jaw. It snaps in an awful, bone chilling sound and he kneels, screaming in blood coated words. With one hand, I take Tanith and the man takes Aneira.

We rush through the doors and the wind chill strikes all of us, a familiar and welcome feeling to that of the house of Ransley. Outside was still bone chilling, but it wasn’t the uneasy feeling inside that overly decorated audience hall. 

“Onyx, what happened? Why does he want your amulet? What deal was that man talking about?” Tanith said, giving me a scared look. Something about his gaze is telling, like he knows what’s about to happen.

“I don’t know, but you remember why I wear it, right?”

“Yes, it keeps the cold away from you” he said, his face easing into a soft smile, but his eyes lack any reflection. What in the hells had they done to him in the time I wasn’t there to protect him? To protect Aneira?

I take a look at Aneira and she is as white as a sheet, her eyes fixated on me. I can’t see her breath in the air, is she breathing? I let go of Tanith and grabbed her, shaking her. “Aneira? Aneira! Listen to me! Are you alright, can you hear me?”I screamed, shaking her shoulders. Her eyes are still fixated where I was standing, she’s as cold as a corpse. I look at the undead man, and he looks just the same. Snapping back at Tanith, he is starting to freeze. “Tanith! Please, no! What is happening to everyone?!” I scream, looking back at the door to see a blood stained and cripled Ransley, holding a staff covered in arctic shards. Rage is overflowing again, seeing my family frozen to the ground, my second chance at raising a child has flown out the window. I won’t let him get away with killing what I love.

“You see, Onyx, this is what happens when you don’t give me what I’m rightfully owed!” he screams, waving the staff in a circular motion with his one good arm, bringing in more snow and cold. He is surrounded in an undead green light, the work of the God of Death. I should have broken both arms. I dart out of the blast radius before he unleashes a winter like I’ve never seen. One look back where my family stood and they were gone, frozen to the land they stood on. Aneira, Tanith, and this man who helped me without even knowing who I was. Gone. A rage like no other fills my senses as I take a look at the scrawny man in the doorway, ready to cast another spell. Hammer in hand, I run over screaming and jump, hammer overhead and ready to strike down on his head. As the hit lands, divine light shines and I see the whites of his eyes gleam one last time before his skull is split in two, mashed beyond recognition. I keep whaling on him, beating his skull in until it’s a mashed pile of bone, flesh, and blood.

I fall to the ground, crying so hard that I can’t see. My tears cling to my face as they freeze in this awful weather. How did this all happen so fast? How can I go home now, with so many memories of raising Tanith and aiding Aneira through her remaining years? The remaining hope I had for a family is now gone, frozen, and it hurts like no other pain I’ve felt before. I stare at Ransley’s corpse, wondering how he found me in the first place. The staff he wields even in death, it’s cold to the touch but brimming with the Weave. It’s a very powerful item, and I’m taking it as a reminder. A heirloom of a necromancer, the undead prick who stole my life in one day.

I’m coming home

I stayed at the Ransley estate for two days after the incident, seeking and searching for who he was and why he wanted this Amulet. I found out that Evangeline was his wife, who he murdered for his own sick and twisted pleasure. He logged his thoughts after he pleasured himself to her corpse, but he never turned her into one of his thralls. She was only, what seemed to be, in her early twenties from the pictures I found that weren’t torn to shreds. In the basement of this house was where she was kept, and still remains. Her hair as white as snow and she was dressed in white robes, as I saw her in my divine vision. The ground outside is too hard to dig for a grave, so I fashioned a small circle out of wood and carved a prayer into it. Wrapping her in a burlap cloth and laying her on her back, I placed the prayer on her and took a moment of silence. I did this for those outside as well, since I can’t give them a proper burial yet. These last two days have been rather gruesome and depressing, but I need to press on. I need to go home and set out on the quest Evangeline gave me to purge the world of evil. 

I take what rations of food I can find, some clothing and furs as well, and set off back to the cabin. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too far away from this estate. I didn’t even need to make camp and I made it back by dusk. The door was still swung open from when the undead man opened it last, the common area full of snow. My mind still wanders, what was it that Tanith was hiding? Throughout the whole ordeal, he was a husk of his normal, happy self. I may never know now, now that Ransley and his guards took away that young boy who I almost considered my son. My son? He might as well have been, I was there from the moment he emerged into this world from his late mother, who I never learned of other than when she was in labor with him. Aneira, the lady of this cabin, a seamstress who took care of me when I had no place to go after father died, is a frozen corpse. She took me in and treated me like one of her own, even though her own had already gone and made lives for themselves. Oh gods, if I ever run into them, how can I tell them of her fate?

I shut the door, its hinges almost froze over in my absence. Heading to the upper portion of the cabin, I feel that grip in my chest that I felt before. This isn’t some bad dream where I’ll wake up and they will be downstairs, making a fire and telling stories. I peer into my old room, everything is just as I left it. The furs along my bed still shifted off, the small shelf filled with books and trinkets I collected out in the dense forest. I grab a few sentimental belongings, books, and more furs and stuff them into my pack. Was this the only reason I had come here? I walked my way over to Tanith’s room, his room is in pristine condition. He had always been very neat, so it’s no surprise to me. His clothes are in a neat pile on a dresser, so small. He was barely twelve years old. I searched his room, trying to keep things as they were when he left them. I found a note stashed away in a book on dreams and premonitions. When had he gotten this? He usually only read memoirs on nature and animals, he wasn’t spiritual. Well, at least I thought so. I unfold the note and it’s addressed to me. Me? How? I begin reading his sloppy handwriting, and I get my answer. He knew how he was going to end, Aneira, too. He knew I would have been given the gifts of a Paladin from Evangeline. He wrote an excerpt on how this amulet protects me from cold spells, curses of the winter, and the inability to slip on icy surfaces. “I don’t understand how, but the amulet that you wear is filled with magic from a lady with white hair who keeps me safe at night. She isn’t a goddess or a human, something in between? I think so. Well, Barnes had stolen the amulet from someone named Ransley when he found the lady with white hair stowed away in the basement. The amulet has some of her power stored in it and whoever wears it will have their sickness or weaknesses taken away. There was someone who took care of her, a tall man named Marcus. She doesn’t talk about him much, but he has gray eyes. If you’re worried about me, I’ll be with Evangeline, so I’ll still be around! I love you, Mom”

Mom. He called me mom. Fighting tears isn’t possible anymore, they stream down my face as I clutch the note in my hand. This amulet has been imbued with the power of a demigod, Evangeline. She was a demigod? Ransley had kidnapped her and made her his wife. The undead man finally has a name, Marcus. I wish I had known this sooner, or else I would have carved that into his prayer. Tanith had been visited by Evangeline many nights before we had been taken away, he told her about the events that unfolded two days ago, and that he wasn’t going to make it. No wonder he hadn’t been himself, he knew his time had come. Marcus had been a caretaker to Evangeline, and that’s why she was locked away until she perished. He had also stood up to Ransley and failed, he got turned into his own personal thrall. Ransley’s staff has the power to dominate minds in a simple flick of the wrist. I wish I had known sooner, I wish I had known what Tanith was told. I could have turned the tides in our favor, maybe even saved everyone and just killed Ransley. He was never deserving of the title of Lord anyhow, he had servants through mind control and a very strong essence of undead power through Myrkul. 

I fold the letter closed and clutch it to my chest, trying to stifle back more tears. Things could have been different if I had been awake earlier, if I had heard Aneira and Tanith walk downstairs to investigate the noises of Marcus breaking in. All of his life, I told him I was his sister. I never wanted to form an attachment like I did to my child, although she never lived long enough to see the light of day. It seems that him and I both grew that attachment towards each other, but reading “mom” at the end of that letter let's me know that I did my best for him.  What’s done is done now, I can no longer regret the past. I set down the book, and turn away from his room. Walking outside again after grabbing materials and rations, I take one last look at the cabin door, pressing my hand onto the jagged wood. As my fingertips leave the wood, I turn and make my way to Baldur’s Gate city. Neverwinter is closer, but there’s more promise for me in the great gate. This is it, this is my destiny. This is the thing I had been longing for my whole life. A purpose with true direction, no longer am I just riding the waves of fate.

Five months later

I’ve made it to Rivington, a small area just outside of the Lower City. I finally made it out of the cold and harsh winter I used to live in. The warmth of this area is unfamiliar, the many layers I wear are beginning to be too warm. I have to figure out a place to stay. 

After venturing a bit outside of Rivington, I found an abandoned shed. I set my pack down and make preparations for the night, which rolls in quickly. There’s a ladder propped up on the side of the shed and I climb up it. The stars shine bright tonight. Taking a look around, I spot the area of the cursed Shadow Lands, which fell to be that way over one hundred years ago. It gives me chills to even think of what lies in the depths of those lands. Turning away, I lay down on the roof of the shed and drift off to sleep. The city is just ahead, all I have to do is make my way there before I have no strength to do so. I can start anew, a new life and a new purpose. May my dreams take me to where I belong. 

Dawn is slow to come, the sunrise coats the land in a lush light. The green of the grass, the smell of fresh bread and fried fish is in the air already. I make my way to the pass into the Lower City and get a pass through the Flaming Fist guards, giant mechanical beings called Steel Watchers patrol the gate and surrounding streets. Everywhere is very heavily guarded, something I’m really not used to seeing. The loudness of people talking, merchants shouting, and businesses bustling with music and conversation alike was almost too overwhelming. Shifting through crowds and guards, I make my way into Wyrm’s Crossing’s tower. A man named Lord Enver Gortash resides in the upper levels apparently. The word “Lord” still doesn’t sit right with me. 

After many hours of talking and bartering with guards, I gained a pass into the Lower City where I am appointed as a body to the courthouse judges during trials. Court hearings vary in length, but by night I try to catch criminals and assassins who stalk the streets, waiting for someone unarmed to strike at. I interrogated one of the assassins I captured and found out he was an assassin of Bhaal before I sent him into a coma and threw him into the sewer. There’s a Bhaal cult around here? If so, I will do my best to inform the Flaming Fists and the city watch alike. Over the next few months, I was a personal bodyguard to the courthouse during the day, gaining my own personal set of armor and a hammer with the symbol I chose for Evangeline, whose presence I can still feel around me like a warm hug. I am adorned with silver and black plate armor, paired with chainmail underneath. During my time in the Lower City, my heartache to be in nature grew. I missed the vast lushness of trees, seeing a pair of white foxes chase each other in the snow and pounce at one another. Finding a remote spot in the forest in spring time and taking a short swim in a lake nearby the cabin, the warm breeze flowing through my hair. The city lacked any sort of bucolic surroundings, maybe a bush here and there. It felt like a cage, but with open air and no bars. After some time, I was able to afford my own place. A small apartment near the courthouse, where I raised plants and kept small creatures who would wander into my home. I may just like this life I have, even if I don’t have what I once cherished. Something inside of me is saying that this is only the beginning of a long journey ahead.

A year from now

Things were as good as ever, a decent week at court thankfully and I found a new cat to take care of, who I named Apricot since she was the same color as one. I was cooking her a fish when I heard citizens screaming, and the thunderous roar of something in the sky. I rushed out of my balcony door to see a giant ship with tentacles and a shell hovering over the city. What in the gods name is this? I thought to myself. I put Apricot in a safe space under my bed and threw on my armor. I gave her some pets goodbye and ran out of my apartment. I was directing citizens to a safe house when another one of those living ships appeared right above the street I was standing on. The tentacles rained down and anyone who had been touched by them evaporated into them. I had to get more out of here, I had to save more citizens from an untimely death.

 Just as the thought flew into my mind, I felt the slimy touch of the tentacle across my mouth. I blinked and I was on the ship. I had to be. So were so many Baldur’s Gate citizens. A strange looking woman with green skin was trying to break out of her binds when a large tentacled freak held up its hand and put her to sleep. Mind flayers. By the Gods, a mind flayer ship? I had only heard of them in books and tall tales, I had no idea they were actually real. The mind flayer levitated towards me and held out his hand, I had gone unconscious. In my dreams, I saw my old fireplace, crackling and filling the living room with warmth. Tanith and Aneira, sitting in their chairs, beckoning me to sit by the fire. I couldn’t move, I had no control over my body. As the sweet moment filled my senses, it quickly faded away. The room imploded and snow and ice shards swirled around the two people I adored. I tried to scream, but no sound came out of my aching lungs, only more ice and snow. I snapped my head upward to see Ransley’s face looming over me, his smug smile decaying like the rest of his features. His eyes pierced right through me, as if he was trying to intimidate my soul.

 As soon as I was put to sleep, I was awake. Days had passed. No, weeks? I couldn’t tell. My stomach ached, I needed to eat, I was in a cold sweat. I looked around with what little room I had, the strange woman was still asleep in her pod across from me. The same mind flayer from before was looming over a large, fleshy basin full of an acidic smelling liquid. He pulled a worm-like thing from the basin and levitated over to the strange woman, holding his hand out so she would stare directly at the worm. It latched onto her face and snuck right into her eyeball. Oh Gods, is he going to put one in me next? Just as the thought occurs, he is back to fishing out another worm. Or maybe they were tadpoles? He picks out another one and locks eyes with me, its eyes orange and radiating malice. As he is floating towards me, I try to turn my head away, only to have it snap into place with the flick of its wrist. The tadpole screeched with a psionic power that hurt the innermost parts of my mind, and secured itself into my orbital socket. I slip into unconsciousness again. My new life, taken from me once again. Who was going to take care of Apricot? Who is going to keep the streets safe at night? I need to figure out how to get off this ship and go back to Baldur’s Gate.

#halsin silverbough #bg3 halsin #halsin bg3 #halsin #bg3 tav #bg3 shitpost #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 #shadowheart #lae'zel #minthara #karlach #oc #my ocs #my oc character #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #minsc #jaheira #story

[nfr89s]

Jason Todd with a ‘swiftie’ s/o headcanon

Jason Todd (dc) x gender neutral swiftie! reader

warnings : english is not my first language, so there’s probably a grammar error somewhere lol, just fluff and domestic stuffs

He would jam to Taylor Swift with you. Hype her up with you whenever she drops a new album/re-record her stolen albums.

When you are brewing your favorite drink in the morning —in his oversized shirt that smells like him— he comes to the kitchen, hugging you from behind, kissing your shoulder and hair softly. Daylight is playing softly in the background.

“I once believed love would be burning red, but it’s golden. Like daylight…”

“You’re my daylight,” he said, kissing your head, then swaying you both left and right gently to the romantic song.

Definitely sit next to you when you’re going through a ticket war online. Cheering with you if you got it, and comforting you if you don’t. (I honestly don’t know what concert ticket war is like lmao).

When midnight was released, he stayed up with you and listened to the album together. He’s giving you tissues when ‘You’re On Your Own, Kid’ started to play.

I don’t know why, but I feel like his favorite albums are Fearless and 1989..

I can see him jamming to Mr. Perfectly Fine, Anti-Hero, Haunted, and Wonderland.

His favorite activity is playing a vinyl record of your favorite album and dance the night away together.

A car ride is not a car ride without a karaoke session.

“Didn't they tell us don't rush into things? Didn't you flash your green eyes at me? Didn't you calm my fears with a Cheshire cat smile?”

The car windows are open, the night wind in your hair makes you look more beautiful than ever. His eyes are twinkling with adornment everytime he takes a glance at you. Your voice singing along to the song and the sight of you in his leather jacket flutters his heart. It was a perfect night for the both of you.

Cooking and baking together in the evening. The two of you have a tradition of baking a pie together while listening to ‘Evermore’ when fall comes (an underrated album btw). The sweet smell of pie is not the only thing filling up the room, yours and Jason’s laughter are heard from your shared kitchen.

“What must it be like, to grow up that beautiful? With your hair falling into place like dominoes. My mind turns your life into folklore, I can't dare to dream about you anymore.”

The yellowing leaves are falling down outside, and the air started to become a little bit chilly. Candles are being lit as the two of you eat the pie you two just baked. You’re just rambling about how your day was, Jason is sitting next to you, with his half eaten pie on his plate, putting all of his attention on you. 

Wasn’t surprised when your spotify wrapped number 1 artist is Taylor Swift.

He secretly made a playlist full of Taylor’s songs that remind him of you. You never find out because he’s good at keeping it a secret.

Before you started dating, he knew you like Taylor Swift, cause you ramble about her to your friends almost all the time. So he listens to her songs, and the next time you two get the chance to talk, he can use her as a conversation starter. (mastermind moment).

a/n : helloooo, this is my first time posting my writing, I hope it’s good enough <3 have a nice day/night, love u <3

#jason todd headcanon #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x swiftie!reader #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood headcanon #dc #🦢 — becky's dc file