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capslocked · 4 months

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PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

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

3K notes · View notes

hitoshiyoshi · 2 years

Text

devotion | todoroki shouto

synopsis ↬ shouto will do anything for you to join the todoroki bloodline

warnings ↬ BARELY EDITED, arranged marriage, yandere, implied virginity loss, noncon/dubcon? (consent is implied but not said), cheating? (the reader isn't dating but is talking to someone), manipulation, quirk use, dr*gging (aphrodisiac), the reader has a quirk (dual or half-water half-fire), mention of past child abuse, bribery, bride-price (?), you have an ill parent, slow burn with important details in the buildup, mild bakugou slander, orgasm denial, choking, creampie, let me know if I've forgotten something

pairings ↬ yandere!pro-hero!todoroki shouto x f!reader (she/her pronouns used)

word count ↬ 13.4k

Anxious footsteps pace throughout your family's home for the entirety of the day. Nearly every room had been refurbished and decorated with new exquisite objects; vastly different from the usually peaceful and simplistic setting that you were used to. Expensive paintings and unique ornaments are strung along the walls, refining your home while, in the process, making you feel out of place. Various cleaners were brought to help tidy the house while other drastic measures were taken for one 'special' day. Your mother meticulously scrutinized every detail, checking to make sure each nook and cranny was spotless. It took days of countless trial and error for her to feel a sense of security in the newly renovated home. However, while your mother was satisfied with the results, you strongly hated them.

The home you first entered as a newborn and took your first steps into adulthood had been uplifted and changed before your eyes. Of course, your mother wouldn't listen to any of your whining or complaints. Always shutting down your questions or ignoring you when you try to inquire about her strange decisions. By now, you were used to her being dismissive about each of her design choices. When she asked you to assist her in the final preparations, you weren't fazed by her skittish demeanor; she'd been acting like this since the beginning. The whole day was spent cooking and finalizing the decor of your home until your mother could breathe a sigh of relief.

When asking your mother why the preparations were so intricate and time-consuming, as she sliced some vegetables for a stew, she replied:

"The Todoroki Family will be coming over tonight for dinner." She explained her desire to make your home welcoming for them. It had been some years since you had seen the entire family together, specifically the patriarch, Todoroki Enji.

Natsuo and Fuyumi became familiar faces in your family home over the past few months. It was a kind gesture; they would always make sure to stop over and greet your parents after making a brief stop in your town. The eldest brother, Touya, would write you letters despite being detained in Tartarus. After all these years, you had forgotten his face. It wasn't until you saw his arrest on the news a few years ago that you realized how deeply you missed him. Seeing his reappearance made you emotional but after receiving some of his handwritten letters, you felt more at ease although haunted by his actions. Finally, he paid the unfortunate price for his villainous crimes.

The only member of their family you were excited to see was Shoto.

Years have passed since he graduated from U.A. High School and was now working as a pro-hero and sidekick for his father, Endeavor. Patrolling and training seemed to take a toll on his ability to see you. Being an understanding best friend, you decided not to bother him about his busy schedule since it was something he did not have control over. The time he couldn't spend in person was made up with your late-night calls that would continue until the early hours of the morning. Often, you would fall asleep while still on the phone with him and the dulcet sounds of your snoring lulled his tired body to sleep.

He always gave you updates about every detail of his life. From the villains he captured, to some shenanigans with his buddies from high school. Rei, his mother, seemed to adore you the most out of all the family members — besides Shoto, of course. On one of the last moments you spent with him, he invited you to visit his mother at her new apartment after being released from the hospital. Upon seeing you, her whole face brightened as she beamed a smile and embraced you in her arms. Pinching your cheeks and commenting about how much you've grown since she'd last seen you, Rei was ecstatic. It had been many years since you witnessed her smile, and your heart warmed at the loving woman.

Lately, Rei has been scheduling friendly dates with you in an attempt to get to know you better. You felt a bit guilty for not contacting her while she was hospitalized, but she didn't seem to mind. She would always drop subtle hints about Shoto's affections for you; how his eyes would light up whenever she mentioned your name, how he loves to boast about you to others, or when he becomes saddened when thinking about the little time you two have spent together. To anyone, it seemed like she wanted you two to eventually date but you always brushed it off. Thinking it was her being overly friendly or sharing some light banter, you quickly ignored her ideas. The son of the number one hero could have anyone he wanted, why would he settle for you?

After finishing the preparations, your mother waited patiently by the front door. Occasionally checking her wristwatch while fidgeting anxiously, sometimes pacing back and forth throughout the room. There were only a couple minutes left before the time was nine o'clock. As you watched her, you decided to ask her how she was feeling.

"Is everything alright, Mom?" You asked as you sat only a few feet away from her in a nearby chair.

"Yes. I'm just happy to see an old friend again." Yet, as you examined her demeanor, it was quite clear that she was not 'happy'. In fact, she seemed to emit a sense of dread with her strained facial expression. You decided it was best not to question her too much. After wiping her sweaty palms and checking her watch, she ushers you to stand next to her by the door.

Soon, the ringing doorbell brings you out of your thoughts. Your mother exhales a tense sigh before unlocking the door. Your parents' former employer and close friend Endeavor, along with three of his children, greet your mother. She shyly bows and welcomes the family before stepping back to allow them inside. You can't hear some of the words exchanged between her and Enji, a bubbling excitement of seeing Shoto overpowers your senses. You courtly bow to their father who only responds with a few words of acknowledgment. He's dressed surprisingly formal for a friendly meeting, donning a navy blue suit and tie.

Looking back at the preparations, this had to be more than a light-hearted reunion of old friends. As you moved toward his children, your mother announces something to their father.

"Enji, I'd like to discuss something in a separate room." Your mother says, again fidgeting with her sweaty palms.

"Of course." Leading Enji to another room, your mother soon disappears and leaves you with the task of interacting with the siblings.

You try to give Natsuo and Fuyumi casual hugs after they've removed their coats and shoes. Fuyumi peppers your cheeks with sisterly kisses before handing you to Natsuo who eagerly wraps his arms around you and engulfs you in a strong hug. Lifting you off the ground and spinning before placing you on your feet. They soon maneuver to your living room, since they've both practically memorized the layout of your home; knowing the routine of your family like clockwork.

Next, you move to Shoto, failing to see his twitching brows and deadpan expression as he watches his overly affectionate siblings. You give him a big embrace which he eagerly returns. He chuckles to himself as you have to stand on the tips of your toes to hold him properly; he's grown so much since your last visit. "I've missed you so much..." you whisper into his chest. Pulling you tighter and nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder, he could feel his warm heart swell with happiness once having you in his arms again — he's missed your hugs.

He pats your head before letting his hand trail down your lower back, "I've missed you too." After whispering in your ear, he pulls you away, wanting to get a look of your beauty after all these years.

Shoto has been your best friend since you two were children. Always training together and even attending the same school for a brief period of time; you two were inseparable. Shortly after Enji became a hero, your parents began working under his agency. In fact, it was his father who proposed the idea of having you two practice with each other, to which your parents happily agreed. Although you're grateful for Enji's suggestion, the pain he caused Shoto was something you could never forgive him.

Vivid memories replay of Shoto being forced to endure brutal training until his poor body couldn't handle the pain anymore. He soon collapsed on the ground, vomiting up whatever bile was left in his stomach. Enji couldn't spare an ounce of compassion for the son he forcibly groomed into a hero, he left the room as if nothing happened. You rushed towards Shoto, cradling the boy in your arms and trying to keep him from going unconscious until aid arrived. Shoto doesn't remember too much from that day, only waking up in your arms after you nursed him back to health; the angel who saved him, what he thinks of you.

Making his cursed life tolerable with your presence. Your existence brought him peace of mind from that day forward. Drunk on a strange blossoming feeling that made his heart ache whenever you were gone. The years had been cruel to him and the sound of your voice could only do so much. Shoto has been thinking about this day, picturing it in his head before he dozes off to sleep.

Your father, one of the first of many sidekicks under his agency, had a fire quirk. One that easily surpassed Endeavor and could compete with Touya's. While your mother had a strong water quirk, although she was not a pro-hero under his agency and instead dealt with the paperwork. After they married, you weren't aware of this, but Enji was strongly encouraged to find someone with a similar quirk to your mother. Inevitably, he settled with Rei, ice that could compliment his fire.

Perhaps it was a competition to him, your father could've exceeded Enji. Having an ice quirk was no match for a water quirk. He must've known that his place as the number two hero could've been taken by your father — or anyone for that matter — and needed to have strong offspring to compete. Although he was overly excited with Shoto's quirk, once learning that you also had a very similar dual quirk, his joy soon dissipated; half-fire and half-water. Enji needed his legacy to live on and he could sense imminent failure for Shoto. Training together allowed him to observe you and mold his son to defeat you in the future, he thought.

Enji's dominant ways became a nuisance and within a few years of training with Shoto, you decided to abandon your hopes of becoming a hero. If it meant witnessing never-ending abuse and torment, you did not want to call yourself a hero. Although you were young, you were aware that no person could think of themselves as a 'hero' while inflicting pain on their family. You couldn't associate yourself with such a bad influence. That was something Shoto admired about you; never tolerating his father and uplifting him when he was weak.

You knew that Enji was trying to rekindle things with his broken family. Yet seeing the two of them act content with each other was shocking to you. Especially after hearing Shoto continuously demean his father on the phone, even on the night before this meeting.

"How is your father doing?" He asks once his arms are completely off of your body.

"Oh, he's been well. His health is improving, he's doing a lot better than before." Although you tried not to show your emotions, it was quite painful for you to talk about your father.

One year ago, your father was left bedridden after a fight with a villain. Ultimately leaving him unable to move and with some injuries that weakened his ability to use his quirk, forcing him into early retirement. Your mother quit her job as a secretary for Enji, claiming that she needed to spend more time at home with your father and take care of him. While you dealt with college, you weren’t able to dedicate time to help him.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you often since your father became ill.” Shoto apologizes while hanging his head low in pitiful shame. “I promise I’ll make it up in the future.” You gently caress his arm to reassure him.

“Don’t worry about that too much. Let’s focus on tonight, okay?”

“I suppose…"

Reaching for his hand, you usher him to your living room where Natsuo and Fuyumi have already made themselves comfortable. Walking in the stiff clothes your mother forced you to wear is proven to be quite difficult. The white garment flows past your thighs and stops at your ankles. You nearly trip in the tight shoes, making Shoto reach out and hold you before you embarrassingly fall. Although you've grown accustomed to joining your parents in certain arrangements, you've never worn clothing like this before as they are usually reserved for more special occasions. Pins and accessories poke your scalp uncomfortably. Your hairstyle makes you nauseous; an old-fashioned style that no one your age is still wearing. Of course, you weren't allowed to complain.

After meeting his siblings in the living room, you sit on the end of the sofa with them. Shoto eyes Natsuo, who is relaxing in a seat dangerously close and adjacent to you. His older brother seems to read his scowl perfectly, moving away to allow Shoto to forcibly sit next to you. Time seems to flow fast as the four of you chat about nonsense and random memories. During the whole conversation, Shoto's firm hand mysteriously finds its way to your lower back again — wrapping tighter once he felt Natsuo coming too close.

Before you could question him, your mother appears with Enji. Puffy, bloodshot eyes and a wet face ruin her perfectly done makeup. As you are about to inquire about her appearance, she begins to speak.

"Sorry for the delay. We've prepared some food for you all to enjoy, follow me." She turns towards the direction of the dining room with Enji trailing behind her. The siblings all raise to their feet and soon accompany your mother to the room.

"May I hold your hand?" Shoto, who is still close to you, inquires while peering down at you with a sharp gaze.

"Sure," Nodding before intertwining your figures with Shoto, you watch as he smirks brightly. Soon stepping in front of you and leading you towards the rest of the group.

The large dining room table is covered with different Japanese dishes, most you've never seen your mother make before. You could recall helping her cook some of them and the endless hours it took before you completed everything. While the family took their seat, with Enji sitting in your father's position at the head of the table, you try to choose a seat next to Fuyumi. Until Shoto courteously pulls out a chair beside him and stares at you with full expectation. Not wanting to deny his chivalrous acts, you thank him and sit.

During dinner, his older siblings gleefully engaged in another conversation about old times. Reminiscing over every detail and their plans for the future. Natsuo landed a job as a nurse practitioner only a few weeks ago while Fuyumi shared stories about her students. Enji and your mother were quiet, only interjecting when necessary. Your mother's plate seemed to stay full as time passed, only picking at the food. This was unlike her usual behavior at dinnertime. Shoto was the same, except happily eating and staying content with your presence beside him. Only a couple times would he speak, and his replies were short. You weren't fazed much, he was the type to only speak when spoken to or if he had a lingering thought in his head.

Before your time comes to an end, your mother excuses herself and travels to the kitchen. Lost in laughter, you and Fuyumi giggle as Natsuo recounts a particularly embarrassing moment from Shoto's childhood; you eagerly listened to the story as it was a rare moment that all the siblings spent time together. Only after you begin to relax do you notice a frown spread across Shoto's lips. You were dismissive. It was only playful teasing between brothers, right?

"I'm sorry for being busy." Shoto suddenly says after he's finished his last bite of food.

"It's fine, you don't have to keep apologizing. Look at the bright side, we're making memories now. We can always make more in the future." The future, he thinks. The only future he can think of is the one that always replays in his lovestruck mind. Smiling to himself, you assume he's already beginning to feel better.

Your mother emerges from the kitchen, placing a large plate of cold soba noodles in the center of the table — right in front of Shoto. Despite being full, he eagerly tries the noodles while the rest of his family waits for him to taste them first. After all, how could he reject his favorite dish? You helped your mother prepare the noodles after Fuyumi insisted on teaching you Shoto's favorite dish. She claimed it would be a nice welcome present for him after he was away for so long.

With every bite, his face lights up the more he consumes it. Soon, his siblings gladly take bites of the noodles as well while Enji and your mother watch.

"What do you think, Shoto? (Y/N) made it all by herself." Your mother announces loud enough to catch his attention and makes sure to enunciate her last sentence.

"W- Well, I was only following Fuyumi's instructions. She deserves all the credit." Trying to act humble didn't seem to work on his persistent sister. You could notice your mother making a face at your words.

"Nonsense!" Fuyumi chirps, catching you off-guard. "You're such a wonderful cook and Shoto loves it too. Right, Shoto?" Her head turns to her younger brother who has finished his plate of your noodles already.

"I do. You did a great job, (Y/N)." He nods along with his sister before softly grinning at you. "It tastes perfect,"

"See? He loves it! You made it the way he likes. Just for Shoto..." Behind her glasses, you could see her eyes darken as she finished speaking. Only for her to innocently smile at you before tasting your noodles and exclaiming more praises. "It's so delicious. Try some more, Natsuo!"

"O- Oh... Thank you, Fuyumi," You turn your head towards her younger brother. "And Shoto..."

As the two siblings initiate a conversation with your mother and Enji, you could notice Shoto begin to shift toward you. He reaches for your chopsticks before collecting some of the noodles between them. He calls your name and raises the food to your lips. As you take a bite, you smile up at Shoto who returns your gesture while watching you eat. Once you've finished chewing, he takes a napkin and dabs the corners of your mouth while gazing down lovingly.

The longer your night continued, the more heads grew tired. After dinner ended, Natsuo helped your mother clean and tidy the kitchen while Enji excused himself. Fuyumi followed him to the front door and urged Shoto to come with her; although, he seemed more agitated that he wouldn't have any alone time with you. The time is nearly eleven o'clock, and soon you start to wonder when they would return home. Enji announces that he is leaving for the night after his chauffeur hands Fuyumi, Shoto, and Natsuo small suitcases.

As the siblings talk, you grow more and more confused. They didn't seem too bothered by the ticking clock and stayed still as if they had no intention of leaving. Shoto's hand moves from your palm to your lower back; you've grown accustomed to his touchy gesture and you decide to ignore it.

"U- Um... Is your father coming back to take you guys home?" You ask but all the siblings, besides Shoto, stare up at you in a confused manner.

"No, we're staying over tonight. Didn't your mother tell you? It was her idea, she kept insisting." Before Natsuo could reveal too much, Shoto interrupts him.

"Natsuo, you-" He glares up at his older brother while you feel his fingers clench around your skin. The clicking of your mother's heels makes him pause his sentence.

"My apologies for the wait. The rooms are ready, right this way." Your mother motions for them to come with her. As she walks up the staircase, she begins to speak again. "There are two extra rooms. Fuyumi, you will take (Y/N)'s room for the night. Natsuo and Shoto can have the other two rooms."

You tried to fathom her directions, but they didn't make any sense. If there are two extra rooms, why would Fuyumi need yours? Couldn't Natsuo and Shoto share while Fuyumi has the other? Perhaps the brothers want their own space, you didn't mind being with Fuyumi anyways. But as your mother reaches the top of the staircase and opens the door to your room, you realize that you are mistaken.

Although your room maintains the same orientation, all of your personal items are missing. The essential products that you use almost every day are nowhere to be found. Most of your decorations have been removed, leaving the walls bare and empty. Any of your medication, skincare, and some other sentimental belongings are gone. Either changed or disappeared. but they were here when you woke up this morning. Almost as if your room was ransacked while you were busy.

Before you could ask, your mother leads Fuyumi into the room. She sets down her suitcase on the ground before making herself comfortable on your bed. Soon, your mother closes your bedroom door before taking Natsuo to his simple guest room next door. The older brother thanks your mother and locks his door as well.

She ushers Shoto to another spare guest room next to Natsuo. When opening the door to Shoto's room, you notice one unmistakable detail — there's only one bed. Logically, this meant you had to share a room with Fuyumi, right? Your mother wouldn't dare allow you to sleep in one bed with any of the brothers... right?

The room is decorated with a few potted plants, dim lamps, and a small desk area. You're reminded of his dorm room when he attended U.A a few years ago. Except, his futon is replaced with a king-size canopy bed. White and gold sheets cover the mattress while a see-through curtain drapes over the frames. Fluffy silk pillows entice your heavy eyelids.

"Shoto, this will be your room. Wait here and get comfortable, alright?" Shoto seems pleased with the scenery. He nods at your mother before entering and closing the door.

Turning away from your mother, you walk towards your room — or Fuyumi's room.

"Where do you think you're going?" Snapping your head around, you see your mother clenching her fists with an unreadable facial expression, but you could tell that she is angry.

"I'm sharing a room with Fuyumi... aren't I?"

"No." Harshly grabbing your wrists, she leads you to your walk-in wardrobe before shutting the door. You're too dazed to process everything, barely noticing where she has taken you until it's too late.

So, you're not sharing a room with Fuyumi. There was no way you were sharing one with Natsuo or Shoto. Perhaps you would sleep on the couch? Or in your parents' room? Although your father always hated letting you see him in such a weakened state. She forcibly removes your clothing and shoes off of your body and hastily throws them in a pile of clothes that covers the whole room. Your mother isn't usually this disorganized, and her disheveled state warns you that something is wrong. The pestering feeling that you've tried to ignore can no longer remain quiet.

"Where will I be sleeping?" You meekly ask as she finally finds the piece of clothing that she has spent the whole time searching for.

"In Shoto's room." She holds up a long cream-colored, sheer négligée to your body and imagines how the clothing would fit before slipping the thin fabric over your head.

As you stare in the mirror, you can't help but gasp. Thanks to your brassier and panties, most of your 'sensitive' areas are covered but your arms and legs are exposed to the unusually cold air. A state of panic ran through your veins. You were expected to sleep in Shoto's room wearing this. A room with only one bed. The worst possible outcomes began to fill your head, it sounded sick and nonsensical. Although he was your dear friend, you knew that your mother would never agree to do something like this.

"Isn't this a bit too revealing to wear around him?" You were met with an unwavering silence that caused your heart to beat faster in your chest. "Mom... you've been acting strange all day. Please just talk to me. This- This doesn't make any sense... Why are you doing this?"

"Why can't you just cooperate for once and stop asking questions?" A scowl forms across her face, slowly getting annoyed. Your lips press together, you want to trust your mother... but you can't.

As you scan her face through the mirror, you realize that she is hiding more than anger behind her emotions. Tears swell in your eyelids but you aren't sure why. Her actions couldn't soothe your never-ending anxiety. She begins working on your hair, removing the pins stuck between your strands before giving you a simplistic style. After finishing, she lightly sprays some sweet-smelling luxury perfume. Your mother seems nearly done with her odd preparations, you unclench your jaw and start to speak.

"I know you're stressed about something, you can tell me. You're not acting like yourself..." You begin to think she will ignore you again when she checks your attire once more. Until she responds.

"I'm fine. We will be fine. Go spend the night with Shoto, please... Just one night." A brief glance at her and she seems to be pleading with you as you hear the strange tone of her voice. "I will talk to you in the morning."

After looking over your clothes one last time, she forces you out of your underwear and into a lace fabric that leaves you even more anxious. Brewing with embarrassment, you realized that your mother wouldn't offer any comforting words to soothe you. Instead, she checks her wristwatch before furrowing her brows and releases a stressed sigh.

"It's time. Now, go to Shoto's room. Don't run off." She turns her back away from you before motioning you towards the exit. You grab a velvety thick robe and throw it over your shoulders before she could see and leave.

Her hands clasp over her mouth as she holds back pained cries. However, she couldn't stop tears from cascading down her cheeks. Praying to whichever God could hear her for forgiveness. Your mother is deeply sorry, she didn't want this to happen. She hopes you'll be more understanding and forgive her in the morning.

As your feet touch the mahogany flooring, you can’t stop the impending feeling of doom that courses through your veins. Sighing heavily, you contemplate dashing to your room to share it with Fuyumi despite your mother’s warning. Yet, you couldn’t dismiss the idea of his sister knowing why your mother seemed tense. The look Fuyumi gives you during dinner replays in your mind. Perhaps the whole family knew and you were the only one left in the dark. Your hand lingers on the doorknob of Shoto’s room, and you quickly suppress the idea of running away.

Unlocking the door, you tiptoe into the bedroom quietly. At first, you don’t notice him — the bed seemed tidy as if it hadn’t been touched. Gazing around the space, you see Shoto sitting at the small desk while scrolling through his phone. He stops and watches your frame enter the door, eyes widening once he takes in the sight of your attire. His clothes are changed now, a loose white t-shirt and long navy pajama pants.

“Please don’t stare… It’s a bit embarrassing,” Once you finally enter the room, you wrap the robe tighter around your clothes.

“Sorry, my apologies.” Shyly looking elsewhere, he refocuses on his phone again.

You quickly move to the end of the canopy bed, drawing back the sheer curtains before sitting on the plush sheets. Shoto is barely visible through the drapes but his phone light illuminates brightly in the dimly lit room. You were thankful for the fleece robe covering your shoulders and arms, the harsh cold air made goosebumps arise on your skin.

"So... How will we sleep?" Breaking the silence in the room, you ask him after a few minutes pass. Shoto shifts in his chair and the white light from his phone suddenly disappears but is replaced by a lamp.

"Are you nervous about sleeping in the same bed? We've been friends for so long, it won't be a problem for me." He says, you can see his head turn towards you through the curtain.

Normally, you wouldn't care too much about staying in the same room together. He was right, you two were close friends. Yet, as you glance down at your clothing and remember the words of your mother, the tension of the meeting is hard to dismiss.

"I guess I don't mind either but I still feel weird about it," Pausing for a few brief seconds, you release a sigh before continuing. "My mother has been acting strange today. Well, not just today... for the past week." As you speak, Shoto rises from the desk. He moves the curtain out of his path before sitting next to you on the bed. You don't notice his movements until a sharp coldness reaches your skin. "I just feel a bit uneasy, sorry..."

"Don't be," His fingers softly caress your arm, an act you always did to comfort him. "She's probably stressed about seeing my father again."

"I hope..." Your mother did mention being 'happy' about The Todoroki Family visiting. You want to believe his reassurance, but your gut feeling tells you otherwise.

The night seems to fly fast as the two of you talk for a while. Shoto seems more eager to initiate a conversation without worrying about the stress of his nosy siblings. He shares some details about his life after graduating from U.A., most of which you already knew. Immediately after becoming a Pro-Hero, he joined his father's agency and accompanies him on patrol. Most of his free time is spent resting at home during the night, usually when you two would call. On the days he didn't have any work, he would typically visit his mother with Fuyumi and Natsuo.

Various topics are brought up and soon the clock reaches midnight. Shoto seems to have some energy in him, and you decide to continue despite your drowsy eyes. He mentions that he's been feeling lonely because of the mountain of work that has been pushed upon him. Your smile and promises to share your time with him are meaningless to him. He knows, one way or another, you will live up to your words.

"Don't you have someone special in your life?" Your ears perk up as you await his response to the question. Shoto's eyes trail off in the distance as he searches for an answer.

"I do..." He mumbles quietly, initially thinking that you haven't heard him until you happily congratulate him.

"Really? Who is it? Is it someone I know?" Throwing questions at him only made Shoto's smile widen across his lips.

"Don't worry. I'll tell you in the morning," Before you could protest, he speaks again. "And you?"

"Oh... I'm not in a relationship right now." Feeling his heart skip a beat at your response, a weight lifts off of his shoulders... briefly. "But, there is someone that I'm talking to." His amiable demeanor seems to shift as he listens, eyes piercing your frame. "What's wrong..?"

"Nothing... Who is it?"

"You know him, it's Bakugou." Of course Shoto knows who he is. They were once classmates and soon began working at his father's agency together.

"I do, we work together on occasion." His fingers nervously tap against his thigh, trying to release whatever pent-up stress is building in his system. "How long have you been talking to him?"

"Only for a couple weeks. He works at Endeavor's agency, right?" Shoto gives you a small nod to answer your question. "Actually, the first time I met him, I stopped by Musutafu to look for you but he said you were on patrol with your father. We talked for a bit... and got to know each other." A warm heat spread across your face as you felt the temperature of the room begin to rise.

"I see..." Shoto uttered yet a sharp pain in his chest made it difficult for him to speak. He made sure to ask your mother beforehand if you had any other suitors, to which she strongly denied. "Have you two..?

"Have we..?" He peers up at you, hoping that you understood his implication. "Oh, we haven't kissed... or done anything else. I mean I've been too busy with college to be in a relationship." You tried to excuse yourself past the embarrassing situation, but Shoto seemed at ease with your responses.

"I understand. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable." He apologizes as you move to rest your back against a pillow on the bed's headboard.

"It's fine. I don't usually visit too often, just when I'm passing through..." You go on to tell him about the small dates you would arrange with Bakugou during his breaks.

Making him and the other sidekicks bento boxes for lunch, on the same days when Shoto was away. Practically boasting about the trinkets and presents he gifts you, saying that he was reminded of you when buying them. On days when he was free, Bakugou would invite you over to his apartment to cook with him and show some new recipes he was currently trying to perfect.

As Shoto listens to you gushing over his coworker, a spark of anger consumes his entire spirit. Neither Bakugou nor any of the sidekicks he was acquaintances with mentioned you; listening to you ramble about the time you spent with them had shocked him. How did you even manage to befriend Bakugou?

Although his poor temper gradually improved over the years, he wasn't the easiest to approach. This wasn't right, it didn't make any sense. Shoto thought he had done everything to keep a watchful eye over you despite being so far away, only for you to be right under his nose. His temperamental 'friend' wasn't worthy of you, he should be the one in Bakugou's place.

The slow approach he decided to take wasn't successful, someone captured your heart — the place he comfortably resided for many years — and he wouldn't allow himself to be dethroned.

A flicker of flames in the dim room makes your rambling end, you watch as Shoto stares off in the room with his head looking away.

"Are you okay..?" You inquire while watching some of the flames nearly burn through his clothing.

"No, I'm not." His fists clench together before releasing as his body seems to relax briefly.

"What's wrong?"

"Bakugou isn't the type of person you should be dating." Suddenly, his gaze shifts to you with a serious, deadpan expression.

"What do you mean? If you're talking about his anger, it's not an issue. He's been really kind to me."

"No, no... That's not what I mean." Shoto inhales sharply and closes his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm telling you this because you are my closest friend and I deeply care about you," You watch him intently and prepare for his response. "But I've seen other girls at the office with him. Some old classmates, a few sidekicks. He's always flirting with them. Trust me, he brings a new girl over every week."

His entire statement is nothing but lies. The gullible expression on your face tells him that you believed his dishonesty. There was no reason for him to make up stories, you thought. Bakugou isn't 'close' to any of the other sidekicks, at least to his knowledge, Shoto has been the only one he considered a friend. His classmates have visited their agency, but only for work-related business.

Bakugou never mentioned seeing someone, never said your name, or showed you off. So when Shoto heard his name leave your lips, he was obviously shocked. He didn't care too much, Bakugou would never be considered his 'friend' or 'colleague' anymore — it was time for him to be disposed of.

"But... But if that's true, why didn't Moe or the others say anything?" Your features changed from a look of disbelief to pain and denial in a matter of seconds. Shoto truly felt bad, he really did. Yet, he knows you'll feel better in the morning. Call him sadistic, but watching your heartbreak turned him on. He would replace your sadness and bring never-ending joy.

"Knowing the type of person my father is, it's inevitable that his employees would be the same." Perhaps that wasn't valid for the other sidekicks, excluding Shoto.

He was truly elated seeing you become more and more distraught. This was his intention; play with your emotions, leave you fragile and ready to accept him. He didn't mind having to exploit the evil of his father knowing that you disliked Enji as much as he did. Your lips and eyes began to droop, forming a visible frown. Maybe because it was your first petty heartbreak, that's why it felt so bad. You always told yourself that you could overcome meaningless relationships, but the smiles you shared with everyone seemed to hurt the most. It was nothing but a facade and a waste of your time.

"I feel like an idiot..." A few teardrops escaped your eyes and trickled past your cheeks. God, why are you such a crybaby?

His warm side of his body pulls you in closer and embraces you in a smoldering hug. Shoto wasn't exceptionally affectionate, but he hated seeing you cry — especially over other people. He tried to hush your soft sniffles, you were quite pathetic to become emotional over Bakugou since you two weren't even dating. Unless there was something else you didn't share.

"It's okay... It's okay. You don't need someone like him. He wouldn't have treated you right." Your head nuzzles in the crock of your shoulder as the heat from his body washes over you.

As you begin to stop, he peels away from you before gently placing a chaste kiss on your cheek. The salty liquid coats his tongue as you melt into his touch, assuming it was only platonic affection. Of course, it wasn't. The feeling of your skin against his lips sparked something inside of him that he had been waiting patiently for so long. Wanting to be bold and explore further, Shoto trails his light pecks down to the tip of your nose and hovers over your lips. Once you feel him trying to steal a kiss, you push yourself away.

"Sorry, you must be overwhelmed." He removes his arms from your sides, watching as you nod and accept his apology.

The room soon quiets down and the air begins to fill with warmth. Yet, you begin to miss the feeling of his body against yours. Shoto lifts himself off of the bed and disappears to the desk he was originally seated in. You can hear the tapping of plates and metal and soon Shoto appears by your side of the bed. Pushing the curtain away, he reveals a tray of light food in his hands.

"What are these for?" You ask, but he only offers a vague answer.

"In case you become hungry or thirsty. I'll sit by the desk to give you some privacy." He places the tray on your lap before moving back to the desk.

"Oh, thank you."

Shoto takes his phone out of his pocket and begins scrolling aimlessly again. You can see the white light through the sheer drapes, and for a brief second, you wonder what Shoto is busy doing. His fingers dance across the screen, frantically texting his father that he wants Bakugou to be fired by the morning. Speaking of the hothead, your mind runs across him once more. It's still hard to believe Shoto since Bakugou seemed so genuine. Alas, you've only known him for a short time and it is hard to trust someone fully.

You'll talk to Bakugou when you wake up.

While you think about what tomorrow has to offer, you start to feel a strange need to drink. The room starts to fill with immense heat; although half of your body can handle it, thanks to your fire quirk, the other half becomes unbearable. When did it get so hot? The robe on your shoulders starts to feel uncomfortable on your now sticky skin. You remove the clothing from your body, not caring that Shoto would see your lingerie if he was close. For now, you need to cool down. If only he was beside you...

Your eyes peer down at the tray: one glass of water, a cluster of grapes, one pomegranate sliced in half, and a whole apple.

Reaching for the glass, you bring it to your lips and sip all of the liquid. The cup gives you relief from the heat; inside are a few jagged ice cubes. Taking one in your mouth, you finally begin to relax again. When you finish, you place the glass on the tray and scan the contents again. A wave of hunger urges you to eat something, anything, on the plate. You choose the pomegranate, plucking some seeds from the inside before eating them.

Unbeknownst to you, Shoto's eyes have been on your frame since the moment he heard your body shift on the mattress. Smiling to himself once he sees you consume the food he's gifted you. He places his phone down on the desk and rises from his chair.

Before you could finish the fruit, you sense Shoto's presence near the bed. You look up but it's too late, an icy cold grip on your wrist halts your movements. As you stare up at him visibly confused and dazed, he says in a low hushed tone:

"You stole from me, so it's only fair if I take something from you."

"Take something from me? What do you mean..?" You ask, yet he only responds by leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

This time, his hand restrains your neck and coaxes you closer to his body — making it difficult to reject him. The familiar flavor of pomegranate coats your taste buds as you feel his tongue slip inside your parted lips. His teeth nip at your flesh until it becomes swollen and a strange metallic sensation mixes on your tongue.

You feel the tray moving on your lap until it's placed elsewhere in the room. Your hands instinctively move to his shoulders as if trying to keep a predator at bay. Shoto's arms envelop your torso, further deepening the kiss until he feels your nerves relax under him. Grazing his tongue across your lips, he soon kneels on an open space in the mattress.

Submitting to his touches, your hands soon trail down to his chest until a hard, rhythmic pulsing of his heartbeat throbs in your palm. The overjoyed hero's body became restless as he felt your contact with his skin; he'd been waiting for this moment for as long as he could remember. To share a kiss with you, his first and he hoped yours as well.

Separating his body with yours, his arms untangled from your body as he placed light kisses along the underside of your jaw to your neck. Ignoring the light hums and soft noises you made from his actions, Shoto's fingers clawed at your flimsy sleepwear that would surely tear off if he wasn't careful. His head nestled atop your shoulder, breathing in your scent and silently cursing your mother for dousing you in nauseating perfume.

"Shoto..." You mewled out weakly as his face presses further against your skin.

"Sorry," He mumbles in a quiet whisper. "I just couldn't hold back anymore..." Sitting in an empty space beside you on the bed, Shoto is reluctant to remove you from his hold as if he is afraid you will flee.

His fingernails stab sharply into the fabric of your clothing and nearly scrape into your flesh. Then, his breathing becomes rigged as he murmurs a few incoherent words. It takes a few minutes for you to understand; the words slipping out of his mouth are endless apologies. Before you could inquire about what was wrong — you weren't angry with his overly affectionate demeanor, only confused — he raises his head, now quiet as his lips tremble as he tries to form some words in his head.

"This isn't the way I wanted it to happen, I was hoping to court you first." You feel a burning sensation on your cheeks, as you peer up at him you notice some flames blazing from the red burn on his eye. Shoto faces you now, however his stare is cast down to your hands which he soon intertwines with his own. "But... I was too late. Now, you're thinking about him, not me... Is there something wrong with me?"

"W- What..? No, Shoto, I think you should calm down." His grip on your hands doesn't falter, instead tightening. A hot tingle from one of his hands engulfs yours, so painful that you're sure it will leave a scar if he doesn't move. "Y- You're hurting me..."

Upon seeing the flash of heat on your hand, he flinches away and begs for your forgiveness. He soothes your pain with his ice and pulls away once you're calm.

"Am I not worthy?" As you try to remind him of his value and deny his acts of low confidence, he stays unfazed. "Then, why haven't you noticed? Do you not think of me the same way?"

"Noticed... what?"

"My love for you, but I suppose you've never felt the same way." It would be a lie for you to claim that you haven't experienced a romantic attraction to him... somehow, you've forgotten after the years passed. "It's my fault, I should've been more direct." He brings your wounded hand to his lips before kissing at the marks. "I've always felt this way since you saved me. We were made for each other, don't you see? I've been gone for too long, perhaps you've just forgotten, right? Let's make up for all our lost time..."

Before you could fully comprehend his words, Shoto's hands move to your shoulders and knead into your muscles; soothing your strained body in order to get you to relax. As some time passes, you begin to slip away into his touch as your head becomes heavy and fills with fog. He releases a pleasing hum, thinking to himself that the profession of his undying love finally swayed your heart — that was not the case. The more you calmed, the further his hands would dip into untouched territory on your body as you succumbed to his caresses.

His knees cage either side of your body as he hovers above you, pressing firmly into cushioning. His warm breath tickles the hairs of your neck, sprouting goosebumps throughout your skin. He stops his hands over your chest to feel your rapidly beating heart; the rhythm nearly matches his own. Whatever ounce of cowardice or fear leaves his tainted spirit. Shoto is certain that now is a perfect time; everything he'd ever wanted was coming true, and the option to retreat is gone. Unfortunately, you are forced to comply with the same sentiments.

Swiftly maneuvering his hands to the hem of your nightwear, Shoto easily peels the fabric off of your body. Coaxing you upwards, he lifts the garment over your arms and head before neatly discarding it elsewhere in the room. His palms tenderly squish the flesh covered by your bra while you instinctively hold onto his wrists. His eyes lovingly glimmer with a look of pure adoration; Shoto takes his time, slowly basking in the feeling of your body in his hands. Your hold on him loosens with every timid touch he gives you.

He leans forward, pressing another breathtaking kiss to silence any protests, which are now nonexistent. The thought of pushing him away is buried by the sense of desperation that emits from his hold and his kiss. His fingers travel behind your back and play with your brassier before unclasping it. Hooking his fingers over your lace panties, both undergarments soon disappear to an unknown location in the room. As you lay bare and exposed to the fluctuating temperatures of the room, he raises himself off the mattress and positions himself behind you with your back resting on his chest.

Stroking your plush thighs, he chuckles after he hears you gasp when his hands graze too close to your opening. His thumb circles around your clit as his other hand travels to your bust and fits perfectly around one, caressing your pebbled skin and teasing your bud. Shoto rests his head perfectly on your shoulder until your cheeks are pressing closely together. You can't see him — too focused on the movement of his arms — but he intently watches your body writhe. Your legs threaten to close once you feel him stroke your hood.

"You know... I've never done something like this before," He barely breathes out as his voice makes a chill run down your spine. There's something in the tone of his voice that sounds abnormal. "You're doing so well..."

Your fingers dig sharply into Shoto's hands, leaving indents in his skin as his thumb meets your sex at an agonizingly slow pace. He seemed to take pleasure in it as you could hear the echo of his soft laughter directly in one of your ears when you became too frustrated.

"Sho... Sho- Can you... faster, please?" Your slurred speech and submissive behavior would have been embarrassing if you were in the right state of mind, but alas that was not the case.

"Hmm? You want me to move faster..?" Upon hearing your hum of approval, he deepens his press against your clit. Partially lifting your hood and exposing your swollen nub to the air. Smiling against your skin, he says, "You're so perfect, just for me... mine."

His middle finger ghosts around your folds, and your core trembles practically begging for him to enter and offer some relief. An immense heat erupts from your body despite none of your quirks being in use. Although Shoto's body is warm, it provides you comfort. There's a need for you to be next to him, to touch him. Your fire quirk is not active, but you feel like you're burning. A small glance around the room and you see no flames erupting from his left side. Your hands raise from his wrists and slide up his arms to push your body closer against him.

Teasing your unnaturally wet slick, Shoto thanks himself for slipping an aphrodisiac inside of the water. Parting your folds with his index and ring fingers, he sinks his middle inside your warm walls soon groaning as they clench around him. "so wet for me, only me. never for anyone else..." He wishes he could feel you tightening on his cock. Unfortunately, you haven't noticed it stiffening behind you. His finger nudges upwards into a gummy section of your walls, eagerly exploring inside.

He leaves kisses and small nips across your nape. Harshly sucking and sinking his teeth into your skin that your mother would surely question you about in the morning. His fingers pump in and out of you; the rhythm is erratic before he nestles in a region of your walls that you seem to enjoy. Stretching you out as much as his thick fingers can, he reaches deeper inside with each thrust. As he grazes across a sensitive area, your feet bury into the duvet.

Trying to swallow your moans proved to be pointless, expletives and slurred mewls of pleasure begin to echo through the walls; a symphony to Shoto's ears but a nuisance to the others inside. One of his hands trails to your exposed breasts. He sharply exhales at the flesh in his palm, tugging on your sensitive bud. Your eyes screw shut when Shoto's thumb rolls across your sensitive clit again, drawing your body nearer to a release. His hand soon moves from your chest to your throat.

Squeezing lightly against your veins until you start to feel dizzy, he pulls you even closer to him and whispers, "call me yours" "say you'll never leave me" "tell me you love me" "say it" "just say it... please". Shoto starts chanting more demands in your ear, hoping in your disoriented state you would listen — even if it was just for tonight. However, he can't perform miracles and his use of power could only take him so far. He released his hold as your lungs began to fill with air again. His fingers move to tightly gasp your chin.

"Sho- Shoto... I..." You stutter before pausing at a sudden pool of warmth rushing to your lower tummy. You want to answer him truthfully, but the new sensation of pleasure on your bottom half overtakes you — or maybe that is what you try to convince yourself.

Feeling your walls begin to spasm, Shoto senses that you're close. A pool of your wetness begins to leak into the duvet and stain the sheets. As your core pulses and contracts around his fingers, you grasp onto his arms. You try to urge him deeper, getting lost in the sensation before you feel him pull away. His finger slips out easily and his thumb disconnects from your clit, denying your climax. A wave of pleasure washes over you as you spasm in his arms even more aroused than before, but it soon fades with his fingers gone.

"Why couldn't you answer?" He surprisingly asks as if the hand locked on your throat gave you any chance to replay. "Do you dislike me that much? Am I so repulsive?" You always knew his esteem was low after he was burned, but you assumed he overcame it. When you try to deny his insecurities, your words are unintelligible with your rapid breathing. He looks away before responding, "Nevermind."

Shoto raises your body and moves from behind you. His demeanor seems agitated, but no less determined than before. He was certain that he would walk out of the room knowing that you adored him the same way he did. It wasn't in his plan to go this far, yet the restless feeling in his chest wouldn't dissipate. You rested backward on the bed, unable to support yourself after sitting up for so long. He peels his clothing from his body revealing his well-toned and sculpted frame from years of hard work.

He kneels on the bed again but this time between your legs. He leans forward until he's eye-level with your pussy after straightening your waist. The first time he's seen your body so perfect and on display for him. Internally, he congratulates himself for saving your climax until now; a taste is better instead, he thinks.

His lips attach to your inner thighs as he kisses and leaves blue and purple marks against your skin. The pads of his fingers massage your flesh, occasionally making it tremble weakly in his palms. Every sensation that touches your body makes you crave Shoto more, you're certain that it is purely from arousal and not romantic emotions. It was obvious to you what he wanted by now.

His hot breath tingles your heat, smirking when he sees your slit spasm. Disappearing between your thighs, you feel him do kitten licks on your pearl before flattening his tongue and doing a long lap at your folds. Unable to hold back his pure excitement, he collects your essence on his wet muscle, so eager for a taste. A sting of your wetness and his saliva connect before breaking as he pulls away. Swirling his tongue on your clit, Shoto darts across your bud a few times before savoring whatever oozes out of you.

Noises inside the room are nothing but pure filth, you pray that no one can hear. His head peaks up to see your expression of pure ecstasy and bliss. When you lock eyes with him, you notice his chin and lips stained with a clear mixture of your juices. Tangling your fingers in his hair, your hand nudges him deeper towards his entrance to chase after a release as heat travels down below your tummy.

He focuses on your bud; sucking at the sex and repeating once he feels your fingers tug and scratch his scalp. Another thick finger soon enters again making your walls contract. As your back arches off the bed and your toes curl around themselves, heat emits from your body; expletives and moans leave your throat. You no longer cared about his family hearing, it was surely too late now.

His hands press your hips further into the mattress, trying to keep your shifting body still. Soon, a gush of your release leaks onto his tongue as he eagerly catches every drop; unwinding and finishing on Shoto's face. His lips glisten with clear sticky liquid as he helps you ride out your orgasm. While you pant and steadily lose your grip on his hair, he presses further into your mound and licks your slick clean.

Shoto pulls away from your lower half while you watch as he raises himself proudly. Peering down at you and grinning to himself, obviously happy that he could make you orgasm. He repositions his hips between your legs, easily parting your tired and numb thighs. You haven't caught a good look at his length but when you glimpse down, you see it. It's so pretty. Perfectly trimmed half-white and half-red hair and it seemed well-groomed for the occasion. Of course, this was all a planned meeting.

When he notices you staring, a pink blush spreads across his cheeks and ears. Shoto doesn't think it's much but you believe otherwise. Unsure what to do with your hands, you rest them over your heart until they are near to your face and chin. His tip glides over your opening, prodding over your hole gently and holding your waist as he starts to sink in.

His cock buries deep inside your cunt, swallowing him whole inch by inch. Cries of pain ring in Shoto's ears as his girth stretches you apart. Your eyes clench shut for a second and when they reopen his face is only a few inches away from yours. His hands hook under both of your legs, pushing them close to your chest while whispering something about how it will feel better this way. His eyes are filled with lust, twinkling before colliding his lips with yours. A taste of your essence still remains on his tongue. Trying to soothe your cries, he muffles them with his passionate kisses.

Slowly, he finally bottoms out of your warm region; only pulling away from your lips when you tighten around him. Your eyes close once again as you try to find subtle acts to suppress the pain. Shoto doesn't seem to approve of this, though.

"Darling, couples should look in the eye when they make love to each other..." Icy fingers wrap around your chin and forcefully tilt your chin until he is the only thing in your view. His eyes glisten with pure adoration while yours are unreadable. Perhaps it was the opposite — fear or disdain.

You aren't sure. Shoto, however, convinces himself that you have the same affections. The euphoric state of pleasure he's in from being with you clouds his mind. Couples? You want to question him but his hold on your jaw is tight and unwavering. It locks your mouth in place until you can lightly mumble one word...

"Shoto..."

He shushes you and nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck as he fills you completely. A deep sensation of pressure along your walls brings you nothing but discomfort. Soon raising his hips, his cock glides out of your slick-covered core as he thrusts gently. Massaging your walls, as his tip rubs along a sensitive spot a small feeling of pleasure comes — lackluster compared to the girth of his cock. It was much bigger than most you've seen or encountered in your life; you haven't seen it, but you're sure it's one of the few things he's inherited from his father.

As you wince in pain, he says, "i'll try and go easy..." It's clear and audible but spoken behind gritted teeth and nearly slurred like he's holding his composure. You needed to be molded perfectly, fitting in his arms like a lost piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Just for him. Just for the first night, at least.

He starts at a gentle, slow pace. Each thrust brings a gradual and deeper feeling of bliss that diminishes your initial discomfort. The grunts and low moans he makes directly in your ear coaxes you into enjoying. For a moment, you forget about your lack of consent to this. You envelop him so perfectly that it's hard for Shoto to hold back as he begins to hasten and deepen his sloppy thrusts inside your pussy. His arms wrap around your body, bringing you closer to him until your chests are pressing directly on each other.

"Squeezin' me so fuckin' tight, princess..." A tone that sounds nothing like the Shoto you know. But then again, he seems so pussy-drunk, you aren't sure anymore.

As his pace becomes more frantic and desperate to release his own essence, you feel a familiar coil in your heart threaten to loosen. Your nails dig and claw at Shoto's back; you miss seeing his elated expression just out of the corner of your eye. You've finally marked him too and claimed him as yours, he thinks. His hips roll against your spot once more, making you moan and utter, "oh- fuck, sho- m' gonna..!"

"Let it out for me, don't hold back" His eyes never leave your face, waiting and watching patiently. "you wanna cum on my cock, don't you?" "jus' mine, only for me..." "you love my cock, you do...'

Nodding and responding with a muffled and pitched hum, "mm..!" You've succumbed to his wishes tonight.

"Say it, you love me..."

"I... I love you, Shoto." Staring up at you with full expectation, there wasn't any possible way for you to avoid him.

Pleased with your response, he returns with newfound vigor. Hungry lust for more is evident with his energetic thrusts; rutting deep and knocking the steel bedframe into the wall. Trailing his hand down to your clit, he massages the swollen bud until your walls flutter around and a warm gush of clear liquid covers his shaft. Panting into his skin, you suck him deeper into your entrance as Shoto savors the feeling and hopes for more.

He doesn't slow down, not even after you've calmed down from your high. Instead gripping your chin and forcing you to stare at him again. His eyes are now glowing differently than before as an eerie smile creeps across his lips. He's so happy to hear you say the words he's been waiting for since the start of the night. You were right before, this isn't the Shoto you know. The one you trained with, the one you spent your entire childhood with. The glimmer in his eyes soon turns dark and lovestruck as if you're the only being of importance.

"You... love me? You do... You do..." He chants more nonsensical words again but you're unable to pay attention with the overstimulation giving you too much pleasure after your high. "You do... Mine. My other half..." His speech nearly matches the rhythm of his thrusts, frantic and needy. Trying to speak does you no good; he can't hear you over his own voice, anyways.

Repeating his words in a sinister fashion as if he's doing some sort of ritual. His giddy voice sounds as if he's excited that you've reciprocated his love, finally. Shoto bites down on your neck until a metallic taste coats his tongue. Grunting loudly before his muscles seize up and his hot breath tickles your neck with his heavy panting. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he paints your walls white and spills his seed deep inside. He stays resting on top of your chest for a couple minutes to make sure nothing leaks out.

"You're always so good to me, (Y/N)... You've always loved me when no one else has." He says through his exhales. "I was a little rough," Finally, he sees the marks and bites scattered across your skin. "I'm sorry, I got desperate but I'm happy you can listen to me now."

As he pulls out, some cum leaks between your folds. He collects it with his finger and pushes it deep inside your heat. Shoto tries showing his finger covered in white essence to you, "look, this means we're united forever... no matter what happens, we'll always be together, won't we? you won't leave me... right?"

Your lack of response makes him brim with anxiety but when he looks at you, he sees how exhausted you are. Your head is tilted to the side as your eyes threaten to close. Soon, your breathing becomes steady and your hold on his body weakens. Shoto moves off of you until he lays to your side, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your neck as you drift off to sleep.

"I guess it's wearing off... you'll be asleep for a while." He whispers while clinging to your body. "I wanted to talk about the future, our future. But I'll have to wait until the morning..." The soft sounds of your snoring soon echo through the walls. "Good night, my love."

Chirping birds at the crack of dawn. Orange-purple hues paint the sky's blank canvas. Finally, it's morning. You would've seen each of these scenic treasures if you waked up earlier. Instead, as if you didn't have a care in the world, you slept in. Far past the times you usually wake up when dealing with college. Shifting peacefully under the bed's white duvet, your body easily nestled into the soft cushion. You didn't want to wake up, at least not right now. It wasn't until the morning sunshine bled through the curtains and brightened the entire room, you didn't have a choice now.

Your arms felt around the space next to you only to discover that there was nobody there. As you lift your heavy eyelids, you realize that Shoto was missing; only an imprint of his body remained in the sheets. Trying to move only brought severe pains throughout your body: your arms, legs, neck, head, and in between your thighs. You didn't forget the events of the previous night, how could you? Each mark on your body was a reminder of that.

Sitting up in the bed, you tried looking for your phone but it was nowhere to be found. Did you even bring it with you when you stayed in the room with Shoto? You hadn't used it the entire evening. It was left somewhere in your room, but you had not seen it when your mother brought Fuyumi into your room. Perhaps one of them knew its location. You planned on calling Bakugou to ask him about the other 'girls' Shoto said he was messing with but you soon decide to do it later.

A nearby digital clock atop the dresser presents the time; it is nearly eleven in the morning. It was quite unusual for you to sleep so long since you've been waking up early for college. A head-splitting migraine brings you out of your thoughts, compared to last night you finally feel normal again but with pains in your body. Next to the clock is a note and clothing. You walk to the dress and hold the piece of paper to read it closely:

'Please get dressed with these and meet us in the living room.' Written neatly in Shoto's handwriting.

Under the note is a pair of wide-legged pants and a crisply ironed blouse. You get dressed in the clothes provided, not thinking too much about why they are here. You're only grateful that you don't have to wear flimsy lingerie. Before you leave the room, you check yourself in the mirror. You try desperately to cover or conceal any of the bruises left on your body and tidy up your appearance.

When you finally exit, you see Natsuo leaving his room with his belongings, ready to depart. He looks up and sees you, smiling widely before approaching you in a friendly demeanor.

"Good morning, Natsuo." You say, finally acknowledging him. He responds with the same greeting before continuing.

"We missed you during breakfast." Ah, you were sleeping for that long. "Shoto said you were really tired last night when I asked him."

"Yeah... I guess." You try not to do anything awkward but soon your face heats up as your face makes a guilty expression. "So... How did you sleep last night?" He chuckles to himself and seems to turn red.

"I slept fine, but... You and Shoto... Made a little too much noise." As if your morning couldn't get any more embarrassing. Natsuo's eyes shift to exposed marks on your skin.

"I'm so, so sorry..! I didn't mean- We didn't mean to disturb you..!"

"It's fine, really. You two are newlyweds now and it was your first night together, right? You guys really couldn't wait, huh?" Wait... newlyweds? Maybe you misheard, or it was some old-fashioned way of saying you were dating Shoto. You didn't want to think that, but then again, friends don't do things like that and keep the same platonic feels. "It's getting late, everyone is leaving soon." He checks the time on his phone before lifting his things. "The family is waiting for you downstairs. I can walk you to them if you'd like."

You shyly nod, not wanting to seem rude. As you and Natsuo walk down the staircase, you can hear the chatter of people in the living room. You can recognize your mother's voice amongst the sound. Natsuo reveals that Fuyumi is waiting outside, but he thinks it's best if you meet Shoto first. When you reach the end of the stairs, you see your mother, Enji, and Shoto nearby in the living room.

"I have to get going, but I'll see you soon." He smiles brightly at you and waves before heading for the front door.

Turning your head, you see the three of them sitting on the couch. Various papers cover the large coffee table and Enji writes his signature on one of the papers. Shoto is given the pen from him and begins to sign on another free space, just under his father. Other signatures are written on the page. As you approach, your mother notices you and quickly stands. The two men seem alerted by her sudden movements and halt.

Shoto and his father watch as she pulls you out of the room and down the hall, away from everyone.

"Why is Enji here?" You ask your mother, hoping that she doesn't ignore your questions for once. Of course, you're wrong. But this time she reaches out to clasp your hands tightly. You try to move past her and walk back into the living room; something isn't right. She blocks your view.

"Look at me." When you do, you notice her glossy eyes and trembling hands. Her grip is tight but every few seconds it seems to loosen as her lips quiver in a frown. "I'm sorry, I wish I could've told you sooner... I wanted to but your father didn't think it would be a good idea."

"You... You spoke to him? When?" Your father always hated letting you see him in his ill state. He always avoided you, limiting himself to their bedroom and only leaving when you were away. Your mother takes a deep breath and continues.

"That's not important. From now on, you will be living with Shoto and his family..."

"I- I don't understand. Why am I staying with them? I can't... I want to stay with you and Dad." Then, as if the gears in your mind finally start working, you realize. "Is that the reason why you brought them over? You did all this work to the house just to impress them? And then make me live with them?"

You were partially correct. This wasn't to impress the patriarch or any of his older children. This was for the youngest, who demanded everything to be perfect for this day. He chose this design, it was based on the home he prepared for you two to live in. Perhaps Shoto thought it was kind to let you experience your new life for one night rather than to throw you in blind. Remove all of your sentimental value from this measly home until it was unrecognizable, the only thing to conquer next was your parents. The torture from knowing your home was now a reminder of your absence seemed painful enough.

"Yes, it is. Recently, it's been hard for us to manage his medical bills. Nobody here is working, it was getting harder each day and his condition has been worsening for the past few months." If it was money, you could've found a job somewhere. It wouldn't be much but it would have helped.

"But... What does that have to do with me moving?"

"Please, forgive me. Don't be angry, okay? This isn't punishment." She waits for your hesitant nod and speaks again. "Shoto must've heard about your father's illness from someone close. I'm not sure, I've never told anyone. He offered to convince Enji to help financially. They'll cover the hospital bills and transfer your father to a better doctor. Except, for an exchange, your hand in marriage."

The rest of your mother's words seem to fade out of your ears. No, you didn't want to believe it but it all seemed to make sense. She knew, every passing day you spent in this house. She knew, but she never said anything. Instead choosing to ignore you out of fear you would run. She knew last night and chose to keep her mouth shut. That was why she was a hollow shell during dinner last night and her face contorted in disgust and guilt whenever you were alone. You couldn't find any sympathy for her left; at the end of the day, she probably only saw a price tag attached to you.

"You feel betrayed, I know..." She could sense rage emitting off of your body with your silence. Of course, there was no need for this situation to happen. "But I didn't know what to do. I was lost and confused, I only agreed because I thought it was the best thing for our family. You can understand that, right? They aren't bad people, you get along with them well. It's for the best."

"No, I don't understand." You swiftly pull your hands out of your mother's grasp and take a few steps back from the woman. "You could've spoken to me before deciding, but you chose not to. You've already decided that I'm not a member of this family anymore."

You turn your back towards your mother and begin to walk towards the exit. She tries to frantically call your name but you continue.

"I can find the money and I know Dad still has more left from all of his hero work." Your chest tightens before erupting in severe pain, but you decide to ignore it. "I'm not leaving. I'm not signing any papers. I'm not marrying anyone. I'm going outside for some fresh air. When I get back, I need all of them out of our house."

A freezing, numb sensation travels from your feet up to your calves. Your movements are slow before stopping completely, frozen in place. When you look up, you see him. Speaking of the devil. Coming towards you with an agitated expression, nearly freezing your mother who tries to intervene. You try to melt through the ice using your fire but burn part of your clothes. It's too late, anyways.

When you finally free your legs, he stands right in front of you. Your mother flees to a space nearby, too intimidated to confront him.

"Whether you want to come is not up for debate. Your mother has signed on your behalf." He says harshly, an undeniable chill runs up your spine from his presence. "Our family has connections, you do know that. No one will question the validity of your signature. Don't be difficult."

"How do you expect me not to be when you've paid off my own mother?" You say before trying to leave again, nearly slipping on his ice. His hand wraps around your forearm, he uses all of his strength and almost breaks your bone.

"You said it yourself, this isn't your family anymore." Shoto has waited far too long, he won't give up now. "You still love your father, don't you? Of course, you do. Should your dying father suffer because of your selfishness? Or be saved? It's your decision, but this isn't about you."

You look at your mother who silently pleads for you to follow Shoto. Then your mind trails to Enji who is listening to the whole conversation with his eyes shut tight as he wonders how he raised such a brute of a son. His hold softens, allowing you some freedom but you don't move.

"Shoto, you can't force me..." You want to sound firm in your words but they are uttered weakly. "We can find another way, but not like this..."

"I'm not forcing you. As I said this is your decision but if you know what's best, you'll come with me." Shoto's hand is completely removed from your forearm and extends out in a welcoming manner.

You glance around your childhood home that has been uprooted and transformed from top to bottom. You can't recognize it anymore, but there's no need to. This will be the last day you step foot into this house.

Cautiously, your fingers intertwine with Shoto's hand. His lips slyly curl upwards at your foolish decision. In the distance, you hear your mother breathe a sigh of relief.

"That's it, like an obedient daughter..." He turns around and begins instructing your mother about organizing a ceremony in the upcoming weeks. She eagerly runs off to celebrate the news with your father and other family members.

It was sickening to watch her demeanor switch in the span of a few seconds.

"You know," Shoto speaks again, returning his full attention to you. "I was beginning to think you forgot about what you said to me last night." His thumb massages gently into the back of your hand. "About how you loved me... That wasn't a lie, or was it?"

Not knowing how to respond verbally, you shake your head. Shoto softly whispers, "good, good" and kisses your hand. Truthfully, you weren't being dishonest. It was in the heat of the moment and if you were asked now, you wouldn't know what to say.

"You did make a promise to me, to spend more time together. In the end, it worked out perfectly for us." Another tightening hold on your hand sends a shock of pain through your arm. Briefly looking into his eyes and seeing him spiral, it's not Shoto anymore. "Now, we'll spend an eternity together. Til' death do us part..."

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transmascutena · 4 months

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what do you think about the incestuous relationships in revolutionary girl utena, and the root causes of the abuse? one of my favorite analyses I've read so far talked about how rape and incest aren't deviant, they are an extension of the patriarchal family unit. And do you have any thoughts/analysis about how it specifically manifests in RGU and the way the narrative communicates these themes?

It's so annoying the way some people act like the incest is just regular brother and sister complexes that's common in a lot of anime, and not an integral part of the show's themes about the Family fostering an environment ripe for abuse. The show treats these heavy themes seriously, and I wish I was smart enough to articulate my thoughts about Miki and Kozue, Anthy and Akio, etcetera. Hence, this ask.

Jsjsksks I know I sent an ask just yesterday about Revolutionary Girl Utena, but your analysis is so cohesive, and I really appreciate you bringing family/marriage abolition and amato-normativity into your analysis posts. It's very affirming to me as an aromantic asexual.

thank you so much! i will admit i also have a hard time putting my thoughts about these themes into words, because they are . a lot, so forgive me if this is a little rambl-y. but they are a huge and very important part of the show, so they're important to talk about.

i think i know the analysis you're talking about, and it's spot on. every kind of abuse we see in the show is a product of The System (patriarchy, the school system, the nuclear family, etc.) that's not to say that the abuse isn't purposeful, or that it doesn't often come from people choosing to do harm, but their ability to cause that harm is facilitated by these systems. for example, the system is not forcing akio to do what he does (although it is the reason he knows it will get him what he wants) it is just giving him the tools to do it effectively. abuse does come from people, but the systems are what makes the abuse so effective, and that's why we need to dismantle them.

this is something i've mentioned before, but a big part of why anthy was so trapped in her situation until the end, is because of the expectation to value family above all else, and to always love and forgive them no matter how they hurt us. and that is the reason why incest is so inherently toxic and abusive. it's not that it's "gross and unnatural" (such rhetoric really only serves to hurt and alienate victims anyway) it's that you cannot ever have a healthy relationship in a framework that tells you that you always have to stay with someone, and forgive someone, and love someone, no matter what. it doesn't matter if there's no age gap (seen in the kaoru twins) to create other kinds of power imbalances and it doesn't matter if they're not actually related by blood (seen in nanami thinking touga isn't her "real" brother, and in touga trying to use that against her.)

i've talked about how all this affects utena as well, and how even the state of not having a family makes you vulnerable to it, here.

it's not that siblings (or other family members) are more likely to be abusive people, but when they are, it is a lot harder to escape said abuse. leaving a regular abusive relationship is already incredibly difficult, but if they're you're family, it's even easier to fall into the mindset of "oh, but they really just want the best for me." when you've been taught that family is the most important thing in the world, leaving them is a huge decision. especially if you rely on them for material needs as well, like housing and food (which also happens a lot in romantic relationships and marriages.) there's also the way that with sibling incest in particular, especially if there isn't a big age gap, the victim will often be made to feel complicit in the abuse, either by their abuser or by society at large. like it's something "weird and taboo" that two people are doing together, rather than the abuse it really is.

that last part definitely manifests in the show, with the victim-blaming anthy recieves. from nanami especially. her desire to prove that she's "not like anthy" comes from an understandable place. she's dealing with figuring out that her feelings for her brother weren't what she thought they were, but it ends up with her putting equal amounts of blame on akio and anthy for the abuse she witnessed, even though there is a clear perpetrator (not helped by nanami already disliking and distrusting anthy.) it's clearest, i think, when she refers to them as "those perverted siblings" to utena.

it's funny (it's not) that this kind of thinking even manages to happen in the fandom itself. anthy is obviously not a perfect passive victim, and it's reductive of her character to say so, but the idea that she is as much an active participant in the abuse as akio is, is a take i have seen too many times for comfort. like, congrats, you fell for the exact kind of thinking that the show was trying to critique!

#there's a lot more i could say but i'll leave it at this for now. thanks for the ask i always appreciate an excuse to ramble a little #revolutionary girl utena #analysis #anthy #nanami #akio and anthy #asks #m #all girls are like the rose bride

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comradekatara · 4 months

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sorry if someone’s asked this before (i tried looking thru previous posts but didn’t see anything), but in modern au atla what clubs and/or sports would everyone join? i feel like sokka and suki would both do soccer (and thus sokka’s sexism storyline plays out) and sokka would also do like robotics or something. katara’s maybe in some environmentalist club and i get the feeling that she and azula would run against each other for student body president. zuko’s a theater kid and mai does tech or stage crew. toph does wrestling and aang’s probably in basketball and/or one of those peer leader things where he volunteers to help out in classrooms

okay some of this will be rehashing old stuff so if you’re as intimately familiar with my modern au as i am (which. how. that’s literally impossible) then this will be old news to you but just try to suck it up kthx

also, quick disclaimer that i do not think sokka would be sexist (not like, notably so anyway, obv everyone raised in a patriarchal society internalizes sexist notions, but he wouldn’t be like “girls can’t play soccer!!!” lmfao) in a modern au. like, if sokka grew up socialized around kids his own age that simply would not be an issue for him. the closest he gets to ever pissing katara off thru misogyny (he still pisses her off in a lot of other ways, of course) is when katara is like “can you believe this ‘male loneliness epidemic’ bs???” and sokka (terminally offline) is just like “well isn’t there kind of some truth in that…” and katara’s like “sokka. this isn’t about guys whose girlfriends have DIED, this is about guys whose vibes are so rancid that they cannot get a gf in the first place.” and sokka just like “oh. well then i guess they deserve to be lonely.” and that’s that.

katara is the queen of after school activities. she plays soccer, hockey, basketball (she’s not actually tall enough but she’s got enough spirit!), is on the swim team, she does it all. she’s the captain of the hockey team, but suki is the captain of the soccer team. azula is also on the soccer team and suki is constantly having to separate them bc they’re always getting into very violent fights in the dirt before the game even starts. katara prides herself on being the most athletic girl in school (aside from suki), and pushes herself so hard to be the best at every single sport. (for no reason in particular…)

when toph wants to start a wrestling club, katara is the one who starts a petition after the administration says it’s “too dangerous.” because aang asks nicely, they finally get enough signatures that the administration is just like “fine, whatever,” and gives them a room. for the first few meets, it’s just katara and toph wrestling each other with aang and suki sitting in the stands and that’s it, but eventually more people show up and it becomes a whole big thing. no one is as good as katara and toph, though. especially not when they fight each other (bc for them, it’s personal).

when azula runs for student body president, katara gets so pissed off that she also runs for student body president. toph’s just like “uhh.. no one will vote for you. everyone finds you abrasive.” and katara’s like “wow. that’s rich coming from you.” but toph’s like “no they hate me too, that’s how i know.” which, okay, fair enough. katara does actually win in a landslide though, because azula’s platform is bonkers. her campaign promises are all about improving test scores and gpas in somewhat violatory and terrifying ways, whereas katara’s platform is to abolish homework, abolish grades, make gym class a triple period, abolish math, and put a composting bin in the cafeteria. only one of those things actually happens once she gets elected, but at least the other kids can rest easy knowing that their president is a girl of the people.

katara is in a bunch of activist clubs that she started herself, and the only reason anyone ever shows up is because aang always shows up and everyone loves aang. toph shows up to katara’s indigenous students alliance and katara’s just like “uhhh…. i thought you were chinese??” toph’s like “oh. i am. but sokka promised he’d do all my homework for a week if i agreed to take his place at this thing.”

aang kind of just shows up to whatever katara is up in arms about this week. he can’t be bothered to join after school activities of his own because he’s too busy being a cool and popular kid (a very time consuming profession fyi), but he always shows up to every one of katara’s games (of which there is at least one a week), and all her little clubs and fundraisers for the poor (aang is almost always tactful enough to never say “um. aren’t you poor?”) and whatever else she needs him around for. every time aang is sick or otherwise indisposed, whenever katara attempts to organize anything, no one ever shows up. aang doesn’t even do anything in particular, he kind of just hovers near her, but his presence is like a magnet. people flock to him. katara, not so much.

sokka is actually on the baseball team. he joined after accidentally watching a full game of baseball on tv once in a doctor’s waiting room and realizing that baseball is actually just physics. he’s their star player, because he can score a home run with his eyes closed. if any of his friends ever actually showed up to his games, they’d be wildly impressed. but because katara’s propaganda, that baseball is the most boring of all the sports and who would wanna waste their time watching it, is so effective (because she’s right), no one who actually matters to sokka is in any way aware of his gift. he doesn’t really care, because he thinks sports are frivolous anyway, but it means a lot to katara that no one ever find out that he secretly has athletic talent. he already has ALL of academics, he doesn’t need to encroach on her thing!!! her ONE thing!!!!!

sokka is also in go club, chess club, robotics club, debate club, and mathletes. he also works multiple jobs after school and tutors other kids. no one knows how he has time for all his shit, especially considering he’s also never handed in an assignment late and has a perfect gpa, but whenever he shows them his color coded schedule timed down to the second they immediately regret they ever asked. (his secret is that if he doesn’t exhaust himself both physically and mentally with one million activities per day, he will succumb to his depression and never get out of bed again and possibly kill himself. so whenever anyone’s like “aren’t you tired!!” sokka lies and says “nope!” in truth, he’s exhausted. he just knows it’s wayyy better than the alternative.)

toph first meets sokka as her tutor. she had previously driven 11 other, much more qualified tutors away by being too smart for their bullshit. poppy is desperate by the point she agrees to hire sokka. she basically just needs someone to transcribe toph’s homework for her (and not fall into the trap of simply writing it for her, which she’s very effective at tricking people into doing), but sokka and toph quickly become actual friends. it doesn’t take long, they both just start shit talking her parents and realize that they already have so much in common. sokka still demands to get paid all throughout highschool, but toph knows it’s not personal and never feels like their friendship is transactional. sometimes she does ask sokka to teach her things, though, which he always happily obliges. although, on occasion, she’ll ask him about a subject he doesn’t already know about, at which point he’ll be like “that’s a good question. let me think on it, and i’ll prepare some materials for a lesson plan tomorrow!” at which point he goes to a library, gets a massive textbook on whatever topic toph was interested in, stays up all night reading it, and then comes back the next day and recites the entire book to her from memory. toph usually gets bored after like five minutes of this, but knows she’s in too deep to just say “forget i asked,” and politely waits out his lecture.

besides wrestling club, toph also tries to play soccer (it’s the closest she can get to actually joining the football team, which is her ultimate dream), but the administration forces suki to ban her from the team “for her own safety.” it makes suki furious, because toph is actually an excellent goalie and they’d know that if they ever saw her play, but they assume that because she’s tiny and blind there’s simply no way in hell she’s ever blocking a single goal. but katara is this close to threatening that they burn down the entire school to teach them a lesson, so instead suki’s just like “what if you guys started a wrestling club?? that could be fun.” and thus the highlight of toph (and katara’s) entire life is born.

suki is widely regarded as being one of the most popular girls in school, because she’s incredibly athletic, but also has a very cool, carefree, laidback attitude that doesn’t make her seem intimidating to guys (unlike. uh. some people). every single girl in school, gay or straight, either deeply admires her or straight up has a crush on her. this is why she ever has enough people agreeing to join her roller derby team. sokka comes to a game to support her and is just like “uhhh….. this should be illegal???”

suki also does martial arts after school, although not in any way affiliated with the school. however, they may as well be, because all the girls who are into her will show up to her dojo knowing that she’ll offer to train them in a hands on, personal session. to be clear, she’s fully aware of what she’s doing. it’s basically is her go-to move. when she first develops feelings for sokka she tries to do the same thing, but sokka just assumes that suki is looking to humiliate him as retribution for him knowing how bad at physics she is, and politely declines.

zuko IS a theater kid but throughout all of high school (this changes in college) he’s terrified of ever even glancing at a stage. he’s like “if i join any sort of theatrical project everyone will think im gay……………….which would be BAD because im NOT.” it’s very obvious that he’s an aspiring thespian/dramaturg, though, because every time the school puts on any kind of play all his friends are subjected to merciless critiques of how they’ll inevitably butcher the source material in such and such ways, as they always do. suki finds these diatribes particularly amusing. she’s just like “uh huh. sure honey.”

at one point zuko gets it into his head that if he did mathletes like azula maybe ozai would like him more and thus treat him better, so he asks sokka to teach him to be good at math so that he can be good at mathletes. sokka is like “shouldn’t your first goal be to get better at math so that you can stop getting C’s on all your math tests?” zuko is very stubborn about it, though, so sokka just shows zuko the kind of problems he works on for fun and zuko is immediately like “nvm. maybe i’ll do a sport instead.” sokka’s like “yeah! you could join the baseball team it would be really fun!” but zuko’s like “okay nvm AGAIN. why are all your hobbies boring and evil.”

mai doesn’t do clubs. mai doesn’t play sports. she is a loner, not a joiner. she’s like “maybe if there was a club for cool girls who play niche indie games and read dostoevsky….” but this all changes when sokka forces her to join his robotics club meeting. mai is just like “holy shit? you made this???” and after that day she is the number one robotics girlie and becomes obsessed with those robot death matches. she and sokka waste so much time building the most useless little robots. mai is really good at coding and sokka is really good at engineering, so their robots are actually quite impressive. katara thinks it’s the lamest shit ever, and wishes they’d stop bringing giant pieces of scrap metal into her house.

ty lee does ballet quite intensely and gymnastics fairly competitively outside of school. everyone sort of assumes she’d be a cheerleader if their school had a cheer team, so she gets the reputation of one without having to actually do any of those dangerous stunts. she’s also in go club and chess club. sometimes she and sokka are the only two people who actually show up and they just play one continuous game that lasts for hours. she also joins the roller derby team and suki’s dojo, for no particular reason.

finally, azula does everything. literally everything. even clubs she despises, because her number one goal at all times is someday getting into harvard (and then graduating harvard top of her class and then going to harvard law and then making partner within her first year at a big firm and then becoming queen of all totality). her number two goal is showing up sokka. she plays every sport the school offers, joins every club, volunteers, interns, tutors pro bono (only because she knows that sokka charges, and she wants to rub in his face that she doesn’t need money), takes every language their school offers at once, and demands extra credit homework even though her gpa is already perfect. she’s part of the young republicans but will also canvas for local democratic candidates because she knows that it looks good on an application. besides mai and ty lee, who have known her for long enough that they simply find her antics amusing, no one likes her. many are genuinely terrified of her. sokka, however, does not find her scary at all, a fact which infuriates her to no end. in his mind, she is just zuko’s little sister, that girl katara hates, or, the most annoying girl on the debate team. she fantasizes about murdering him every night before going to bed. it helps her fall asleep.

#okay NOW i had to put it under the cut #bc i truly wrote so much #the gaang and #modern au #my vision for my modern au at this point is such a rich detailed tapestry

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earlgrey24 · 5 days

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Top 5 underappreciated historical figures!

Thanks for the ask! This one was super fun, but also super difficult to answer. I've purposefully avoided mentioning the ladies of the French Revolution, since I have another question specifically about them lined up.

With that being said, in no particular order:

Fulvia

Anyone in the classics circle likely knows much more about her than I do, but I'm so glad I've discovered her through Tumblr! All of the things I've learned about her so far have been so interesting. It's incredible to see how much political (and military) power a Roman woman was able to yield despite living in a deeply patriarchal society.

(also, the part of me that loves drama really appreciates the story about her stabbing Cicero's tongue with hairpins after the proscriptions and Octavian's atrocious poem about her)

2. Émilie du Châtelet

Also hardly a surprise for anyone who's been following me for a while. Again, the fact that I've only relatively recently found out that there was a female mathematician and physicist in the fist half of the 18th century with such significant contributions to the field makes me almost feel as if I've been lied to.

She is special to me both because she was incredibly smart (she was able to understand Newton like few other people in her time and she spoke so many languages!) but there's also something about her writing that makes her feel deeply human and relatable. I've read some of her texts, and not only are they written in a beautiful prose but they're also incredibly moving. Her view on how to achieve happiness in life is one of the best I've ever came across, and her arguments for the education of women always make me feel so emotional...

...when she says that it was only after she realised that the circle of (male) French intellectuals accepted her among themselves and treated her as equal that she realised she too "might be a thinking creature"... I don't know, there's something about it that always gets to me.

Okay, time to introduce some male historical figures as well! This one is a residue from the time when I was really into the American Revolution.

3. Peter Stephen Du Ponceau

He was probably the only one in Baron von Steuben's original group that was able to speak decent English when they first arrived in the US to join the revolutionary war, which a) makes him quite important b) is kind of funny to think about.

But what I especially like about him is that he was a talented linguist who seemed to have genuine respect for other cultures, which let's face it, was quite rare in his times. While taking part in the American Revolutionary War, he recorded and studied the languages of Native American People. How cool is that?

(He was also potentially queer and I do have a soft spot for queer history)

Okay, guess should bring up someone interesting from Czech history as well. I fully confess that my own country's history is not necessarily my favourite area of study, but for her, I'll always make an exception:

4. Milena Jesenská

Probably most well known as Kafka's (kind of?) girlfriend/pen pal, but there is so much more to her story!

She was a writer and a journalist during the first half of the 20th century. She was really talented and soon made a reputation for herself, which let's face it, wasn't an easy thing to do for women in her time.

After Czechia became occupied by Nazi Germany, she joined the resistance movement and helped Jewish families to escape. She was later transported to a concentration camp, where she worked as a nurse and was said to have been "a moral support for other prisoners". She unfortunately died there when she was only 47. Still, what a life!

5. John Polidori

He's not necessarily my number one favourite person but I'd argue he is one of the most unappreciated figures. Vampires in fiction are massively popular but he rarely gets credited as one of its first authors. (Also the theory that Lord Ruthven, the charismatic, immoral aristocrat featured in The Vampyre is heavily based off on Lord Byron is not only entirely plausible but also quite funny).

Whenever I read something about the Geneva Squad, I always end up feeling kind of bad for him. As a foreigner, someone who was of a lower social status and - since he technically came along as Byron's personal physician - a paid employee, it just seems to me like he was never actually fully part of the group. Maybe I'm wrong, but to me, he felt kind of like a perpetual outsider. Lord Byron also got the credit for writing The Vampyre that should have gone to Polidori.

He was of course far from a perfect saint, with his drug and gambling addiction, but I still can't help but feel that he deserved better.

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miryum · 10 months

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Okay okay okay I feel like a genius and I know this is a lot and I’m so so sorry I just think it’s make a really compelling story!

Princess!reader is betrothed to Arthur. Neighbouring kingdoms with palaces very close together (this is important I promise). She’s like six months younger than him and it’s been set up since she was born. So she arrives at the palace, looking absolutely stunning, and she’s terrified. To his credit Arthur is very nice, very sweet. He shows her around, introduces her to people, makes sure she’s comfortable, etc..

But how could she possibly be looking at him when the middle brother is the same young boy she would secretly meet over the summer, the first boy she ever liked, kissed, and danced with around the forest before they both grew up? The boy she always thought she’d marry? The boy who is now sneaking into her chambers to kiss her absolutely breathless.

The same boy she still loves…

@bright-shiningstar I am SO SORRY that this didn't come out sooner, but every single time I looked at this request it literally made me squeal out loud, so I had to make sure it was perfect!! I think I rewrote it at least five times, so I hope you like the finished product! Thank you so much for requesting!

Buddies in the F1 world: @hey-kae @vinvantae

Warnings: Some swearing, probably some grammatical errors

Day 0

“Y/n, do you remember the Leclerc’s?” Your parents had sat you down after dinner.

“Yes, has the agreement gone through?” Your parents had spent most of your life drafting a treaty with the Leclerc’s, offering your hand in marriage as a staple. Prince Lorenzo was married to a young queen of a neighbouring kingdom, joining the two realms. Prince Charles was deemed too old for you. So that left the youngest. Now that you were old enough, the treaty was solidified.

“We got confirmation today,” your mother said, smiling proudly. She was so pleased to see her eldest daughter married off. “Prince Arthur is officially your fiancé!”

Your younger sister leaned into your side, trying to be a rock of comfort. You weren’t completely angry about being forced into marriage (the few times you had visited the Leclerc patriarch and matriarch, they had been kind and enchanting to you. You had no reason to think that their sons would be any different.) but you were petrified. You would be moving away from your family and home. You didn’t know what lay in front of you.

“And you’re leaving tomorrow…” your mother tied the strings of your distress.

“What?” Your sister, Megan, cried out. She latched onto you, pulling you close. “That’s not fair! Why can’t she stay for another week?”

“Because the wedding is in a week,” your father explained. “The Leclerc’s have it all set up. Luckily, they’re kind enough to give you a week to acclimate yourself to their family. Chin up, darling,” he said to you. “This is a joyous occasion.”

“I mean, I would’ve preferred the middle son,” your mother whispered. “More status and closer in line for the throne, but the youngest is acceptable.” Your father rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you retire for the night?” your father prompted you. “You need to look your best tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon!” Your sister dragged you away from your parents. “I thought I would get more time with you.” She hummed sadly.

“Megan, it’ll be alright. I’ll make sure you’re invited to the wedding.” You felt odd reassuring her, wondering if it should be the other way around.

“Oh, that’s right,” Megan groaned. “You’ll be Princess Y/n Leclerc in a week. That doesn’t sound right at all.”

“Why don’t we have a sleepover, hm?” You needed to distract Megan with something else, otherwise her worries would double your anxiety and stress. “Just like old times.”

“Yes!” Megan squealed and ran ahead of you. Her slippers padded down the hall. “I’ll grab my pillow!”

You grasped at this moment of silence to try and calm your racing heart. Unbeknownst to your parents and sister, the marriage to Prince Arthur wasn’t the biggest of your concerns. Your breathing was uneven and you palmed your eyes, getting rid of any semblance of tears.

Were you ready to see Charles again?

***

You couldn’t breathe. Tears and snot obscured your face and clogged your airways. The rational part of you that would’ve been saying, someone would realise you were missing and come find you, was drowned in your fears of, oh my gosh I’m going to die alone and have to spend my few remaining days eating tree bark!

You weren’t sure how you had run this far, but you were sure it was to be your doom. If only you had stopped by the stables to grab your pony, Newt. If only you hadn’t strayed from the path. If only you had turned around once the sun started to set.

Internally chastising yourself, you sat down at the base of a tree. You knew that yelling would be no use and you should probably conserve your energy. You wished that you had paid more attention to those survival lessons the knights had taught you.

“Um, excuse me?”

Your head shot up at the sound. “Who’s there?” you called out, jumping to your feet.

“My name is Charles,” the young voice explained. You couldn’t see the owner. “Are you alright? I heard someone crying.”

“Where are you?” you demanded to know.

A boy, a couple years older than you, maybe seven or eight, stepped out from behind a tree. “Hi,” he said, smiling. He wanted to show he wasn’t a threat. “Can I help you? You seem lost.”

“Yes, I am!” You couldn’t help a new onslaught of tears. “I was walking and I guess I took a wrong turn? Are your parents somewhere around here? It’s almost dark and I need to get back.”

“My parents are at home.” Charles prompted, “but I can walk you home?”

“I don’t want you to get lost, too.” You shook your head. “Can I come with you back to your village? I’m sure there’s transportation I could find.”

“Oh, no.” Charles shrugged, causally leaving out the part that he was a prince, and if he wanted, could snap his fingers and order a ride home for you. “It’s alright. I know this forest like the back or my hand. Where do you live?”

“Uh…” You wiped your nose on your dress. “I live at the L/n castle.”

“That’s not far away at all!” Charles smiled and you grinned back, already infected by his charms. “Did you know this forest is actually the border of Enza and Haas? I don’t live that far away, either. Do you know about the Leclerc’s?”

“Yeah, my- the King and Queen,” you corrected yourself quickly. “They’re friends with them.” You weren’t sure why your five-year-old self wasn’t telling this new friend that you were royalty. Maybe you didn’t want to scare him away?

“My family’s house is right next to their palace,” Charles said.

“We’re practically neighbours!” You stood up and beamed.

“Can I walk you home, neighbour?” Charles giggled at his joke. You nodded and grasped his hand in the trusting way only children can.

It turned out that the Enza palace and the Haas castle weren’t far away from each other. Once the pair of new friends realised this, they made plans to meet up more often. At the Haas gates, you made sure Charles would be safe and get home quickly. He reassured you that he had explored the forest for hours and would never get lost. He promised to meet you the next day at the clearing where you had met so you knew he wasn’t being mauled to death by a pack of wolves.

Little did you know that a great friendship and a great love was suddenly born.

Day 1

“Y/n. Y/n.” Megan placed a hand on your bouncing leg. “You're practically shaking the whole carriage. I know you’re nervous, and this is an awful thing to say, but maybe try to hide it?”

“Sweetheart, what I believe your sister is saying, is ‘calm down’.” Your father held a piece of parchment and peered over it at you. “This is nothing to worry about.”

“Your father and I had the exact same disposition when we were your age,” your mother smiled softly at you. “I know the uncertainty you’re feeling, but trust me, it will get better.”

No it won’t, mom! You wanted to scream at her, how will it get better if the boy I used to love is living in the same palace as me?!

“I’m sure it will,” you said. A minute or so passed with Megan trying to fill the space with meaningless conversation.

“Wait, wait!” The carriage passed a grove of trees that looked eerily familiar. “Stop! Stop the horses!” Your cries turned frantic and banged on the side of the carriage. Sticking your head out the window, you repeated your demand. The driver yanked on the reins and before it came to a complete stop, you jumped out.

“Y/n! Where are you going?” Megan shuffled to get out after you, tripping on her dress.

“Y/n, get back here!” Your mother cursed, yelling towards Megan, “get her back here, Megan! We’ll be late!”

You wanted to rip off your dress. It was scratching at your body and snagged on branches and twigs as you ran. You needed to make sure it was still there. Then you would go back to your family. But you just had to be sure.

“Y/n!” Megan groaned in frustration as her high-heel got caught on a tree root. She tugged on it and cried out, “You cannot simply leave!”

“Please, just give me a moment!” you called back. The forest easily came back to you. It felt like a force was pulling you towards the clearing.

“Do you wanna play hide and seek?” You sat on the grass, watching a nine-year-old Charles throw a ball up into the air and catch it. And then throw it back up. And catch it.

“Really?” Charles groaned. “That’s such a baby thing to do.”

“Hey!” You kicked him in the ribs. He yelled out and squirmed away. “First off, I am not a baby! And second, you’re not being very entertaining right now. I’m trying to think of things to do.” Other than having to sneak away from the castle, a hard thing about being friends with Charles was the age gap. He was entering a stage in life where he was determined to be cool and stoic and you sometimes wondered if he regretted his friendship with a little girl.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, offering a pitiful apology.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, then I’ll just go back home.” You stood and slowly shuffled over to Newt, who was tied up by Charles’ horse, Scuderia.

“Y/n, wait.” Charles suddenly appeared behind you and grabbed your arm. “I’m sorry, really. It’s rude of me to ignore you. We can play hide-and-seek.”

“No, you’re right,” you conceded. “It’s a little too childish. Wanna just talk?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m cool with that.” Charles couldn’t help the smile that overcame him. He didn’t know much about Y/n L/n’s personal life, but he definitely knew that you were one of his best friends.

“Y/n, what the hell are you doing?!” Megan plucked a twig out of her hair.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, collapsing to the ground. The tree stood in front of you and the clearing still looked picturesque. It was where you had met with Charles all those times all those years ago. You wondered if you initials were still there or if the tree had scabbed over them. You didn’t want to check.

“What do you mean? Y/n, you can’t back out now. Mother will not allow it. Think of the Enzan royal family. This will ruin our relationship with them.” Megan crouched down next to you, sweeping your hair out of your face. You silently wondered how she matured so quickly.

“Megan, it would be better if this was a faceless prince that I had no connection to.”

“Is it not?”

“No, I-” You sighed. “Nevermind. Let’s go. I’m sorry.”

After a tense carriage ride that consisted of your mother berating you for running off and you apologising profusely but not giving any explanation of why, the Enza palace came into view.

“Stand tall, good posture, don’t speak unless spoken to, and let your father and I handle the political aspects,” your mother reminded you. She swept your hair back into place and ran her fingers along the creases of your dress. She huffed at the dirt stains courtesy of the forest floor. “It’ll have to do. Now, come along.” A footman sprung open the carriage door and your father stepped down to victorious trumpets. He helped your mother down and the footman offered his hand to Megan who took it graciously. You refused the footman’s hand, jumping down on your own.

“Y/n, you look dejected,” Megan whispered to you.

“And that’s because I am.” You clutched your dress and Megan huffed, wrestling your hand away. You understood her gestures and held out your arm. Megan took it and led you closer to the Enza royal family.

“Look up,” your mother whispered. “At least look at your husband.” But it wasn’t your husband that drew your eyes. There, on the steps, was Charles Leclerc, or Charlie.

“Do you like anyone, chérie?” Charles felt odd asking this. Wasn’t it always the girls who had to be obsessed with crushes and who-liked-who? Why was he bringing this up?

“Uh… why do you ask?” You were eleven and it was weird to discuss this with a fourteen-year-old boy.

You weren’t sure how your feelings for Charles started. You guessed that because he was the only boy even remotely close to your age that you saw, it was bound to happen.

“I don’t know,” Charles mumbled. “My older brother’s seeing someone and my younger one is now obsessed with girls. I wanted to know if you’re also caught up in this lovey-dovey stuff.”

“Is it bad if I am?” You were afraid that Charles would ridicule and tease you for being swept up in the romance that was apparently ruining the continent. Even your sister gushed about a stable boy that she was infatuated with.

“No, chérie,” Charles said slowly. “I just need to know if there’s another guy I need to compete with.”

You laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Charlie. You’ll always be my number one.”

“Good,” Charles tried to hide his smile. The butterflies in his stomach made it harder. Charlie. You called him Charlie. It was like you were trying to intoxicate him in this new thing called love.

***

When Charles heard your name for the first time in three years, he froze. And to hear it directed at his younger brother, no less.

But when he saw you, time stopped.

You hadn’t changed much over the three years, albeit your hair was a styled different and the way you carried yourself had stiffened. He desperately wanted to run up to you and kiss you until you both saw stars. He wanted to fold you in his arms and never let you go. He had lost you once and he wasn’t going to let that happen again. At least with you marrying his brother he would be able to see you. If he couldn’t touch you, seeing you would be enough. It would be torture, having you just within reach but unable to hold you, but it would be worse to not see you at all.

It had been torture all these years.

He cursed Arthur for being the youngest. If Charles had been born just after his youngest brother, he could’ve had you for himself. He cursed his heart. It wasn’t fair to fall for someone he could never have. He wondered if his parents would try to marry him off too. He wondered if he could marry someone while you were in his home. For certain, he could never love anyone as much as he loved you. Would he stay single his entire life, watching you and his brother grow old together? Would he marry someone in a loveless marriage? Or could something else happen that changed it all….?

And then you looked at him.

Sparks ignited in his body. Then you looked at his brother. His heart was cleaved in two. Right. You weren’t there for him. He had to remember that or he would torture himself into oblivion. He already was torturing himself. Charles didn’t know if it would be better to avoid you or indulge himself in your presence.

His father started talking to your father and Charles noticed Arthur stepping forward to greet you. Your mother pinched your side and Charles’ jaw clenched. From your stories, he didn’t like your mother, but this only solidified his opinion.

Charles felt Lorenzo’s stare on him- the only person who knew about his rendezvous with you. Charles plastered on a smile and stayed stock-still.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he heard Arthur say to you.

“You as well.” Your voice was just as he remembered, if not more formal. You never spoke that way to him. Your words were always filled with laughter- not diplomacy.

“May I give you and your sister a tour of our home?” Arthur proposed.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Megan detached yourself from your arm so you could walk with Arthur, your sister trailing behind. You brushed past him, holding your gaze forward. It would only pain you more to see him.

“Charles, you need to talk to her,” Lorenzo whispered harshly to him. “It won’t do anyone good to have you sadly avoiding her. Arthur can’t have his wife and his brother looking lovelorn without knowing the cause.”

“Arthur can never know,” Charles growled. “It would make things worse.”

“He doesn’t need to know if you and Princess Y/n work things out before the wedding,” Lorenzo persisted.

Charles took a breath and finally said, “I’ll think about it, alright?”

Day 3

Arthur had spent yesterday showing you around the Leclerc palace and luckily, it was of similar design to the Haas castle. Megan had left with a tearful goodbye, promising to visit a day before the wedding to help you prepare. Your mother left you with a kiss on the cheek and your father had hugged you tightly.

You had spent the third day in your new room, handmaidens helping you unpack and commission new dresses for you. The Steward and Housekeeper had sat you down, giving you an overview of what the wedding would entail and the customs of Enzan marriages and politics. Of course, you already knew most of it as your mother had begun drilling it into you at an early age.

You had collapsed into bed after they had gone, too tired to join the Leclerc’s for dinner or even change out of your dress. Yet you still couldn’t find purchase in sleep. It just wouldn’t come.

It was late at night when a knock resounded on your door. You slowly peeled yourself off the bed- which didn’t feel at all like your own- and said, “Come in.”

“Hi,” Charles softly said.

“Oh. Hi.” You straightened up and bowed your head in a form of a curtsy.

“Don’t- don’t do that.” Charles shook his head. “I was never your superior.”

You stood silently for a while, the awkwardness resounding. It seemed like a chasm was between you two.

“I’ve missed you,” Charles admitted carefully.

“I missed you too,” you said. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Yeah,” Charles chuckled uncomfortably and you joined him. “And to see you with my brother, no less.” Your laughter stopped immediately and you looked at the ground. “Right,” Charles swallowed harshly. He couldn’t seem to unstick that lump in his throat. “Sorry. I’m sorry. For it all. I should’ve never ended-”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Charlie,” you admitted. A wave of relief passed over his face and it looked like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. In one sudden movement, you tumbled forward and engulfed the boy in a hug. Charles swept his arms around you, reciprocating immediately. It felt nice to have you in his arms again. It felt like home. He pressed you closer to him, inhaling. Charles placed a soft kiss to your hairline, mumbling about all the times he missed you.

“Charles? Can you promise me something?” you asked.

“Anything.”

“Can you promise to never leave me alone again?” Your voice sounded so small and for the third time today, you unintentionally broke his heart.

“I’m sorry, chérie. I never meant to leave you alone in the first place. But yes, I promise to always stay by your side from now on.”

“Even though I’m betrothed to-”

“Don’t talk about that, please.” Charles shook his head.

“Okay,” you conceded. “But what will we do? Charlie, I still love-”

Charles cut you off with an Earth-shattering kiss. His hands circled around your lower back, gripping you even closer- if that was possible. You circled your hands around his neck, running them over his shoulders and down his torso. Every dip and curve was like you remembered. His kiss was just like you remembered.

“Charles?” The newly eighteen-year-old hummed in response and you glanced over at his figure. He was laying on a soft pitch of grass that was illuminated by a stream of sunlight that broke through the trees. His eyes were closed and a small smile graced his lips, showcasing one of his dimples. He had obviously been working out, and he had nicely grown into his body. He was wearing a loose tunic that highlighted his arms. The curve of his muscles made your heart jump a little quicker. You loved these moments with him alone, and you would be damned if your title of royalty got in the way. “Have you ever thought about growing up?”

“Sure I have,” Charles said. “What about it?”

Your brows settled into a frown. “My parents have started talking to me about marriage.”

“Already?” Charles opened one eye to find you already looking at him. Your hands were clasped over your stomach and fiddled together with anxiety. “You have a few more years.”

“Yes, but they want to lock down a husband before it’s too late,” you explained. “Apparently, I’m already betrothed. I just don’t know to whom.”

“You’re already married?!” Charles sat up on an elbow, looking incredulously at you.

“No,” you scoffed. “It’s synonymous with being engaged.”

“Geez,” Charles exhaled and laid back down. “I didn’t realise I was pining after a practically married woman.”

“Excuse me?!”

Charles smirked. “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner, chérie. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in this relationship.”

“Charlie.” The nickname made his facade drop and his heart rate rise. Was it all a big mistake? Did he just throw away this coveted friendship that he had worked so hard to cultivate? “Are you serious?”

“As serious as death,” Charles whispered.

“Death?” You couldn’t help but let a laugh escape. “Couldn’t you choose another word? Death sounds so cruel.”

“What other word would you like me to use to express my love for you?” Charles joined in your laughter, and once again, you relished in the sound.

“I don’t care.” You rolled onto your side and Charles copied your actions, taking your hand in his. His fingers tapped over yours as if planning out the wedding dance. “Just so long as I can say it back.”

It was all you could imagine for a first kiss.

You gasped, pulling back from the boy you loved. “Charlie, I can’t do this. I- I’m about to marry your brother, for goodness sake! I can’t be kissing you and- and-”

“I know, chérie, I know,” Charles stepped back and he instantly missed your touch. “But I love you too. And I can’t bear seeing you so close, but knowing I can’t feel and love you. It hurts. It hurts being away from you.”

“Charlie… we can’t.” It pained you to say it, but it was true. You weren’t about to be the type of person who cheated on their husband with their brother. Even if it was for love, you still had morals.

“You’re not married yet,” Charles tried to smile. “Let me come to your room at night. Just to talk to you. Just to be around you. We’re still best friends, are we not?”

You chuckled sadly. “You always find a way to bend the rules, huh, Charlie?”

“For you, I’d do anything.”

Day 4

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” Arthur admitted. “You’re an incredibly nice girl and I have a feeling we would’ve made good friends. I mean, we’ll still make good friends, but what I’m trying to say-”

You let out a light laugh. “I get it, Arthur. I think we’ll make good friends too.”

“How are you adjusting?” your fiancé asked. “Are you comfortable? How’s your room? We can repaint it, or redecorate if you wish?”

“Arthur!” You chuckled at the boy’s concern. “Everything is perfectly fine! Thank you. You’re making this transition much easier.”

“Well, I want to make sure my future wife enjoys herself,” Arthur shrugs. You stilled at his words. “And I wanted to introduce you to some of my friends. Maybe they could become your friends too?”

“Sure,” you agreed. Arthur proceeded to lead you around the palace, presenting you to a series of guards, dukes and duchess, butlers and maids. You met Earl Carlos, Duke Pierre, Baron Daniel, Knight Max, Lady Carla, and attendees such as Lily, Lewis and his daughter, Lando, Sara, and Esteban. They all seemed extremely accommodating and pleased to meet you. Everyone promised to help you through your time in Enza and to be loyal to their new princess. Arthur hovered a hand over your lower back the entire time, and as much as you appreciated the gesture, it didn’t feel the same as Charles’ touch.

“Arthur?” Like you had summoned him, Charles appeared behind you. “Mother and Father are requesting your presence in the throne room. It’s about finalising the formalities for… your wedding.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur nodded. “Can you keep Princess Y/n company, Charles?”

“Anything, brother.” Charles clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Did I ever congratulate the two of you?”

Arthur’s brow twitched and you wondered if he could also see the buried sadness in Charles’ eyes. “No, but I’ll gladly take it now.”

“Well, congratulations. You’re lucky Maman and Papa found you a good one.”

“Yes, I am.” Arthur pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to your cheek before rushing off to his parents. Agonous jealousy was splayed on Charles face the moment Arthur turned away.

“I don’t know how many times I can say this in four days, but I’ve missed you,” Charles said, a sweet, awkward smile on his face as he shoved his hands in his pockets, stepping towards you. “Whenever I’m away from you I miss you.”

“And I don’t know how I’m going to stay away from you if you keep proclaiming your love for me.” You reached out and touched his forearm.

“Then don’t stay away.” Charles wrapped you in a hug and you felt yourself giving in. “I can talk to my parents and I’m sure if we just explain the situation, they’ll understand. We could get married and be together. Arthur could marry a princess from Wolff or whoever he wanted! Y/n, we could-”

“Charlie, my love, what of my parents?” you asked. “They signed an agreement about me and Arthur. Not me and you. As much as I love the situation you’re describing, as much as I love the possibility of being with you, it’s impossible. Unless you can convince my parents otherwise, which is impossible, it’s not going to happen.”

Charles hummed, slowly separating himself from you in fear of someone seeing your embrace. “Then the least I can do is try.”

You tied up Newt, silently counting down the minutes until Charles arrived. The seconds ticked by and you sat down at the base of the tree that had your initials carved into it next to Charles’. You traced Charles’ initials with your finger, still in the euphoria of love. It was only a couple weeks ago that you and Charles had confessed your love for each other and he couldn’t seem to stop saying it whenever he had the chance. It became greeting, conversation starter, and goodbye.

But for some reason, Charles seemed to be late today. As time ticked by, a light mist coated the air. Normally, he was early, even getting to the clearing before you, but you tried not to worry. He probably had some duties to attend to, like you had had a couple weeks ago. You had apologised profusely to Charles, but he had forgiven you with the price of a kiss.

Newt started to get restless after twenty minutes and the mist turned into drizzle. You, now eighteen, fished out an apple to calm him down. It was another fifteen minutes before Scuderia showed up, Charles practically standing in the saddle, rain dripping down his body. “Charles!” You stood up, waving him towards you. Instead of the brilliant grin that usually graced his face whenever he saw you, a frown was burrowed into his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Chérie,” Charles didn’t even bother to tie Scuderia up before bundling you in his arms and peppering kisses to your forehead, temples, cheeks, and nose. He twirled you around so his arms were crossed in front of you, cradling you, and started kissing your neck, collarbone, and earlobes.

“Charlie,” you laughed lightly. “What are you doing?”

“My chérie, mon amour, I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Charles,” you spun around in his arms, taking his face in your hands. You gently caressed his cheek in an attempt to calm him down. “You’re scaring me. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I love you, you know that, right?” Charles assured you. You nodded along. “Then you have to believe me when I say it pains me that I can’t meet you here anymore.”

“What?” Your heart dropped and your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“My mom and dad are getting suspicious, chérie. I think they know I’m meeting a girl out in the forest,” Charles tried to explain it to you but you just became more confused with every word. “I’ve already turned down one marriage proposal and they’ll get frustrated if I turn down another.”

“You’ve done what?” You stepped back from him and Charles’ hands reached out, trying to keep you close to him. You backed up, away from him, until you could feel Newt at your back. “You never told me about that.”

“I didn’t think it was important,” Charles argued. “But what I’m trying to say is that I think it’s best if we take a pause on the meetings for now. My parents are already breathing down my neck and it doesn’t help that you’re betrothed. Lorenzo found out about you and I’m worried what will happen if someone else does too.”

“Charlie, you turned down a marriage proposal?” You couldn’t wrap your mind around it. “You could’ve had a wife by now? And who cares if Lorenzo knows about me?! I almost- it feels like you’re embarrassed about me?” It came out like a question. You tangled a hand in Newt’s mane, hoping for some sort of stability. “You never cared about my betrothal before this. Why now?” Charles swallowed and you could see a war debating in his mind. “Answer me, Charles,” you demanded. “What happened that made you bring this up?”

Charles took a deep breath and said, “you’re the princess of Haas, aren’t you? It all makes sense. Your betrothal, your outfits, your manner of speaking. I thought you were just a duchess or countess, but no. You’re the princess.”

You weren’t sure how to answer. How did you find out? seemed too accusatory. I thought you knew? was too deflective. What does it matter? was too aggressive. You settled on saying, “yes. And you’re Prince Charles Leclerc. I’ve kind of always known.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles whispered.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted. “It never really came up. Some part of me thought you knew- thought you had connected the dots and just accepted it. I didn’t intentionally hide it from you. I’m sorry.”

“Y/n,” Charles started. “I can’t hang out with you anymore.” The beginning of tears pricked at the back of your eyes and your face grew hot. You opened your mouth to say something, but Charles beat you to it. “It’s not proper for us to visit each other outside of the court. If people found out they could…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I’m sorry, my chérie.”

You couldn’t meet his eye, instead focusing on a patch of wilted flowers. “Okay,” is all you could say. “Goodbye, Charles.” Newt’s mane was slick with rain as you climbed on. Your horse seemed to sense your urgency and quickly wove through the trees, leaving Charles behind. You wiped at your eyes, letting Newt take full control. You regretted it when a branch snagged on your arm and you cried out, a line of blood starting to appear. When you returned to the Haas castle, Megan didn’t question it when you collapsed on your bed, instead opting to help you change out of your rain-soaked dress before curling up with you under the covers.

Little did you know, Charles was still sitting in that clearing, silently crying. Scuderia bumped his nose against Charles, but the prince just pushed him away.

Day 6

“So, what’re you going to do about it?” Megan asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” you admitted. “There’s nothing I can do. The treaty has been signed, the preparations are underway, and Arthur…” You sighed before continuing, “he’s really nice. I could envision a future with him.”

“But what about Prince Charles?” Megan sat on your bed, the night before the wedding. You had given in and told her everything. “Can you envision a future with him?”

“I want a future with him.”

A deeper voice whispered, “I want a future with you too.” Charles stood at your door, and peeking out behind him was Arthur.

“Shit,” Megan muttered.

“What are you doing here?” You stood up, eyes flickering to Charles before sheepishly locking eyes with Arthur. “Prince Arthur… I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“No, no,” the boy reassured you, his small, anxious smile seeming almost… hopeful. “You’re a wonderful girl and an even better friend, but you’re not who I would’ve chosen to marry. No offence,” he quickly added. “We just don’t click. We don’t have that same spark that you and Charles do. And, well, I kind of have my sights set on someone else. Charles explained it all to me.”

You laughed. “Guess we really are the perfect pair, huh? Both pining after other people.”

“And you after my brother?” Arthur joked, gasping dramatically. “How unfaithfully devious of you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What does this mean, then?” Megan asked for you. “We can’t just swap Charles out for Arthur at the wedding.”

Arthur grinned and said, “Why not?” He slung an arm around Charles, clapping him on the chest. “Guess you’re getting married, big brother.”

Charles laughed loudly before turning to look at you. “Y/n L/n, will you marry me tomorrow?”

Your lips separated in half shock and half elation. “I- I… yes! Though I admit, I expected something a bit more extravagant.”

“Chérie, I’m just upholding my promise.” Charles opened his arms cheekily and even though you were confused by his words, you fell into them, happy to be able to hold him in the presence of others.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t remember?” He lifted an eyebrow, throwing you his signature smirk.

You tossed a ball to Charles who threw it back. “Anything new in your life?” he asked.

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.”

After a minute of silence Charles said, “Let’s make a deal.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“If, in ten years, we still have the same, boring lives,” You scoffed at his words. “then we get married and make our lives un-boring, together.”

After a moment’s deliberation, it didn’t seem like a bad deal to an eight-year-old. “Okay,” you readily agreed. “But I doubt my life will be boring in ten years.”

“Sure…” Charles snickered at you. “I’ll let you believe that.”

“How can you not remember my completely legitimate marriage proposal?” Charles scoffed quietly, leaning down to bump his forehead against yours.

“Well, pardon me for not remembering something you said thirteen years ago,” you tapped him on the chest.

“How could you not remember a proposal?” Charles asked.

“I would like to know the answer to that as well,” Megan spoke up.

“Well, does it matter as long as I say ‘yes’?”

“No, I guess not,” Charles beamed as he bent down to kiss you.

Day 7

Charles kissed you again, but this time it was in front of an altar, before a crowd, and with you wearing white.

Surprisingly, it hadn’t took much convincing for your parents to understand the situation. Apparently, Charles had stayed true to his word and contacted your parents, explaining everything. Your father was just relieved you were still marrying someone and your mother had always preferred Charles anyway. King and Queen Leclerc, after hearing of the years of meetings you and Charles had shared, were more than thrilled. They were eager for you to join their family and a marriage of love always went better than a marriage of politics.

The wedding was already planned, the chefs already prepping, and the priest already booked. All they needed was to switch out Arthur’s name for Charles’.

“May I present Prince and Princess Leclerc of Enza!” The priest announced to thunderous applause.

“Hello, chérie,” Charles whispered and his nose bumped against yours. “Or should I say, Princess Leclerc?”

“I like that name best,” you grinned.

“I do too,” Charles admitted.

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