#pretending that i am not jealous and not always so so empty

[capslocked]

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

-

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

-

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise. 

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

-

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath. 

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it. 

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

-

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

-

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is: 

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

-

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

-

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that: 

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:  

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

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

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

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

[xo-cori]

it’s all a game to me anyway

pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader

summary: pining after athletes is never a good idea. that is, unless you’re good at getting your way.

warnings: smut (MDNI), hockey!abby, reader is lowkey a womanizer, choking, the knee thing™, thigh riding, power dynamic switcharoo, no aftercare but in a hot way

a/n: inspired by “music to watch boys to” by mother lana 🙏 if you’re a buff girl named abby anderson who plays hockey pls hit my line immediately. also read pt 2 here!!

“How’d you get in here?”

In any other scenario, her tone would’ve offended you. At least, you would’ve pretended it did. But this is a very special case; you’ve got Abby exactly where you want her, only because you know she feels the same.

It all started a few months ago during your first week of college. You’d developed a reputation around the school pretty quickly– you tend to pick girls up for a night just to leave them in the dust. It’s fulfilling, until it isn’t. Until you move onto the next, getting better and better at pretending you’d fallen head over heels just to take someone to bed. Now, just starting your second semester, you’d climbed up the social hierarchy pretty quickly, and you’ve been eyeing somebody in specific. After playing your tricks with half of her teammates, of course.

You stand in the empty locker room with her as she packs her bag. You can tell she’s fresh out of the shower and had just finished getting changed. You wonder if you could’ve sped this up by walking in a bit earlier.

“I snuck in,” you shrug. “Just noticed you never came out with your team– I wanted to say how sorry I am that you guys lost. You’re the captain, right? You could spread the message.”

Her eyes meet yours and she’s obviously unimpressed. “I could, but I won’t.” She quips.

You tilt your head. “How come?”

“Well, you’re… acquainted with most of them. Tell them yourself.” She says, setting her bag down on one of the benches so that she can face you. Her dirty blonde hair is still damp and, now that you think about it, this is the first time you’ve seen it out of that signature braid she always wears– and you’ve seen a lot of her.

It’s become a habit to show up to every game, every practice, intently watching her command her team and skate around on that ice like her life depends on it. You don’t know how hockey works. You honestly couldn’t care less, but you have more than enough reason to watch it, and you have your music to keep you company.

“Someone’s jealous.” You observe, taking a long step towards her.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t make any attempt to create some distance. She just raises her eyebrows at you. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You think I’m jealous?”

“Sounds like it.” You wrestle with a smile, not wanting to blow your one chance at this by pissing her off too much.

“Oh, really? And what’s there to be jealous of?” Abby questions, even if she has a pretty good idea what the answer will be.

“The winning team,” you take another step, “and… y’know, the fact that half of your team has had a turn with me. Not you, though. Not yet.”

The way her jaw tenses up makes your chest swell with pride. “Not yet?” She repeats. “You think I want a turn?”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do. You like it when I watch you all practice, because you know I’m just watching you.” You tell her.

Abby knows there’s no way to argue with that, no matter how much she’d like to. She looks for you in the bleachers and, when she finds you, subconsciously makes a point of holding that eye contact. You always have both of your headphones in. You’re always looking her up and down, licking your lips like she’s nothing but a freshly prepared meal to you. Honestly, it makes her confidence skyrocket. She’s secure in her capabilities, but a little boost never hurt.

“Athletes like being watched. That’s kinda the whole point,” she replies, “doesn’t make you special.”

“But I am special.” Another step forward. At this point, you have to tilt your head up to keep eye contact. “I’ve gotta be. You know what I want, but you’ve never told your coach to make me fuck off.”

That’s true, too, Abby thinks. She’d never admit it, though. “Maybe I should.” She says.

“You won’t.” You grin. “Not until you get your turn, at least.”

She’s the one to take the next step forward. You can feel her breath fan across your face. She doesn’t trust her voice to speak; her hard exterior slowly crumbling under the heat of your gaze.

So, she grabs you by the throat and leans down to catch your lips between hers.

You gasp, shocked that she’d be the one to take the initiative. You weren’t even sure if she liked girls, and here she was, already shoving her tongue past your lips, which you happily accepted. Her chest presses to yours as she backs you up against one of the lockers. You opt to ignore how hard your head hit the metal, given how preoccupied you are by the way she grabs both of your wrists in her other hand and holds them above your head.

Then, she pulls back to look at you. You aren’t the one in control and you know it. Oddly enough, you kind of like it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Abby rasps, shoving her knee between your thighs and pressing up right where you needed her, causing you to let out a pleased sigh.

“Yeah,” you nod, “just didn’t think you’d be so easy.”

She finds it ironic that you of all people would call her easy, but she decides not to linger on it. Instead, she slightly tightens her grip around your throat, reveling in the way she only needs one hand to make your breath stutter. The lack of air gives you a head-rush and you find yourself grinding down onto her thigh. Normally, you wouldn’t let yourself be reduced to a submissive mess, but you’d been pining after her for months. You’d do whatever it takes to get her head between your legs.

Abby kisses you once more, totally ignoring the way your hands struggle against her grip only because you kiss her back with a fervor she’s never felt.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, “fucking yourself on my leg like a dog.”

You whine at the lack of her lips on yours. “I want you so bad, Abby– been waiting for this forever.” You admit, which is just another ego boost for her.

She lets go of your wrists and pulls your arms to wrap around her shoulders. “Go ahead, then. Make yourself cum like this.”

You’re taken aback by the demand. Is that even possible? Hell, just to impress her, you’ll make it possible.

You slowly get yourself into a rhythm, rolling your hips into hers, thighs trembling as you hold yourself up simply by her shoulders. Her muscles flex beneath your hands and it only makes you moan louder. Your head falls back against the locker once more, giving Abby an opening to dive into your neck. She kisses, licks, bites any skin available to her, leaving little marks and bruises in her path. Something for her to gawk at later when you show up to practice (because she knows you will). Her hands hold you by your waist, fingertips digging into your flesh so hard that it hurts.

It only takes another two minutes until you feel your climax boiling somewhere deep inside of you. Your legs are just barely working anymore and your hips move with an untamed rhythm, shamelessly seeking any pleasure you can get. “I’m close,” you whimper, “please, please let me–”

Before you can finish your plea, she’s grabbing onto your hips and holding you still. You groan in frustration, balling your hands into fists and whacking them against her chest. “You fucking bitch!” You whine, only made angrier by the shit-eating grin on her face (plus the way she isn’t phased at all by your punches).

“Sorry,” Abby says, moving in so close to your face that your noses are nearly touching, “just needed to vent all this frustration. You know, since I lost the big game and all.”

She presses another kiss to your lips, and you reach up to grab hold of her hair, trying to deepen it as much as possible. She doesn’t struggle at all to pull away, though. You’ve never loved and hated someone’s muscles so much.

“Let me make it better.” You breathe, trying to move one of your hands down between her legs but she quickly grabs it to restrain you. “Please, I’ll– I promise, I’ll make you forget about that stupid game.”

“That’s not a very tempting offer,” Abby sighs dramatically just to get a rise out of you, “don’t wanna be sore for practice tomorrow.”

You scrunch your nose in thought. Is that an invitation? It has to be. She knows you’ll be there regardless. You stare deep into her eyes with a fury, but this only seems to amuse her.

She lets go of your hips and steps away from you. “See you then.”

You remain pressed up against the locker, lips kiss-bitten and legs shaky. You don’t even want to think about what your neck looks like. Abby grabs her bag from the bench and doesn’t even spare you another glance before walking out of the same door you came in through.

Fuck this, you think. Two can play at that game.

#the last of us #the last of us 2 #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson smut

[hisunshiine]

— a wager of lords & love | myg

♔ pairing: noble!yoongi x noble!reader

♔ au/genre: regency era au, arranged marriage au, s2l, fluff, smut, angst

♔ rating: M

♔ wc: 6,813

⚔ warnings: reader’s mom is not alive, era-appropriate sexism, sex jokes, pet names, bedding ceremony, explicit smut: fingering, marking, light breast play, oral (female receiving), vaginal penetration, multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, you will fall so hard for yoongi. 

♔ an: this story was written for Leah | @colormepurplex2​ as part of the BangtanWHQ Valentine’s Event “Picture Perfect”. Thank you to my beta readers: @downbad4yoongi​, @peachiilovesot7​, and @moonleeai​; this story was so much fun to write. Your feedback, as always, was valuable to making not only this story at it’s best but also making my day better when reading your comments. I love regency era au’s and this one only made me fall even more madly in love with Yoongi, and I hope you will too! Please enjoy!

“What in heaven’s name did I do last night?”

Yoongi groans as he rolls over in his plush bed sheets, sunlight streaming through the window at an ungodly hour. Ungodly, because he never sleeps in this late, but the Scottish whisky and late night at Lord Kim Namjoon’s manor has made him act out of character in more ways than one. 

*flashback to the previous evening*

“Yoongi, it has been too long since we’ve gotten together properly. You must come celebrate. It’s not every day that one as young as I is able to acquire more wealth than what feels like the King himself can own.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes from where he stands across the study from his large oak desk, hand gripping the telephone to his ear as he leans closer to the box on the wall to reply.

“I have a plethora of worries, Namjoon, and none of them can be solved by celebrating your wealth.”

“I beg to differ! Come! Have a drink and make merry, partake in some illicit pleasantries. I am sure that’s just what you need to clear your mind and find a resolution.”

“I doubt I will have a resolution by the night’s end, but against my better judgment, I will be there.”

And Yoongi made sure to keep his promise, strolling into the large manor filled to the brim with the most darling of debutantes from Daehurst to Ilsansterchire. He recalls the way the single women seemed to throw themselves at him, all fluttering eyelashes and demure smiles as if they were captivated by his looks and not the wealth they knew lay in wait for his future bride. 

The knowledge of his arrival spread like wildfire through the ballroom and Yoongi had felt himself grow flustered as a gaggle of pristine beauties crowded around him to fight for his attention. He kept his face nonplussed despite the rising anxiety creeping along his outer extremities and towards his chest. Luckily, the arrival of the Earl of Upton Busan and the Marquees of Gwangchester helped reduce the number of women in his presence.

Yoongi remembers pretending to be summoned by a friend, escaping into what he thought was an empty parlor that belonged to the late Lord Kim, but the sitting room, with two walls filled from floor to ceiling with books of all sizes and colors was, in fact, occupied. The large oak desk off to the side held an older gentleman, who also seemed to be happy in his solitude, hiding from the revelry.  

The man moved a jewel-encrusted chessman across a marble chess board before looking up at Yoongi, a slight nod of his head summoning Yoongi over to join him. He produced a bottle of Smokehead Islay single-malt scotch whisky that he’d been nursing, poured Yoongi a hefty serving into a Glencairn whisky glass, which he promptly swirled to open up the aromas for full appreciation before downing the entire portion.

He knows that this was the catalyst for the conversation of what was bothering him, and so Yoongi, lips loosened from his liquor intake, shared to whom he found out was the Marquees of Seoulshire, his predicament. How his late father’s younger brother, jealous of his position, was sowing distrust in the elder’s bloodline, touting the fact that his eldest son was already married and with an heir on the way, when Yoongi had yet to take a woman’s hand in marriage despite being five years older than his cousin.

Typically, this would not be such a strange thing; many male nobility did not wed until their late twenties, and Yoongi only recently turned his twenty-ninth year, but with his estranged uncle vying to take over the wealth and power of the entire family following his father’s passing, Yoongi had to procure a wife, and fast. 

Bonding with the elder nobleman, both introverts sequestered themselves with flowing, piquant beverages, and a small miniature of the only daughter of the Marquees produced for viewing, and thus, a drunken deal was struck for the hand of his only daughter to be wed in one week’s time to the Duke of Daehurst, Min Yoongi. That only daughter being none other than…

You stare at your reflection in the full length mirror. The white dress, with its cut right beneath your bosom, is stifling despite its beauty, and the body of the gown falls along your figure gently. The sleeves are loosely capped, a lace frill edging the cuffs and the line of your decolletage. Your hair is pinned up, with a tiara inlaid with precious stones as the centerpiece to secure the veil flowing down your back in place.

The gloved hand of your maid of honor, Eleanor, who you lovingly refer to as Ellie, reaches up to fluff the veil, nervous energy displacing itself as she holds back from igniting your ire again. You have only just calmed down as your lady’s maid, Charity, places the last of the thrown perfume bottles back on the vanity. You had catapulted them for good reason, you believe. For in a few minutes, you, the unmarried daughter of the Marquees of Seoulshire, will walk down the aisle in the Duke of Daehurst’s manor, towards a man you have never spoken to—have never met—where your traitorous father plans to give you away to become the Duchess of Daehurst. 

“Lady Eleanor, will you please take your spot at the door?” Charity asks quietly, following a quick rap on the door, and you feel your heart begin a mad dash within the cavity of your ribcage. As a woman, you have nothing—no power, no wealth of your own, even your title changes from your father to that of your future husband. Some of the things your father has bought you have traveled from your home to the Duke’s, but other items are expected to be bought new, because even they belong to your father. Your only worth lies in the ability to be a proper match for a nobleman and provide him with an heir to carry on his bloodline. 

A rush of anger quells the sadness this arranged marriage has left you feeling this past week, since your father went back on the one promise he made you: that you could marry for love, like he did with your late mother, rest her soul. 

You scoff at the thought that men should hold any power in society. In one moment, your own father forgot his loyalty as well as his promise to his only daughter. In a drunken stupor, two men agreed to trade you like chattel, your position in life changing in the blink of an eye. Useless, is what they are.

The door is open just a sliver, allowing in the swell of the music, and you hear the creak of the hinges as Ellie disappears down the hall. Your father stands in the corridor, his eyes staring at the floor, unable to meet yours. You can tell he feels rather guilty for the predicament he has forced on you, but with the knowledge that he is not actually mad at the match, you still feel furious. Marrying up in society may afford you a better life, not that you would have had a destitute one with your father’s title, you’d just hoped (and had been promised you would get) to be in love with the man waiting at the end of the aisle for you, instead of dreading the stranger you were about to meet. 

Barely able to focus, you feel out of body as your father wraps your arm through his and leads you down the same path Ellie took just moments before. You can see the archway that leads into the wedding hall where your family and friends wait to observe you promise to obey and cherish a man who was described to you by your father as a “rather strapping young man, who’s quiet but wise and with gentle eyes.”

Taking the turn into the room, all eyes are drawn to you as your eyes are drawn to him. He looks breathtaking. Is this truly the man your father made a drunken deal with? The two of you lock eyes, and you work to fix the shock from your face as his demeanor barely changes. In a blink, your father is placing your hand into the Duke’s, and you are able to take in his features up close.

His face is sharp, eyes angled in a cat-like manner that give the impression he is gazing into your soul and sees the truth you attempt to keep hidden. His hair, wavy and pitch black, is parted to the side where the length falls into his face in an alluring manner. It calls to you, wanting to tuck it behind his ear if only to touch his porcelain skin, unblemished and glowing. 

He watches you closely, eyes traveling across your frame as he follows your lead, drinking you in. You’re sure that you still look flawless, ever the blushing bride that Charity and Ellie made you up to be, and for a moment you wonder if the Duke is as taken by your looks as you are by his, before remembering that he is the enemy. 

The ceremony ends quickly, a recitation of words that will join you in holy matrimony, followed by words promising to remain faithful to one another until parted by death, and you find yourself face to face with the Duke. He takes a small ring from the man right behind him, Lord Kim Namjoon, who you recognize from his many visits to handle business with your father. 

“Like this ring, I shall endlessly provide for you and cherish you, until I no longer exist.”

You can hear Ellie swoon from the low tone his voice takes to deliver the sentiment as he stares into your eyes. Vulnerability flashes for a moment before he looks down, focus solely pointed towards the task of claiming you by way of a golden wedding ring, moonstone inlaid with tiny diamonds surrounding it. 

Ellie nudges you to hand you the ring provided for the ceremony by the Min family. It is a deep ebony, with a single thin gold stripe running across the middle of the band. The top is raised to a plateau, a moonstone carved with the Yeoheung Min Clan symbol set within the ring.  

Taking the regalia from her gloved palm, you recite your part with eyes on him. Despite your anger at the arrangement, he truly is breathtaking. It takes away from the sting of your words just barely, enough that you are able to deliver them without gagging on the bristling words.

“Like this ring, I shall endlessly obey and cherish you, until I no longer exist.”

You barely hear when the minister says that the two of you are free to share a kiss, but you dutifully keep your face calm as your stomach ties itself into knots. 

He leans closer, blush colored lips drawing closer until your eyes close with the contact. So soft…his lips tenderly settle against yours, slight pressure as he angles his head to receive you better, hands falling to your hips gently as he tugs you a step closer and it’s like the room disappears leaving just the two of you in it. 

All too soon the room comes back into focus as he steps away, face blushing as the room erupts into applause and cheer from the audience. The end of the ceremony is like a blur, and the next thing that you are aware of, you are seated for an early dinner and a reception in the Daehurst Manor Great Hall for guests to greet you and your new husband, leave expensive gifts, and offer kind words of advice for a long-lasting, happy marriage.

“Would it be weird to introduce myself to you, seeing as I am already your spouse?”

His voice is intriguing—having barely heard it during the ceremony—a low rumble that has you leaning in to hear him better. 

“I assure you, my lord, weird was deciding for me that I would marry you, without even bothering to meet me beforehand. What if I had been an ogre? But I digress, it’s not any weirder than hearing you call yourself my husband, husband.”

He smiles, one side of his mouth lifting in an amused smirk as he turns in his seat to face you head on. You dislike him even more that your snide remark made not a dent in his armor. No trace of the bashful hue from the kiss lingers, cat eyes glinting with mischief. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my non-ogre wife. I am Duke Min Yoongi of Daehurst.”

Charity and Ellie can barely contain their laughter as they stare at your contemptuous face. Eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed, you shake your head rapidly in distaste at the bedding ceremony outfit they laid out for you. 

“I simply will not wear it.”

“Please, Lady Min, you will leave him stunned. It’s perfect.”

“Who said I want to stun that man? Besides, I cannot be seen in so little clothing by a stranger!”

“He’s hardly a stranger, love,” Ellie said, ignoring your stubborn nature. “He’s your husband.”

“Yes, my husband whom I have known all of two hours! I’m just expected to strut in wearing this to please him, and then—” you pause, stricken as your thoughts settle on what is expected of you.

“Yes, you will wear this very thoughtful gift from me, and then you will consummate the marriage!” Ellie whispers the act as if conspiring to commit a crime. To be fair, you felt like a criminal for how indecent the undergarments were. 

Laid on the bed was a short, white boned corset, all frill and lace with a matching pair of high waisted drawers. Ellie had also provided a matching pair of white stockings, made of silk and to be held up with ruffled garters at your thigh. There was a silky chemise that you could wear as a tunic to cover yourself, but once in the Duke’s bedroom, he would see you in all of your risque glory. 

“Come now, m’lady, we must finish getting you ready. I am sure the men are chomping at the bit to begin the ceremony.”

Dread fills you as you strip from your wedding dress and step into the lingerie your maid of honor gifted you for your wedding night.

“Well, they can just chomp a bit longer, maybe they can tire each other out enough that I am not needed tonight.”

Having only bathed two hours prior, you are able to skip the bath and spend a few more precious moments with your closest friends. You didn’t have a mother to talk to about things like bedding ceremonies, having learned everything you could from the head house matron, kitchen maids, Charity, and Ellie. Ellie was able to convince her own mother to share a little this past week to help you, but there was still so much you felt you did not know to expect. 

As Charity brushes your hair, Ellie spreads a glittering, perfumed powder onto your skin as she talks in the background of the excitement she feels, but you cannot bring yourself to share in it. With a quick twist and pin, your hair is up and you find your feet leading towards the Duke’s wing of the manor. You can hear the merrymaking from the reception still carrying on downstairs; with a wedding as important as yours, you were sure that the people would be here celebrating your union until the sun began to rise.

The door to the Duke’s room is ajar, loud laughter coming from the well lit room. Ellie walks arm in arm with you as Charity follows behind, seeing you off. As your lady’s maid, she’ll reside with you in the Daehurst manor. The housekeeper stands a few paces from the door to lead Charity to her new quarters. Bidding you goodnight, Charity retires for the evening as you and Ellie enter the bedchamber. It is quite spacious, with a large bed in the middle of the room. To the left of the entryway sits a low table surrounded by a pair of armchairs and a matching loveseat, all framed by a magnificent fireplace. 

Every seat is taken, with three men squeezing onto the loveseat and a sixth perched on the edge of one of the armchairs. You don’t recognize five of the six men, though Lord Kim Namjoon is among them. You do not see your new husband, so you and Ellie remain standing away from the men so as not to be seen as indecent. 

“Duchess! You have arrived for your bedding ceremony, have you not?” A blond haired man nearly falls from the love seat, giggles alerting you to his inebriation. An open decanter sits on the squat table, almost empty. 

“Please, Jimin, on all things that are holy, do not bother my wife.”

Your head whips around at the gravely sound of the Duke’s voice. Yoongi looks freshly bathed, no longer in a suit but in a long tunic that sits untucked over loose, black trousers. His dark hair falls in damp curls framing his face, and you hold in a small gasp. 

“I won’t bother her hole-y, hyung—that’s your job! Get her all hot and bother—”

“Get out.”

The giggling, intoxicated men all look to Yoongi, pouting with various levels of frowns and scowls adorning their faces. You and Ellie watch the interaction, Ellie with a smile at their banter and you with a grimace as you attempt to keep yourself from growing warm at the indecent remarks regarding what is to come.

“But hyung!” You watch as another one pouts, standing from the loveseat to full height to plead with your husband. “You’re the first to be wed, we’ve been talking about being witnesses for each other for years!” 

“Taehyung, you know the plan was to be here when she arrived as a testament to the wedding night, but never to stay. I appreciate your…excitement, but now that you can confirm the duchess’s arrival, you all may take your leave.”

“Appreciate our excitement, but won’t let us stay to watch as you get exci—”

“Jungkook, that’s enough! Out, now!”

With a groan, the three mischievous men begin to walk out of the bedchamber, waving at the older three who are slow to get up. Ellie squeezes your hand in unity before stepping away to follow the boisterous group out into the hall. 

“I’ll see you at breakfast, love. I’ll be traveling back to Seoulshire with your father tomorrow afternoon.”

You can only nod, aware of the plans but seeing her linger to make sure that you are okay. You give her a smile, and she finally steps through the threshold behind the first troupe of men to return back to the room you had prepared in. The last three men follow, greeting you and saying goodnight in the same breath.

“It is a pleasure to see you, my lady. I pray that by morning you are able to turn this peevish man affable.”

“Enjoy your night, Duchess!” 

“Yeah, all two minutes of it!”

Yoongi thunders to the door, shutting it as the group bursts into laughter muffled by the oak barrier. He turns the lock, then turns his back to it to lean against. You can’t help but to watch him, chest rising before he releases a long sigh. He reaches a hand up to his neck, scratching subtly. The sleeve of his tunic slides along his arm, revealing more unblemished skin. His head is facing the carpet, ink-colored hair falling to cover his face—a face you think you could like very much—eventually. Though right now, even the thought is not enough to quell your irritation at your welcoming. 

“I am so sorry for my friends’ behavior.”

His apology startles you. You are not used to men of his prestige to be so easy to offer an apology. During the wedding and at the reception, he appeared stoic, quiet and observing except for the few moments he engaged with you. You assumed it was just happenstance, that he was playing off of your stubborn jests, but seeing him now so open makes you wonder.

“My lord, no need to apologize. They were inebriated and excited for our coupling. Ellie was excited too, though she was better at keeping it hidden.”

“Yes, women do tend to be better at that. More practiced.”

“Do you truly believe that? I have watched my father work, and all noblemen seem to be very good at hiding their emotions.”

Yoongi smirks at your wit, pushing off of the door and walking closer to you.

“You are quite keen, my lady.”

His compliment startles you, as does his encroaching proximity. It is not menacing, if anything you are startled by your body’s response to it. His scent, a heady, woodsy musk infiltrates your senses causing any lingering animosity you had towards your father for this arrangement to seep from you. You’re tired of fighting; the knowledge of having lost before even starting lingering in your mind each time you fight back against the marriage has exhausted you. Still, you want to make sure that the Duke is aware that while you may be acquiescent, you are not easily compliant.

“My lord, I—” you look down at your hands, stumbling over your anger as you collect your thoughts. “I just want to say that I know neither of us wanted this, neither of us knew what to expect until we saw each other today, but I made a vow, so I promise to try my best, but I don’t know what I’m doing or what you expect from me, and I don’t think that I will be good at obeying, so please do not expect that from me. You may be a duke and my husband, but I demand that you treat me as an equal—”

“Shhh…” Yoongi’s thumb and forefinger grip your chin, tilting your head up to face him. You have no idea when he got so close. “I spent quite some time with your father, my lady. He spoke very highly of you and even produced your miniature from his coat pocket to show me. I may have been drunk, but I was not a fool in my decision.” His eyes rove across your face as he gently tilts your head side to side. “You are much more beautiful than the painting captured.”

If he’s hoping that flattery will tamper your annoyance, you feel he will need to try a bit harder. Though, to be fair, his flattery is working on you. Pair that with his face, and he’s doing quite a good job at putting out the fire, but you still remain steadfast. 

“How lucky to be a man. You got to see a sample of the product before buying, while I just had to trust that my father wasn’t so drunk that he sold me to the next man who walked past?” You scoff, crossing your arms as you raise your chin out of his hold in defiance.

“Trust me, princess, the luck was all mine. Had I not been the next man to walk by, who knows what woman I would have had to settle for.”

You can’t believe he’s teasing you. Calling you princess and making jokes off of your distress. You want to smack the smirk off his face. You want to kiss him again like at the altar. You’re clearly confused after such a long day of upheaval. 

“Right, because any woman should be grateful that you chose them? I was promised I would get to marry for love, just to wake up and be told I was marrying a stranger in a week.”

“Are you really angry because of this arrangement? Not that you should be grateful that I chose you, but you should be thankful for the life that you have, even before me. Not everyone lives how we do.”

Shock. That’s the only way to explain what you are feeling. He is not…man-splaining society’s plights to you, is he?

“I quite know this, my lord. I never said I was not grateful for my life, just that I am currently upset at a promise being broken.”

“Princess, I am sure you know this, but in your stubbornness, you seem to have forgotten yourself. You have a good life, you have food on the table prepared daily by the cooks and maids, and are not having to whore yourself out for a few coins to feed yourself.”

“No, I just have to whore myself to you for the rest of my life, provide you with heirs as soon as possible.” You decide to not hold back; if he’s going to be vulgar as a tactic, two could play at that game. “I may not be whoring myself out for a few coins to feed myself, but let’s not kid ourselves. We both know that I am not seen as anything more than a vessel for your cock and your children to use.”

“Tell me, princess, are you upset because you truly think me some evil, vile man, or are you actually more upset that you don’t have a real reason to push me away?” 

Yoongi steps away from you, walking over the bed and settling down on the edge. You can’t help but watch the way his veins move as he leans back and rests on his palms. He’s so handsome and so assured of himself, and behaving as if he doesn’t even care that it’s your wedding night. You really don’t know how to explain how you’re feeling, because everything is at odds. He mistakes your silence during your internal debate as confusion and continues to explain.

“I know I’m not unappealing to the eye, and not an old geezer like many of your friends have had to deal with, I’m sure. We probably aren’t that far off in age difference, if there even is any. We’re young, and while you may be feeling angry about this marriage, I also get the feeling that you’ll be open to letting that anger go soon.”

“I barely know you, my lord, so please don’t take offense to this, but what, pray tell, gives you the feeling that I’ll be letting my anger go soon?” you ask, walking over to where he sits. You feel powerful as you position yourself right in front of him, and being above him like this with his head turned up in order to lock eyes with you, makes his cat eyes look even more alluring.

“Because, my dear wife,” Yoongi leans forward, entering your space as he brings his right arm up off the bed and to your thigh, “of what I plan to do to you tonight.”

Yoongi’s touch is like fire as he drags it up your thigh to the hem of your chemise, using both hands to grip the edge and pull you even closer to him. You inhale a breath, your body giving away just how much he affects you. The last tiny bit of you fights to not give in, that is, until he pouts up at you.

“If you’ll let me?”

Never have you experienced a man handing control over to you like this. All your life, you have been told what to do, how to behave, who to befriend, and even who to marry despite being promised that would be the one area you could decide. But here sits your husband, a man who quite literally holds you in his hands, able to do whatever he wants with your body now that he essentially owns you—this husband of yours is asking your permission to ruin you.

Unable to speak, you simply nod, eyes wide as he stands, and he never looks away from yours until your chemise blocks his view as he pulls it over your head. Now it’s his turn to inhale sharply as he takes in your angelic form. White lace corset ending just below the bust, high waisted lacy bottoms, ruched garters around each thigh with a clasp to hold your silk stockings in place…an angel, indeed. 

Leaning closer to you, his words send tingles down your body as he pleads with you.

“I need you to say it, my lady,” he whispers, “tell me that I can touch you here.” 

You jolt as you feel his hands touch the exposed skin of your side.

“Y-yes,” you say, clearing your throat due to how parched you sound. 

“And can I, say, touch you here?” One hand trails lower, fingers dancing over the front of your drawers as the other holds you in place. Two of his fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your core, and you sigh out a quiet moan.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good girl.”

His fingers continue to travel back and forth, slight pressure causing you to grasp his shoulders for balance. He drops his head into the bend of your neck, lips leaving wet kisses on your overheated skin. He smells divine, his long hair tickling your cheek as he continues kissing and touching you. Your breathing gets louder, and he responds in kind, speeding up his fingers as you feel yourself ruining your panties for this man. 

“Y-yoongi…that f-feels really good,” you tell him, surprise lacing your whimpers. You don’t want him to stop touching you, if anything you want more. Yoongi’s lips are latched onto your neck, tongue swirling with light pressure as your knees grow weak. With a light nip of his teeth, he pulls away to speak. 

“I want you to always feel good with me, princess.” His gravelly voice is full of yearning, and you can tell he’s just as affected as you are. “I promise you’ll always feel good, if you let me take care of you.”

You can only nod your head, words eluding you as he turns you in his hold, pressing your back to his front while letting his fingers slide inside of your panties and part your lips. You feel his length pressing between your cheeks, thick and firm. He steps backwards with you, pulling you down until the two of you are seated on the edge of the bed. You’ve never been so turned on, dropping your head back to lean on his shoulder as he pulls one thigh to open you up wider. 

You put up no fight, instead grinding down on him as you swirl your hips in time to the pads of his fingers circulating your dripping center. His lips reattach to your exposed neck, this time with more passion and it almost distracts you when his fingers dip inside of you, bucking once in his grip at the welcome intrusion. He’s gentle, only going as far as you let him, and the more he does it, the less you tense up, until he’s gliding in and out of you. 

You’re unable to stay quiet any longer, every breath letting out a moan that is a melody to Yoongi’s ears. 

“I…Yoongi, I think…I’ve never done this before, what’s happening?” you breathe out, and he chuckles darkly.

“Do you trust me?”

“I—”

“I promise it’ll feel good, okay? Trust me, and don’t fight it.”

“But—” his fingers don’t let up, and you squirm on his lap.

“Princess, be a good girl and trust me, don’t fight it—don’t fight me anymore.”

“O-okay, I trust you, Yoongi.”

Letting go, you relax into his hold as he resumes kissing your neck, left hand pulling your chin until your lips meet his in a sloppy sideways kiss. His foot presses against the inside of yours until you groan at the muscle strain. Your legs are so far apart, but it feels even better as his fingers begin a rapid thrusting. He swallows all of your whimpers as you feel your body reaching a peak and it all just feels so good, his free hand leaving your chin to touch your chest, hands roaming as you rock your hips to meet his palm against your sensitive nub and with a simultaneous bite to your bottom lip and pinch to your neglected nipple; you feel yourself combust. 

You swear you see fireworks behind your eyelids as you tremble in Yoongi’s arms, barely alert enough to hear him whispering words of praise as he works you through it. It’s not long (or has it been ages?) before your hands push at his, overstimulation causing you to mewl in frustration. 

It feels good and you don’t want to stop, but your body can’t take more. Not right now at least.

“That’s it, you did so well.”

“Me?” you question, voice raspy. “I didn’t even do anything but sit here.”

“Trust me, you did plenty. I think you can feel exactly what you did to me.” Yoongi alludes with a slight thrust of his hips, and you in fact do feel him.

“That’s because of me?”

“It’s all because of you. Your sounds, the way you were grinding onto me, the way you taste…” Yoongi slides his fingers into his mouth, sucking your essence from his two fingers lewdly. “You made me this way.”

Your face grows impossibly warmer at the thought of the power you have over a man such as he, and your ability to bring him to this level of vulnerability. 

“Does…does it always feel like that?” you question, wondering if it could possibly get better. 

Yoongi can barely contain his smirk, “Oh, dear wife, that was just the appetizer.”

    Lifting you off of his lap, he sets you down next to him so he can stand and shed himself of his clothing. Naked, he stands before you in all of his glory so you can take in just how well endowed the duke is before kneeling on one knee. 

“Can I take these off of you?” he asks, hands gesturing to your hips. You softly say yes, and once your ruined drawers are discarded, he then touches the sides of your corset. “And these?” Nodding, he leaves you in just your silk stockings. “I rather like how these look…”

Still kneeling, he takes your leg and leans you back until you’re sprawled on your back and he has a perfect view of your heated core. He kisses along your clothed leg until he reaches the skin of your thigh, biting lightly until he rests your leg on his shoulder. Turning to the other leg, he does the same, this time going all the way up. You throw your head back into the soft, satin sheets as your hands grip whatever they can. His tongue explores your sensitive area, lapping at your pearl until you’re incoherent, hands tugging at his long tresses to guide him where you want him.

There are no words to describe how Yoongi is making you feel. You’ve never felt this way before, so powerful or in control. You wonder if he’ll always be this willing to hand over the reins. Either way, you plan to savor it. 

The sounds coming from between your thighs are obscene, but the louder and sloppier Yoongi is, the better it feels. 

“Yoongi, oh!” Your toes curl as another wave of euphoria grips you. Tender kisses along your stomach just barely keep you from floating away as Yoongi brings himself higher and higher along your body. His teeth nip at your breasts, teasing as he laves his tongue around your nipples, perky against the air in the room. Chest heaving, you try to gather your wits as Yoongi’s naked body lays along yours, his hands on either side of your chest as he massages them, spending ample time tasting everything your body has to offer. 

“My lady, if you’re ready, I’d rather like to feel you.”

In your post climactic haze, you try and understand what he’s asking.

“Feel me?”

“Yes,” he says, kissing your neck and you don’t understand how your body can still crave for more just from his lips on your skin, “I rather ache for you, princess.” The meaning becomes clear when he adjusts himself over you, and you feel the thickness against your thigh. You are aware of what he needs, how he means to alleviate his ache, and for a moment, you’re scared.

It all fades away as he kisses you, his lips soft against yours as he soothes away the worry. 

“I’ll be gentle, I promise. If it hurts, just tell me to stop, okay?” he presses another kiss to your lips, and you melt.

“Okay,” you whisper as you pull away from the kiss, “I trust you.”

He smiles, this time a genuine one at your words before kissing you again. You feel yourself getting lost in it when a pressure at the apex of your thighs causes you to gasp. Breaking the kiss, you look between your body and Yoongi’s watching as his cock, flushed and rigid, breaches your core. He’s going slow, and he lowers himself back down to kiss you more, wanting to take your mind off of the pain as he fills you. 

“You’re…impossibly tight…” he pants, and you would laugh if you were in the mindset, but at the moment, you are all consumed by Yoongi. He pushes another inch, stopping to allow you to grow accustomed to him, and you know that this is unusual for a wedding night—you have heard the horror stories from other women, and this has been anything but. Yoongi has made sure to let you have ownership of your pleasure tonight, and even now, he looks to you for confirmation that he can continue on without hurting you.

Raising your hips, you help guide him in the rest of the way, and he grunts as his forehead touches yours. His arms shake as he holds himself above you, wanting to take you with haste, but knowing he must control himself for now.

Reaching for him, your palms settle on either side of his face, bringing him closer to kiss you as you roll your hips against him. He huffs, pulling out to give you a good, even stroke, and you nearly scream at the pleasure and pain of it. He apologizes against your lips, but you shake your head, urging for more. He complies, though slower this time, not wanting to scare you off from sharing his bed. Yoongi is so gentle, sweet even as he swivels his hips, and you move your hands to grip his hair and his shoulder, leveraging to meet him with every gyration of your lower body.

A few tugs to his hair leaves him cursing in gratification, and soon you feel his hand reach to your leg to lift. His thighs speed up as he thrusts haphazardly into you before you feel a hot release of his seed filling you and spilling out around his cock, now lazily unloading itself as he slows with each jolt. His release provides you with just what you need to follow him, walls clenching around him to milk the last drop.  

Sighing, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, Yoongi’s fingers smoothing your hair as yours play along his chest, a feverish color now spread across his decolletage after your love making. 

“I’ve never experienced such a blissful feeling as this,” you admit. 

“Likewise, my lov—my lady.” Yoongi corrects a slight slip of the tongue. 

“It’s okay, I think I could quite like being called your love,” you tease, though your words ring true. You now know what you felt with Yoongi. Liberation. A freedom you have never felt as a woman, provided to you in the most surprising of places: the arms of a man.

At breakfast the next morning, Ellie can’t help but notice the way you seem to glow as you sit at your husband’s side. The two of you can’t stop touching, whether it be holding hands or light touches to each other's arm as you two talk with the others who stayed overnight. Being married may not have been what you had seen for yourself a week ago, but after last night, you have a feeling that you could fall deeply in love with your husband, the Duke, and he with you, his Duchess. 

“Marriage isn’t all that bad, is it, my love?” Yoongi whispers as the maids pass around the breakfast foods, and you shift your gaze to the marks you left barely hidden by his collar from an early morning romp. 

“No, my love, I rather find that you have proven me wrong, and I quite like that.”

“And I quite like you.”

“You had better!”

© hisunshiine 2023. All rights reserved. 

thank you for reading!!!

#bangtansorciere #yoongi x reader #bangtanbathhouse #yoongi smut #clubzerooclock #yoongi au #bangtanwhq #yoongi fluff #bts dream court #bts imagines #bts #bts reactions #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts smut #bts au #bts angst #bts fluff #hisunshiine writings #yoongi angst #yoongi writings #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfiction #picture perfect event #BWHQ Writing Event

[xbadmuse]

Jealousy

This is Part I of the Jealous Simon Riley Story i wanted to post.

this is a nsfw story, like everything else on my blog.

this is about Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

i did not proof read, please excuse any mistakes.

You were sipping on your drink as the cool breeze of the cold winter weather hit your face whenever the door to the pub opened. You could see from the window how the snow was slowly falling in thin watery flakes but as the time passes, the snowflakes turned into bigger flakes. Your drink was somewhat empty already as you looked back around, watching the team getting tipsier as time passes, if not completely drunk already. Your legs were cold, cursing yourself for only wearing thin thighs to your skirt and knee high boots.

It was now past midnight, the pub getting louder and louder and fuller as the door was being opened every few seconds. You just wanted to go home at this point. You really loved spending time with the team but right now.. you wish you could stuff your cold legs into a heater and wait for them to warm up again.

You looked over to Simon, who was sitting right next to you. If a person didn't know Simon personally, they would think that he was just a relaxed person, sitting in the booth, staying quite and absorbing the people around him as well as the location with his stoic attitude but right now, he was definitely very far from being relaxed.

The anger bubbling inside his body was radiating a very unnerving aura, cutting a knife through your calm vibe until it is drained out of blood. This is also one of the reasons you just want to leave this place, immediately.

You kept an eye on him, every once in a while looking up while pretending to look somewhere else. He was sitting very close to you, making sure that his frame covered half of you in the booth. Simon was gripping his drink, side eying you quickly and taking a sip, placing the glass back down on the table a little more aggressive then expected. He was fuming, deeply but Simon knew better and how to hide the fact that he could set this pub on fire, burning it out of aggressiveness just about now.

***

30 Minutes before.

"no, thank you", you clutched your bag to your chest, taking in the man that was standing tall right in front of you. he was wearing a smug grin, his white teeth brighter than the lights in the pub hallway and his weird looking beard which he was probably forcefully trying to grow but only reached from the left side until the right side of his upper lip as well as his chin, taking in your form with his eyes.

"look, I am really not trying to be a creep but I feel like we could fit. I think you are gorgeous and I am not bad myself, so?", his hand was grazing your arm and you instantly took a few steps back, looking at him confused.

"I have a boyfriend, please just leave", the man started to laugh, taking a few closer steps towards you and placing a hand on your shoulder. His hand then travelled down your arm again as he stared into your eyes intensly.

"stop lying and give me a chance love", he leaned in, his lips almost on your ears and with that you grabbed his arm and pushed him off of you with full force. he tumbled a few steps back as you stepped further into his direction, pushing him once again with all your strength as he stumbled and hitting his back against the wall behind him.

"you bitch", he hissed, instantly standing straight again. He stared at you and was about to walk towards you as you took just one step towards him. He mustered you, confusingly taking a step back and then walking away out of embarrassment.

The moment he turned around his body full on crashed into Simon, turning the corner and taking his stance in the middle of the hallway. Simon was wearing his balaclava as always and the way he stared down at the man in front of him would have even you running away in fear.

"s'cuse me", the man said as he hushed away from Simon instantly and disappeared into the crowded Pub. You were eying this small interaction, clutching you handbag to your body again and standing just inches away from the bathroom door. You hoped that Simon has not seen one glimpse of what happened just moments ago because if he did, that man would be fighting for his life right now and he would lose bitterly. That is why you kept your mouth shut.

Simon walked towards you, stomping his boots on the tiles on the ground as you were about to turn around and walk into the bathroom.

„who was that?”, he said after he instantly grabbed your wrist with his hand and held you before you could make another move and enter the bathroom. You turned around and faced him with a confused look, his eyes bored into yours as you rolled your eyes.

“who?..”, you tried to free yourself from his grip but he tightened it again. He was controlling himself to not get overwhelmed with the anger and frustration that was building inside him as he stared down at you. He knew something happened and he wanted to hear it..from you. You just stared up at him, heart beating faster.

“Simon, I don’t know..I just wanted to go pee and he followed me and told me my outfit looks good”, you still stared into his eyes. His grip loosened on your wrist and you knew he cocked one eyebrow even under his mask, an asking look on his face. He did not speak or was about to and you knew that he was getting frustrated by the minute.

“I told him to leave me alone and then he left”, you looked up at him, your eyes pleading him to let go of your wrist and to not ask any more questions and with that, Simon let go off your wrist.

“Go to toilet, I’ll wait here”, he said. From the way he said this you already knew that Simon was definitely not in the mood to have any more conversation with you. 'Well, that was the end of a fun night', you thought to yourself.

“Simon, you don’t nee-“, pleading eyes as you looked up. Simon was not looking at you anymore, staring up into the hallway.

“I said go, I will wait here”, his eyes instantly shot your way and with that you clutched your bag again and took a few steps away from him to leave into the ladies bathroom.

***

"Next round friends?", Gaz exclaimed loudly for you all to hear. The Pub was getting fuller and fuller the later it got. It was loud, almost unbearable. You looked over at Simon who was finishing up his drink.

He placed the glass back down on the table as the rest nodded and agreed. Even though you were now keen to stay a little longer to not be with Simon alone and enjoy the night you stopped thinking that way the moment Simon placed his hand on your thigh since you were about to ask for another drink.

"We are leaving", he spoke up in his monotone voice. The table exclaimed disappointed with his statement and Soap eyed him from the side. "Why? We just started", he said loudly over the table as he looked over to you as well.

Simon stood up and grabbed your jacket from the seat next to you as he looked down at you. His eyes were demanding rather then asking and normally this is not something that you would tolerate but giving the circumstances you did not want to upset Simon further. You stood up from your seat and smiled at Soap.

"I need to get up early tomorrow to pick up my mother from the airport." you lied, smiling convincingly as Simon helped you into your jacket. Soap nodded understandingly and so was everyone else as you all bid your goodbyes.

Simon opened the door to the pub for you as you waved to the table behind you. The cold night air hit your hot face and you sipped your jacket up. Simon walked past you, just two steps ahead of you as he stomped through the snow to his car which was parked just a two minute walk from the pub. He opened the door for you as you got inside, he did not say a single word to you as he started his car and drove off to your apartment.

You and Simon were not sharing an apartment but whenever Simon was back in the city he stayed in yours. His apartment was a fifteen minute drive from yours but he still liked spending as much time as possible with you or near you.

But right now you were not really sure if that is the case..

"Whats wrong?", you asked and turning on the seat heater for both you and Simon. He glanced at your hand and immediately turned the heater off again, but only for himself and kept yours on. Simon looked straight forward, not giving you one second of attention.

"Hello? I am talking to you", you turned to him, annoyed that he is not talking to you and ignoring you. He turns to you and then back to the road. It was very dark outside but you still knew your whereabouts. It was only a few more minutes until both of you were at your apartment.

"Who was that guy?", he said after a few silent minutes. You still could not believe he was still thinking about that and you rolled your eyes at that. Looking over to him, he was still staring ahead as he drove into a parking spot right before your apartment.

"Are you being serious right now?", you exclaimed as Simon parked the car and turned the engine off. His eyes shot back to yours, looking at your face and squinting his eyes a bit. He raised his eyebrows and watched you. You opened the door to the car and stepped out, walking over to your apartment.

He did the same, slamming his car door and walking behind you. You opened the front door, walked to the elevator as it immediately opened for both of you to walk inside.

"Are you seriously mad at me because of that guy?", the elevator door shut and you turned to him. He was leaning against the elevator wall as he looked down at you.

"Tell me who that man was and we can stop this discussion", he said calmly as the elevator door opened. You walked out and to your apartment, opening the door and the second you walked inside you slipped your shoes off with a loud huff.

"I don't know Simon.. I have already told you so", you could not tell him. You knew this will end in a blood bath and that is something you dearly try to avoid, even though that man deserved it a little.

"Are we lying to each other now?", you turned around and saw him standing at the door, his jacket was still on as he mustered you. Your eyebrows furrowed feeling ashamed of lying to him.

"Simon pleas-", Simon stepped closer to you, his hand grabbing your cheeks but not too harshly as he made you look up at him.

"Who. was. this. man. (Y/N)?", your heart was beating wildly as he stared down at you. You could see him being calm and breathing steadily as if you had a normal conversation with him while you were about to melt like pudding. You stayed quite.

"Are you going to tell me who this man was? I will kill him regardless. Just tell me who he was and why he was touching you and we can end this discussion (Y/N)", he stared into your eyes, glancing from eye to the other as he waited for your responds. But you just shook your head.

He grinned. "Why did he touch you?", he asked sternly again.

"He didn't", a light sigh escaped your mouth the moment Simons hand was placed on your hips.

"Stop lying, I saw it", he squeezed your hip and pushed you towards him closer.

'Shit', you thought. He titled his head to the side and stared down at you. A few seconds past and he dig his fingers further into your hips as they traveled up your body, slowly gliding his fingers to your back. You sighed and closed your eyes.

“Come on baby, tell me what he did”, his hand was sliding from your hip further to the hem of your leggings. His fingers solely gliding alongside your thigh as a sigh escaped you.

“He was trying to flirt with me and tried to get closer but I told him to get away from me and then he came back. He started touching my shoulder and coming closer until I pushed him away and kicked him.” You told him, staring up into his eyes. His grip on your hip loosened as his eyes never left yours.

“So he touched you?”, he mustered annoyed, still looking at your face as his hand left your face. His fingers came back up to your hips as you stared up at him, just nodding.

You could feel the range that was building inside him, the fire in his eyes almost burning you to the ground with his eye contact. You would be lying if you said you didn’t like the attitude he was giving you, the fact that he was dangerously fuming because a stranger touched you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, he raised his eyebrow and questioning you. Simon was still standing tall in front of you as he stared down. He never stopped the eye contact and continuing staring. Looking down at him you placed your hand on his chest, your thumb softly rubbed the thin fabric of his sweater.

“Look at me, I asked you a question (Y/N)”, his finger was under you chin lifting it up so you face him again. His eyes boring into yours.

“I didn’t want you to get mad.. i knew what you would have done”, you said calmly and blinked up at him. He hesitated but never stopped the eye contact. He was still fuming, you knew by the way his pupils were blown and his breathing started to get heavier.

“I’m still going to rip out his organs one by one”, a light shiver run down your spine by his words. His dangerous statement made you stop in your tracks and just watching his eyes.

“Why don’t you forget him and start taking care of me Simon?”, you were desperately trying to distract him. Your hand slowly gliding down his chest to his belt. You felt yourself feeling warmer the second his eyes fell to your lips. This handsome man in front of you would kill every human being for you.

He would do whatever you please and the thought of this alone made you feel dizzy. Simons pupils grew bigger and you could see a very small glint of a smile.

“Fucking hell.. do I turn you on baby?”

Part II

#ghost cod #ghost simon riley #ghost x reader #simon 'ghost' riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #cod mw2 #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley smut #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon x reader #simon riley smut #cod ghost #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x you #cod mw3 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod mwii #call of duty #rain code #mw2 #modern warfare

[behoright]

I am going feral for jealous possessive andrei

Cant wait to read it

the bane of my existence, the object of all my desires - a. svechnikov

i'm sorry this wasnt even planned but it has to be done like.....

warnings: yall know I write disgusting smut like... gross, dirty, nasty - includes but not limited to unprotected and semi public activities, dirty talk, mentions of sweat n blooood. just nasty shit. also its bad writing get over it! word count: 3.5k

LMAO so

nothing like a day off to watch your boyfriend work

 he would never say it explicitly

but andrei loved it when you spent all day around him

you both knew how crucial it was to have your own lives

and your own friends and jobs and hobbies

but he couldn't lie

when you spent all day around him, he would go crazy

there was something about you 

something about the way you moved

when you thought no one was watching or nobody cared

the way the air in the room would change whenever you walked in

and he had noticed it before

how everyone around would

adjust themselves, cough awkwardly or give him glances

part of his burning for you was just that

knowing how much you were valued 

not because how you looked necessarily

even tho he found you stunning

it was because of your essence

enthralling everyone around you

and it wasn't beyond him that that factor called for

a lot of attention

which he had been giving to you since day one

since the day he saw you and he knew no one else could have you

the cling to you the need to have you didnt come from any lack of security

it came from simple desire

indisputable and ever present, to the point where

everyone had to pretend not to see it

the intensity repelling any and all grossed out friends and teammates

he had tried, truly, at the beginning, but there was no way to dissimulate

if he had melted in presence of past women, he lit up in yours

and so far, there were no signs of slowing down

ever since he could remember, andrei never had any breaks

no way of slowing down, of letting it breathe

it was one of his biggest peaks but also downfalls

skate faster

shoot sharper

push harder

until his legs gave out and even then 

crawl and claw if he needed to get everything

every single thing he wanted

and he wasn't afraid to admit it

never arrogant, but always honest

the house, make it bigger

the car, flashier

his mother’s wrist, shinier and heavier

more wins, more

more

more of

you. as well

in quality always before than in quantity

get the best, and give yourself fully to it

invest everything you have in it and simultaneously squeeze every drop of pleasure from it

he wasn't ashamed

or apologetic about it

it was one of the things you loved most about him

and it did wonders for your relationship

so today, despite it being a relatively easy day

no traveling, no game, just practice

(which took all day for andrei, obviously)

you decided to spend it being clingy

your boyfriend's favorite word

he loved to see you watch him

it helped him focus more stay more present as he felt you closer to him

and sneak around to see you

come to the glass

give you a puck

take an extra long lunch (and nap)

it was the day of his dreams honestly

you grabbed your things as he was the last man to leave the ice

seats around you empty by now

made your way towards him

right after he was done, just how he liked it

always right after a game, a practice, a trip

there was nothing better than to see your face immediately as he was done

he didnt want a second to breathe or clear his head

all of that was done with you

the sound of your shoes echoing in the halls of the arena

matching rhythmically your heart pounding within you

every step matching every contraction, every rush of blood sent through you

you knew the walls and corners of this place like the back of your hand

the sound of muffled music waltzing around from afar

as others began their afternoon workout, you knew andrei had just finished his skating

at times it seemed like

there was no way to calm yourself down around him

but it had never been nerves you thought

always

joy

desire

wanting and needing for each other

sweat clung to him as you approached him in the empty locker room

it had been such a domestic experience by now that you knew when to be there and when to know it was only him

like clockwork

and he loved it

every time he thought about it, a smirk would adorn his face

you stood at the entrance of the room, placing your shoulder tenderly against the doorframe

a smile forming on your lips as you saw his body shift

pretending that he didn't hear you, that he didn't know you were there

but it was so simple to see the sculpture of his shoulder twitch 

stretch in the most minuscule way, letting you know he could feel you

it was like 

a magnet

no matter how far you were, if you were in the same vicinity, the polarity zapped you both

pulled you in always

the closer, the more intense the energy became

you stood still, the two of you immobile in the silence 

it seemed like forever

the aching growing stronger

both unrelenting in your posture

but he knew

he always knew you'd give in first

you noticed, in your attentiveness, the slight tremor that rolled through his back body

slight, but noticeable

you had become an expert by now at concealing your worry, letting andrei take care of himself

but it was still there deep down

had he pushed himself too far today?

was it finally the day he didn't listen to his limits?

unconsciously, you stepped forward

and taken aback by your own actions, the smallest gasp leaving your lips

he turned his head just enough for you to see his profile, a thick eyebrow arched in 

rude awakening almost

the tightening of your chest prevented any words from tumbling out, the feeling only deepening as he turned to face you fully

immediately meeting a newly formed gash on his chin

your eyes darted as you tried to remember when you could have missed this

you were there almost the whole time he was on the ice

“you see? this is why i need you always here.”

as he broke the silence, a small drop of blood began to pool at the surface of the cut

“what happened? i didn’t even…”

you failed to finish your sentence, shock, and anticipation mixing underneath your rib cage as he began to step towards you

walking slowly, molasses dripping in every movement

“imagine how bad they treat me when you are not here, Ки́са”

he muttered, his voice low, as he threw a scarlet-tinted towel on the floor

“if it was up to you, i wouldn’t leave you ever.”

you smirked, raising your chin in defiance when his walking came to a stop

you could always see the enjoyment on his face whenever he played these games

his feet planted firmly a few inches away from you

more than a couple of steps, but close enough to feel his heat

the musk that emanated out of him after getting off the ice

the mix of the cold environment and the rough maneuvers created a scent you could never find anywhere else

“what can i say? i am happiest when you are around.”

the corner of his lips pulling, smugly tugging up

there was something about the sincerity and vulnerability of his statement

combined with the way he delivered it

with that shit eating grin

the fuckboy esque aura of his appearance

oh, andrei

your boyfriend and his erotic, slow burning, sexual standoffs

“you know I can’t do that”

you replied tenderly, snickering at your own thoughts

he looked down, placing his hands on his hips

a drop of sweat hitting the ground as he inhaled deeply

audibly

a slight rasp finishing his exhale, his lungs still reflecting the hazardous workout

it took all the strength within you not to move

you had learned to view andrei as

an animal

a feline

you could open the door, but they would come in whenever they wanted

always taking his time

knowing that he could feel the neediness seeping out of you

it was consistently on his terms

you clenched your fists and let them go, leaving imprints on your palms 

waiting desperately for him to 

do something

anything

look at you

move towards you

the less you got lost in yourself, however,

the more you could him crumbling inside

his fingertips white, pressing deeply into his skin

his chest beginning to heave

“yeah, you like to come back to me, eh?”

your face dropped, the tone of his voice melting you

seeing your defenses come down

your breath deepen

had him on the edge of it all

yet, he was wise enough to have a sliver of self-control

but never for long

you couldn’t 

just

say anything

he had officially turned it from simmer to high

not causing an immediate eruption but 

the heat pooling all that desire together

and you knew it would rip out of you both forcefully once it was consistently kept on high

“what happened, baby?”

his accent was thick as he faked concern, almost mocking you 

all you could do was open your mouth, but 

nothing. not one word

he walked over to you, degradingly normally in his stroll

no different than as if he were approaching a cash register or clerk

as if he hadn't spent who knows how long toying with you

loosening your joints with every single dedicated action since you walked in 

he stopped dangerously right in front of you

close enough that 

another bead of sweat fell again

this time, hitting your own nose

he loved to see you like this, practically panting in front of him but paralyzed

he knew he couldn't show it yet

not yet

it was purposeful but not planned, at least he didn’t think so

every single moment he played it by ear

responding to your state second by second

“how do you guys say here?” 

he muttered, voice ever lower now,

“cat has your tongue?”

the taunting tensed your face

your eyes piercing his, intensely, as your jaw clenched

not yet

one second

a couple more beats

he thought

before breaking and grabbing the back of your neck harshly enough to 

make you lose your balance

but it didn't matter

his hands strong enough to 

have you

hold you

and his plump

bitten and red lips

meeting yours

raucous 

both of you inhaling

not deeply, but suddenly

overhauled by the adrenaline, the endorphins

his teeth catching your lip at the end of the kiss

just slightly

biting off some of that surface skin

his expression, completely different when you guys pulled away

eyebrows furrowed, face scrunched up in what could have been mistaken for frustration

eyes stuck on your lips

as he dived in again

so powerfully that it stung at first. it hurt from smashing his face against yours

tongues not fighting

but ramming against each other

every single millisecond

his insides moist and slippery from the hours of skating

and spitting on the ice

sticky more than anything

sticking to 

your tongue

your teeth 

your lips

so aggressively as he explored your mouth

he pulled back just as hard

whiplash in your neck

the gasps the only thing filling the room

“you did not answer.”

he says, matter of factly

much to your confusion 

“answer what, andrei?”

you ask, his hand firmly planted and keeping you from approaching him again

“cat has your tongue?”

he says, as serious as ever

“andrei, it’s a sayi-”

“let me see it.”

he interrupts

“wh-”

“open your mouth, y/n.”

your breath hitches for the millionth time as you realize what he meant this whole time

your body betrays you, your mouth slowly opening against your will

you can see 

trembling in his breath 

as you do what he ordered

his gaze unable to pick a place to 

focus on

running all over your face

your big 

doe eyes

only he got to see this submission in your look

your tongue glistening before him

he moves his other hand to the front of your throat

placing it gently but securely in the crevice where your chin meets your neck

he was

wet

everywhere

covered in sweat

before you could try to 

check any other place

to see it glint and glimmer

he 

in one swift motion

bends down and licks your tongue

his meeting yours 

flat 

right against yours

so deeply that you can feel his tastebuds

his ridges

through the thick saliva

as he does it over and over again

so feverishly, so fast 

in the mess of it all

in the middle of your storm

you taste it all

his spit, his sweat

eventually

droplets of blood that snuck inside your mouth in his ferocity

the mix metallic and 

piercing through every layer of your mouth

every layer of you

the rush of it

the tension that you both held in as he kept space between your bodies except for 

such a sacred place. Your mouths

more and deeper

haphazardly

making a mess out of you 

moans evacuating your system 

unwittingly, just the way he likes it

as he switches from licking to

fiercely kissing 

not your lips, but your tongue

open-mouthed and sloppy 

a trail of your mixed spit uniting you every single time he pulls away

beginning to groan 

his grip shaking from holding back

swallowing every single one of your moans

relentlessly 

his back straightening up as he pulls away from you breathless

watching you pant and 

inevitably he can't help but

untidyingly spit into your mouth

the thick glob of you 

mixed with every part of him. His blood, his sweat

landing on the plains of your tongue

clear dribble threaded in with pleasure and cerise 

finally coming to a stop

“боже мой”

oh my god

he whispers, his lips glistening

you stand there, frozen together

flushed

heaving in synchronicity

before he spins you around 

so quickly that the world around you doubles for a second

before you realize your feet 

your body, in midair

his strong forearms holding tightly to your midriff

before he places you in front of his locker

you can feel 

cold perspiration hitting the top of your head from his chin 

as he slithers his hands down your arms

creating a road of damp goosebumps on your skin 

interlacing his thick, calloused fingers with yours

the pruned skin of his palms coming in contact with the top of your hands tenderly

guiding you to grip the slats above his locker 

the cold, metal bars becoming slippery with the dampness that had accumulated in your grasp

andrei lets go one hand for just a second

sloppily raising your skirt to reveal your ass

holding back from ripping your underwear off with one simple gesture

instead moving it to the side

placing it securely over the curve of you body

letting him access all of your vulnerable parts

you can hear the fabric ripping off of his hips just after

as the tip of his cock

already slicked with precum 

hits you, releasing from the tight grip of his boxers

he places himself right at your entrance

his member sizzling against you

andrei’s fingers begin to explore 

up and down your cunt

“andrei.”

you moan, sharply

“you know I take care of you, принцесса”

he answers, his cheek pressed against the side of your head

you could feel your hair sticking to his damp skin

“i’m already wet, just, please.”

you start to plead, looking down in defeat

“i can feel, baby. just let me feel more.”

you could hear the entertainment in his voice as he kept his touch feather light

up and down 

circling your clit, spreading your juice on every inch of your vulva

even moving the tip of his cock, which kept pressing steadily at your entrance, to dip his touch inside

not fully, just slightly

“let me have what I gave you.”

he mutters, unable to keep his cock from twitching as the words leave his mouth

you knew him, and how he asked for things in his fashion

immediately, opening your mouth as his hand moved back to your front, swirling his fingers around the inside

“such good girl.”

he drawls out, scooping some spit from the back of your throat

a slight gag sending shivers down your spine

and placing it inside you, finally giving you an ounce on relief with his two fingers

“you see? now you already have me inside you. before I can even fuck the shit out of you right here.”

he teases, his accent shining more than ever in his cursing

the way he slightly mispronounced every word made your body loose even more

“you know if I am home, I spit in every single one of your hole.”

he whispers, bending down so you can take in every word from the shell of your ear

“andrei, please.”

this one is louder, your system alarmingly imploring for more 

your tone sending a jolt throughout his nervous system

allowing his guard down enough to groan suddenly and steadily

“you ask so nicely, Малы́шка”

your moan of exasperation relaxes as he finally drives his hips forward, his cock parting you easily and coating himself with muddle that you had become

you both tighten the grip that holds you almost perpendicularly

the bar underneath you letting you a creak just as you both exhale in pleasure

andrei wastes no time in beginning his thrusts

his humid hips slamming audibly against your ass as he moves his hand to your lower belly

pushing you back towards you even more

the grunting was unabating, jerking out of him every time he bottomed out 

at this point

you weren't even sure if you needed to be concerned about getting caught 

for a moment, you had gotten so wrapped up in him that you forgot 

the locker room

technically public

and on top of that, his workplace

it was hard to keep that fear in mind when the clench of his hands began to tighten 

right as he began to ram himself full force into you

his hard cock sending signals of delirious elation all throughout you

your sighs and moans harmonizing with his

he loved how expressive you were

it wasn't faked or exaggerated

he knew that everything that came out from between your lips was his doing that you just couldn't hold back

“andrei, babe.”

you moaned, failing to access any other part of your vocabulary

“i know, baby, I know”

he grunted out

the pit in your bellies, concurrently deepening

he couldn't stop, releasing all his tension with every shove inside you

“i know, let it out for me, yeah?”

he added

you knew you couldn’t last much longer

your thighs jiggling and trembling as you both surged and waved back and forth in unison, meeting the other’s flows

“oh, my-”

your orgasm jumped through you, your eyes squeezing shut as you clamped around andrei

feeling your ecstasy pool at the base of his cock and slowly began to dribble down his pelvis

getting caught in his pubic hair while you shook his his arms

your fingers gripping impossibly tight underneath his

it all made andrei sped up even faster

eliciting the sweetest sounds he had ever heard to rip out of your throat

your vision clouded by sweat and stars

the way your pussy clutched his member rolled andrei in his own exaltation

his muscles binding as he stiffened behind you, releasing all of himself inside your cunt with a groan that echoed throughout the locker room

your breathing stayed synced as you both came down together

worried that if you moved or let each other go that you would both tumble out on the ground

“you feel good, baby?”

he asked breathlessly, placing a sweet kiss on your temple

another drop of blood from the long forgotten gash accidentally splashing on your face

you nodded, turning around to find his rich brown eyes staring right into you

his thumb rapidly cleaning up your cheek

apologetic in his look and yet

still behind a roaring fire that never seemed to die within his gaze

“are you okay?” 

you asked, a giggle interrupting your sentence as you eyed his chin, now swelling more than ever

“I told you, I’m okay when you here always.”

#andrei svechnikov #carolina hurricanes #nhl #nhl smut #nhl rpf #smut #andrei svechnikov x reader #andrei svechnikov blurb #andrei svechnikov fic #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov smut #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #hockey fic

[too-many-fandoms-tbh]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY

BRUCE WAYNE (BATMAN) SMUT

(bruce wayne/batman x fem!reader)

can be read as any batman, but he is described to be a partying bachelor in this

warnings: rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, jealous sex, semi-public (private bathroom) sex, established relationship, slight toxic undertones?? aftercare

she knew it was for her protection, but god did y/n hate pretending not to know bruce in public. they'd attend events together, and she just had to stand there and watch every time as he flirted with all of the girls who approached him. sure, guys flirted with her all the time, but she never talked to them for more than a minute, and she'd always make sure not to lead them on. bruce didn't care; he had to keep up his "partying bachelor" status. she brought it up to him once, and he of course reassured her she was all he wanted, but that didn't mean it still didn't hurt.

currently, she was stood against a wall, arms crossed over her stomach as she glared at the girls whom were flocked around her boyfriend. she was wearing a long, bright red dress that hugged her curves tightly and had a deep v-neck. there was a slit going up her thigh, which exposed her silver heels and caused her to constantly adjust her dress in fear of exposing herself. the dress was so tight that she couldn't wear her normal safety-shorts without there being lines, so she'd been stressed about that all night.

"hey there," a voice said out of nowhere. she snapped her gaze away from bruce and immediately replaced her scowl with a polite smile as she turned to greet the man. "you look like you could use a refill."

she paused, eyes looking at the empty glass, provided by the event's servers, on the table next to her. she'd never seen the man in front of her before, but he was definitely handsome, with blonde hair and brown eyes. his tan hands both held glasses of champagne, one of which was being held out towards her. in fear of being impolite, she took the drink with nimble hands. she was a little worried that he might've done something to the drink, but with the amount of security the crowded event held, she supposed she was safe.

"thank you.." she prompted, eyes raised.

"frank." he said quickly, an awkward laugh. "frank campbell. and you are?"

"y/n l/n." she responded, taking a sip of the drink. it tasted the same as the ones she'd had before, and she cherished the flavor.

"what're you doing all the way over here?" he asked. "i'm sure you'd be a hit out there."

she nearly laughed at his attempts of flirting. "i'm just observing." she shrugged.

he turned to follow her gaze and his eyes landed on bruce, whom was still surrounded by women. "looking at wayne, huh? he's got all of the ladies here wrapped around his finger. i'm surprised you're not over there too, unless you have a boyfriend, of course."

how ironic.

"you sound jealous." she swirled the drink in her cup, looking up at him through her eyelashes. holy shit, she was flirting back, wasn't she?

"so what if i am?" he said boldly. "i think every man in this room is."

"and why is that?" she continued, taking another sip of her drink. as she did so, her eyes trailed over to bruce. she knew he'd look over at them eventually, he was protective like that, but now he was straight up staring at her. he looked upset, and for some reason, she was almost pleased with that result. maybe, just maybe, this would show him what it was like to be in her shoes. she winked at him once before turning her attention back to frank.

she nodded along as frank spoke, but honestly, she had tuned out on a lot of it as she was looking at bruce. when he finished talking, she had a good enough idea of what he said to respond.

"so what," she summarized with a slight smirk. if only he knew who he was talking to. "you think you could show a girl a better time than he could?"

"oh, i know i could."

"ah, i see." she set her almost-empty glass down and reached for her handbag off of the table. the small, designer bag was cute, but she hated the fact that it didn't have a strap. she was digging around in it, searching for her small tin of breath mints, when suddenly she knocked the bag over. it toppled to the ground, the contents spilling everywhere. she gasped, carefully falling to her knees in order to collect her things. frank squatted down too, doing his best to help. she could see the way his eyes landed on her cleavage before trailing down to the her thigh, where she was maybe an inch away from exposing the space between her thighs.

"sorry," she laughed awkwardly, suddenly a little uncomfortable under his gaze. his eyes never left her body as he handed her the occasional lipstick or bobby-pin from the floor. she thought she wanted this attention, in fact she'd been craving it all night, but she suddenly felt guilty as she realized what she was doing. apparently, she'd done a better job flirting than she'd thought she did, and now this man was looking at her as if he expected her to come home with him tonight. all whilst her boyfriend was watching.

speaking of bruce, she glanced up to see him staring directly at her, eyes narrowed. to make matters even worse, she and frank both reached for her phone at the same time, their hands connecting for a split second. she pulled away quickly, but frank was already making eye-contact with her, a blush on his face.

"that's everything," he said, finally looking at her face. he stood up, offering her a hand as well. despite the fact that she wanted to get up on her own, she took his hand, standing up as slowly as possible in order to keep her dress intact. the second his hand dropped hers, she was adjusting her dress again, wishing she'd worn the black dress that alfred suggested.

"oh, here," he said. she had no clue what he was doing, but suddenly, his hand was on her face. he brushed something off of her cheek and she stood there frozen. her eyes looked for bruce, and he was dismissing himself from the girls around him. he pulled out his phone as he walked, but she lost him in the crowds before she could see where he was headed. "you had a hair."

"thanks," she forced a smile. her phone buzzed in her purse, and after saying a quick apology to frank, she pulled it out. bruce's contact filled her screen, and her knees went weak as she read his text.

"Meet me in employee bathroom, two minutes. Down the stairs to your left. Don't be late."

"oh my god," she attempted to feign a dramatic gasp, but honestly, she didn't have to try that hard to fake being shocked because she genuinely was. bruce was very rarely that demanding, and if he was, it was only after a hard night out as batman. "i am so sorry, frank, but i have to go. business emergency."

"oh, no," frank seemed a little appalled at her sudden exit. "don't apologize. i hope everything is alright."

"yeah, thanks," she reached over for her glass of champagne and finished it with a long swig, ignoring his confused gaze. "it was lovely meeting you, really. i'll see you around, yeah?"

he seemed a little shocked, but she patted his shoulder once before grabbing her clutch and walking away. she walked as fast as she could in a restricting dress and heels, which, honestly, was quite slow. no one seemed to notice her as she snuck through the unlabeled doors and down the concrete stairs. she really hoped these were the correct stairs, because it took her nearly a minute to get down them without ripping her dress. immediately, a door labeled "family bathroom" appeared to her left, and in smaller letters it read "staff only".

she prayed that it was the right room when she knocked. as quick as lightning, bruce opened the door and pulled her inside. she fell against the door as he locked it behind her.

"well hello to you too," she sassed, ignoring how turned on she already was. if this was something serious and not sexual, then she was about to feel real stupid. "what's up?"

"i could ask you the same question." he said, voice barely controlled. "what's up with campbell over there?"

"oh, so you know him?" she inquired boldly. she could feel the alcohol in her veins, not enough to make her tipsy, but enough to make her words bolder.

"yeah, i do," he grumbled. "nice guy."

she laughed lightly. "that's surprising. he hates you."

"oh, does he?" bruce didn't seem phased. "and why is that?"

she pushed herself off of the door, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "oh nothing much," she smirked up at him. "just thought he could fuck me better than you."

this caught bruce's attention and his eyes hardened. his large hands found place on her waist, pulling her closer.

"and would you let him?" his voice was raspy. he knew she wouldn't, they'd had that conversation before when they were actually being sincere, but he had to see what she'd say now.

"depends," she ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "would you fuck handsy-pansy? i'm sure she thinks she's better than me."

"handsy" pansy was some blonde woman whom seemed to show up at every event, and each time she saw bruce, she'd fawn over him the whole time, laughing at everything he said and always touching him.

bruce pretended to think, watching as she scrunched her face up at him. she knew he was just doing it to get a rise out of her, and she planned to return the favor.

"maybe i'll go and talk to frank after all," she pulled away, pretending to reach for the door. "i'm sure he'd love to have me in his bed after all of this is over."

the next thing she knew, bruce grabbed her hand. he pulled her back, spinning her enough so that their chests collided and he could slam his lips against hers. the kiss was rough and passionate, and she found herself wrapping her hands around his neck to stay stable. his larger hands gripped her waist, slowly moving down to her ass with a harsh squeeze. she moaned in his mouth, arching her back against him.

"fuck you better than me, huh?" he growled, pulling away. he pulled her by her waist, shoving her towards the sink. her hands latched onto the counter and she could see bruce standing behind her in the mirror. she bit her lip as he grabbed the long dress, bunching it up at her waist, where it surprisingly stayed. she watched his breath catch in his throat when he realized she only had lace on underneath. he didn't say anything, simply palming her smooth ass before reaching between her legs. his calloused fingers slid over her soaked folds and she threw her head back, a bright blush on her face.

"you're already so wet," he commented, pulling away. he met her eyes in the mirror. "was all of this for him?"

"no," she shook her head quickly, going against any of her usual bratty instincts. "it's all for you, bruce."

"all for me, huh?" he repeated. as he spoke, she arched her back against him, attempting to grind herself against his thigh. his hands found place on her hips, and her actions were halted abruptly. his grip was rough, but not quite enough to be painful.

"i don't know," he tsked, making eye contact with her through the mirror. "you seemed pretty pleased with yourself out with campbell, acting like a slut, all whilst wearing the brand new dress i bought you."

"god," she whined, biting her lip. the way he was staring her down through the mirror, thumbs caressing her hips, was driving her crazy. "please, bruce! i'm yours, all yours."

"now you're begging?" he asked slyly, fingers moving down her hips and to her thighs, where he then stroked her skin softly. "so eager to be fucked like the slut you are, huh?"

"so what if i am?" she challenged, trying to slyly rub her thighs together. her actions didn't go unnoticed, and bruce roughly separated her legs. she nearly fell, leaning forward onto the sink.

"you beg me to go out more," he murmured under his breath. through the mirror, she could see him unbuckling his belt. "and this is the treatment i get. you want me to fuck you? fine, i'll fuck you. i'll fuck you so good the whole party will hear you, and campbell will know you're mine. that's what you wanted, right? for me to show you i care?"

his words were almost sappy, but his tone was the complete opposite.

"i've cared the whole time," his gruff voice continued. she heard the clink of his pants falling to his ankles. "it drove me crazy watching guys look you up and down, talking about you like you're their next meal."

he didn't give her time to respond, because he suddenly slid inside of her. she let out an airy moan, manicured fingers gripping the counter as she adjusted to the quick intrusion. the momentary pain was quickly being masked with pleasure as he leaned forward, craning his neck to place a soft kiss on shoulder. though the moment was tender, his voice was still a husky whisper in her ear. "god, if only they could see you now, see how you're all mine."

the next thing she knew, he was pounding into her like there was no tomorrow, snapping his hips against her so much that she felt her entire body bounce with each movement. she tried to make eye contact through the mirror, but she couldn't bear to keep her head up. a constant string of airy moans were leaving her mouth, and had she not been about to collapse, she would've brought a hand up to silence them.

"fuck, bruce.." she managed to sputter out. his pace was relentless; it seemed his hours of being batman really contributed to his stamina.

"what?" he practically growled from behind her. "you can't take it?"

"i can!" she cried out, head thrown back as she struggled to speak. "i-" her next sentence got cut off by a startled moan as one of bruce's hands left her hips and snaked around to pressure her clit.

she moaned out his name as he continued his assault, his finger now rubbing slowly against the bundle of nerves.

"fuck," he panted from behind her. "you gonna cum for me, yeah?"

she nodded, her body shaking in his arms. she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it before she collapsed onto the floor, but god did she love it.

"i need words, sweetheart." he said, his halting the actions of his fingers. he was still pumping into her, likely because he too was close, but she immediately whined at the loss of contact against her sensitive clit.

"yes!" she choked out, only to then moan again when he twiddled her clit between the pads of his calloused fingers.

it didn't take long before she could feel herself nearing an orgasm. biting her lip to prevent herself from screaming, y/n came roughly, legs shaking so hard she was scared her knees were going to buckle out from under her. she expected bruce to slow down, maybe give her a moment to recuperate, but his pace only quickened to a near impossible state. he was back to holding her hips with both hands, using his virtually painful grip on her body in order to pound into her even harder. she was shaking like a limp ragdoll in his arms, incoherent moans leaving her open mouth. she was even more sensitive than before, and she was sure anyone walking by would be able to hear her.

right when she was sure she'd get whiplash from being jerked around so much, not that she was complaining, she felt bruce let go inside of her, his liquid coating her insides. once he was finished, he slowed to a stop and slipped softly out of her. she almost immediately fell to the floor, but his now gentle grip was quick to grab onto her.

he spun her around to face him, supporting her weight with ease. he gave her an amused smile, and she couldn't help but just stare at him, her face still stuck in a fucked-out haze. her makeup was smeared, and there were many loose, frizzy hairs stuck to her face. she managed to pull her dress back down to cover herself, but it was full of wrinkles, and there was now a wet patch on the crotch.

bruce pulled her into his chest and leaned down to press a lasting kiss onto her lips. she brought her weak arms up to wrap around his neck, and he continued to hold onto her, now moving his hands up to her waist rather than her sensitive hips. the kiss was slow and soft, a large contrast to his actions only moments ago.

"what'd ya say we ditch this joint, yeah?" he said once he'd pulled away.

"but bruce.." she began to murmur, obviously still dazed.

"the gala can wait," he reassured. "i'm not needed there anyways. what matters to me is getting you home."

she frowned up at him, but it really didn't take long for her to give in. she hated to admit it, but with how rough he had been, there was some much-needed aftercare in store for her. and knowing bruce, he was going to make it his life's mission to make sure she is as comfortable as possible.

"alright.." she said eventually. she went to step out of his grasp, only for her legs to buckle under her weight on the first step. stifling a laugh, bruce scooped her into his arms bridal-style before she could even process what had happened.

"you still think he could fuck you better than me?" he teased as he pushed open the door. all she could do was giggle in response, resting her head on his shoulder as he carried her down the corridor and into their waiting car. as she'd suspected, she was showered in warm baths, cozy cuddles, and her favorite snacks for the rest of the evening, and though she was definitely sore, there was not a single ounce of regret in her mind.

#smut #batman #batman smut #dcu #bruce wayne #bruce wayne smut #robert pattinson #battinson #battinson smut #christian bale

[angelwithdemonictendencies]

i wield my pride like a sword too-heavy, force of habit; i forget i’ve never needed weapons with you.

jh86 x reader: toxic girls have more fun (trust me).

(warnings: blasphemous filth, handjob (gross), unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), there’s not even choking (aren’t you proud of me?), hair pulling (don’t be too proud), let’s see: praise, toxicity, female rage, goofball ending, the likes of that.  marking.  idk just please be warned, don’t read if you’re not 100% sure.)

(a/n: alright jack girls and guys and such, this is the best i can do for you.  i can’t write him any other way, i’m sorry, i swear.  i tried.  it was traumatic.  don’t be controlling and toxic in real life (or do, who am i to boss you around?).  i’m sort of a one-trick-pony, as i’m sure most of you have realized at this point, but i’ve decided to give you the opportunity to be the jealous hair puller in this one.  congrats!  sorry about the ending, i had a good day so i was feeling hilarious.  this is to celebrate jh86 back in the scoring business since coming back from his injury.  you just bought a ticket to whimperfest ‘23.  anyways, thanks, be kind, more bullshit on the way.  see you soon, let’s go canucks.

he had some nerve.  honestly, he’d had a great game, one of his best of the season, really, but that didn’t mean he could act like you weren’t right there, spend the whole night talking to his boys, entertaining any girl who breathed near him.  

sure, maybe you hadn’t put a label on anything, but last you checked, that had been entirely your decision.  he had been the one getting jealous over you texting other guys.  he had been the one asking for some kind of legitimacy, a box to fit you in.

your stomach swirled like the drink in your hand with frustration at how the tables had turned.  who was he to make you question what you want?  

you set your drink down and walked over to him and his teammates, letting your hair fall to reveal the elegant line of your neck and your collarbone.  you had come for a reason, after all, and you weren’t about to leave empty handed.  

you leaned against the wall next to where he stood, willed misty desire into your eyes to mask your anger, watched his gaze soften briefly around the edges when it met yours, although he quickly turned it to stone again.  your fingers twitched.

“hi, jack,” you said with a smile that glittered.  “great game tonight.”  you looked past him to the group.  “and you, guys.”

“thanks,” jack said, his voice empty, full of uncertainty.  your skin was scorching.  “i’ll text you, yeah?”  you swore that smoke must have been coming out of your ears in plumes, twisting around you, contorting you into some kind of mythical monster.  who did he think he was?  you ran your tongue along the inside of your teeth.  thankfully, one of his teammates had better manners, shooting jack an odd look.

“thanks, beautiful,” he said, “jack, who’s this?”

jack looked at you, as if unsure as how to answer, nervous like a child at a spelling bee who had never heard the word before.  you could have laughed.  instead, you smiled, stuck out your hand to shake his teammate’s outstretched one.  “ex-girlfriend, nice to meet you,” you said, which warranted some nervous laughter.

jack’s eyes blinked slowly, intentionally, stunned.  his mouth twitched into the slightest of pouts.  perfect.

you pretended to look at your phone, bit your lip, looked up, waved to the group.  “so nice to see you, jack.”  you put some bite in your voice and walked away, began to count down from ten in your head, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

reaching the outskirts of the room, you didn’t turn to the exit, instead opting for the private hallway that led to the bathroom.  you had barely reached four on your countdown when you felt a calloused hand grab your wrist, pull you into the bathroom, nudge you up against the door. 

“what the hell was that?”  his eyes were always the first thing you noticed.  jack’s gaze lacked anger, instead twinged with panic, cloudy with confusion.

your mouth quirked, letting out a faint, humorless laugh before taking the front of his shirt in your fist and spinning him around until you were the one holding him against the door.  “you think you can play with me, pretty boy?” you asked, watching his gaze melt into the jack you recognized.  you leaned in, a breath apart.  “you think anyone can make you feel like i do?”

his chest rose up and down under your fist, but he smiled, however slightly.  “i like you jealous,” he confessed, voice scattered.

“yeah?” you cooed, looking up at him through your lashes, “i like you mine.”

he wilted, dropped his head to meet your lips in a kiss that was all him, soft and deep and wanting.  you reached a hand up to his jaw, touch feather light, bringing the other down to his waistband, holding your fingers there, teasing his hip bones.  

he lifted his hips up into your touch, hooking one arm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the door as you dipped your hand down to palm his cock. 

he moaned into your kiss, making you smile against his lips.  “please, baby,” he whispered, barely a breath.

“oh, i’m baby now?” you asked, painting your face a mask of theatrical confusion.  “i get to be baby with my hand on your cock, is that it?”  you tilted your head.  “but out there, no, i’m some girl you’ll never text?”

you reached into his waistband and pumped him up and down, felt his grip on your waist tighten, his chest flex.  he let out a soft grunt.  “no, no,” he pleaded, “always, baby, promise.  i’m yours.”

“really?” you taunted.  “but out there, looked like you were everyone’s, pretty boy.”

he shook his head.  “only yours, please, baby.”

you smirked, could tell he was telling the truth, completely at your mercy.  you ran a thumb over the tip of his cock, bit your lip at his whimper, traced your other hand gently across his jawline.  “so good for me, pretty boy, so perfect.”  he continued to let his weight fall into the door as your moved your hand faster, felt his posture stiffen.

“please let me fuck you, baby,” he breathed, moving a hand to drag across your hip.  “need to feel you, want to feel you cum around me so bad.”

“hm, why should i let you?”  you reached your hand from his jaw up to his soft hair, twisted the strands around your fingers.  “will you be good for me?”

his doe-eyed gaze begged you more than words ever could.  “promise, baby, promise i’ll be good.”  

you leaned up, bit softly at his pouting bottom lip.  “can’t say no to those eyes,” you lamented, “playing dirty.”  you turned yourself around and tugged clothes aside, down.  “ready for me?”

“need you,” he sighed, whimpered when you sank back onto him.  you wove a hand behind his neck to keep yourself up.  he kept one hand firmly around your stomach, the other digging into your hip. 

you groaned at his familiar stretch, the fullness of him that you had come to crave, to claim as your own.  you arched your back, pushed him deeper, tangled your reaching hand into the hair at the nape of his neck for support, grinned at his breathy wince, pulled his hair just a bit harder.  

“stretch me out so perfect,” you praised into his ear, eased him into a rhythm with a roll of your hips.

he chewed on his lip, thrusting in and out, hitting that spot inside of you dangerously hard and slow.  “feels so good, baby,” he bit out, “mhm, just like that-”

you arched your back further, clenched around him, relished in the way his words died in his throat, how he was reduced to intelligible sounds.

you loved the ability to make him lose focus, lose control of his words, tangible proof he couldn’t think of anyone, anything else but you.  you moaned at the thought.

“talk to me, pretty boy,” you urged, rolling your hips back and forth, “know how i love to hear you.”

he reached his hand down to your clit, began to tease you in time with his thrusts.  you hissed into his neck at the new sensation.  his voice was choked up.  “m, can’t-” he tried, rubbed you faster, “squeezing me so perfect, baby, i can’t-” 

you rested the back of your head onto his collarbone, losing poise yourself.  you felt his stomach flex, heard his breaths escape faster, more forced as he picked up the pace, hips lifting sporadically.  

“gonna cum for me?” you asked, voice sugary sweet.  he made a soft, strangled sound.  you groaned.  

“need you to cum first, baby,” he breathed.  “need to feel you cum on my cock.”  he dragged his rough palm across your clit, voice becoming desperate.  “c’mon, baby, make me yours.”

at his words, you felt your stomach tighten, then release as your orgasm washed over you, blurring your vision and weakening your knees.  you clenched down on him, felt him release inside of you at the added pressure, heat.  

he slumped back against the door, whimpered as his high dwindled, came to bring both hands around your waist, holding you close as if checking to make sure you were still there.

chests heaving, the air warm and shimmery around you, you had the mind to take his jaw in your hand, bring it to your swollen mouth, suck on the spot just under his jawline.  

his eyelashes were fluttered when you let go, pulled away.  a purple mark flowered when your mouth had been.  “what’s that for, baby?” he rasped, voice honeyed with wear.

you leaned back onto him again, met his gaze, shrugged drowsily.  “so you don’t forget.”

his nose scrunched slightly as he lazily rubbed circles on your hip bones.  “forget what?”

“to text me,” you said with a cheeky grin.  “i mean, you said you would, remember?  in front of your teammates?” you made a show of tilting your head in deep thought.  “gee, i hope i get the chance to receive a text from you! i could only hope to be so lucky.”  

he let out a breathy laugh, kissed the side of your head.

you took his hand in yours, kissed the top of it lightly.  “mine,” you declared.  he smiled.

fin.

#hockey #hockey smut #nhl #nhl smut #smut #dirty imagine #jack hughes #jack hughes smut #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #new jersey devils #quinn hughes #quinn hughes smut #luke hughes #trevor zegras #trevor zegras smut #trevor zegras x reader

[dayasusays]

📌 asks is open !! :)

requests is closed !! :(

౨ৎ ! — “say i love you”

!! : angst, hurt/comfort

summary : you noticed bruce’s getting too distant, so you start that long conversation with him.

౨ৎ ! — “you don’t sleep at home anymore”

!! : angst, marriage and breakup mention, fem!reader (used the word “wife”)

summary : bruce wakes up in his cold bed alone because you’re gone.

౨ৎ ! — “you are love” 18+

!! : light nsfw, cow girl, fluff

summary : you like to just enjoy each other.

౨ৎ ! — “loneliness as love” partly 18+

!! : partly sexual content, fem!reader, hard sex, angst, “i know who you pretend i am”, reader is wearing lipstick, mention of exes

summary : two lonely people trying to pretend to love each other.

౨ৎ ! — “baby, listen”

!! : smth like songfic, husband!bruce wayne, divorce, angst

summary : bruce wayne is just like song “baby, listen”.

౨ৎ ! — “the big bang”

!! : fluff

summary : you’re his chaos.

౨ৎ ! — “the trip” partly 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, husband!bruce wayne, masturbation, rough sex, maledom

summary : you’re on a trip and bruce is missing you a lot.

౨ৎ ! — “dirty desires” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, husband!bruce wayne, breeding kink, soft maledom, dirty talk, fingering

summary : he has breeding kink.

౨ৎ ! — “jealousy” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, husband!bruce wayne, public sex (the restroom at his gala)

summary : you made him jealous.

౨ৎ ! — “feral” 18+

!! : fem!wife!reader, husband!bruce wayne, breeding kink, dirty talk, maledom, orgasm torture, feral fuck, multiple orgasm

summary : he comes back weird after patrol.

౨ৎ ! — “distraction” 18+

!! : fem!reader, reader has a big breasts, fingering, dirty talk, praise, nipple play

summary : you shouldn’t have distracted him.

౨ৎ ! — “dirty talk” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, husband!bruce wayne, dirty talk, cunnilingus, maledom, praise, compliments

summary : bruce has the best dirty talk.

౨ৎ ! — “come back”

!! : angst, breakup and cuts/wounds mention

summary : your ex keeps coming back to you.

౨ৎ ! — “body paint”

!! : angst

summary : you two won’t come out of this clean.

౨ৎ ! — “dick grayson, who…”

!! : headcanons

summary : you date jason todd, but you can’t get dick grayson out of your head.

౨ৎ ! — “argument”

!! : hurt/comfort, mention of proposal

summary : he wanted to propose to you this evening.

౨ৎ ! — “first time” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, boyfriend!dick grayson, first time, contraception

summary : your first time with dick.

౨ৎ ! — “disgusting day” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, boyfriend!dick grayson, blowjob, maledom

summary : you wanna cheer him up.

౨ৎ ! — “jealous” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, boyfriend!dick grayson, maledom, hickeys, blowjob, sex in car

summary : you made him jealous.

౨ৎ ! — “hurt”

!! : angst, mention of breakup

summary : he thinks it doesn’t hurt.

౨ৎ ! — “welcome back” 18+ partly

!! : fem!reader, angst, ghosting, compliments

summary : you always come back.

౨ৎ ! — “paper roses” partly 18+

!! : fem!reader, partly sexual content, fluff, college memories, public sex (the empty road) on the bike

summary : jason’s giving you a bouquet of paper roses that he gave you in college.

౨ৎ ! — “jason todd, who…”

!! : headcanons

summary : you date jason todd, but you can’t get dick grayson out of your head.

౨ৎ ! — “jason todd eats you up” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, overstimulation, cunnilingus

summary : jason todd, who loves eat you up.

౨ৎ ! — “jason todd is the best partner” part 2

!! : headcanons, fluff

summary : you can’t get dick grayson out of your head, but you still love jason todd.

౨ৎ ! — “jason todd, who…” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, first time, maledom, virgin!jason todd and experienced!jason todd

summary : jason todd, who is a virgin, became better.

౨ৎ ! — “companion” part 1

!! : fem!reader, domestic abuse and struggling reader, flashbacks of childhood and adolescence, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, angst

summary : he’s your companion, friend, anyone, but never your lover.

౨ৎ ! — “jealousy” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, husband!jason todd, fingering, maledom, public sex (restaurant restroom)

summary : that waiter undressed you with his eyes.

౨ৎ ! — “selfish” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, boyfriend!jason todd, petting (?), soft maledom, control orgasm

summary : jason adores you because you let him be selfish in bed.

౨ৎ ! — “asshole” 18+

!! : headcanons, fem!reader, boyfriend!jason todd, orgasm control, maledom, dirty talk, orgasm countdown

summary : sometimes jason is an asshole in bed.

౨ৎ ! — “adore” 18+

!! : gn!reader, blowjob, teasing

summary : jason todd adores you.

౨ৎ ! — “milady” 18+

!! : foreplay, cowgirl, femdom & maledom, jason speaks spanish

summary : jason adores his milady.

౨ৎ ! — “comfort”

!! : fluff, hurt/comfort

summary : jason comforts you.

💽 requests :

📌 I WRITE FOR character x fem!reader, character x gn!reader, smut, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, weird kinks (if it’s nothing too extraordinary).

📌 I DON’T WRITE FOR character x male!reader, omegaverse, incest, selfcest, pedophilia, anal sex, asphyxiation.

💽 navigation :

just search on my blog

⌗ dayasu’s collection !! ✩ — my personal tag

⌗ song !! ✩ — one-part drabbles

⌗ album !! ✩ — two / more-part drabbles

⌗ concert !! ✩ — drabbles based on songs or headcanons

⌗ behind the scene !! ✩ — something abt me / masterlists and stuff

⌗ q & a !! ✩ — asks & requests / i’m chatting w you!

#masterlist #dc comics #writing #dayasu’s collection !! ✩ #song !! ✩ #album !! ✩ #concert !! ✩ #behind the scene !! ✩ #q & a !! ✩

[ihaechans]

Reminiscing || Mark Lee

PAIRING ▸ Mark Lee x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ best friends to lovers, big fluff

WARNINGS/CONTENT ▸ profanity, sweet Mark, Y/n character development is real, literally just sickening fluff...

SUMMARY ▸Time flies. Especially with best friend and nerdy ride or die Mark Lee. Reminiscing on the rooftop leads to foreign emotions and forgotten memories to rise to the surface, and the obvious tension between you two can no longer be avoided.

WORD COUNT▸1.7k

A/N▸ Head empty.... just boyfriend Mark Lee. (Dead serious this has been in my drafts for 8 months.)

ALSOOO this was originally supposed to be smut but I decided to take it out and make it a cute fluffy story because it’s my first fic back 😭

You couldn’t accept that there could be other men out there named Mark Lee. The idea of someone having a completely different look and persona than the one of your best friend completely baffled you.

In your heart, your Mark was the greatest one. The only one you truly needed to keep going in life as well.

You were always one of the castaways at your school. Unknown. Boring. Friendless. It was always something you were used to.

It wasn’t exactly bad though. You actually quite enjoyed having so much time to focus on your studies since you were never invited to parties or friendly hangouts, but there was always this feeling. A feeling of loneliness and despair.

In complete solitude, you would study from dusk til dawn. Barely even glancing away from your computer screen throughout the day. The only time you would bother to check your phone was to see if your mom had texted you, which you admitted, was kind of humiliating.

No one ever would have thought an accidental text to the wrong number would start the strange friendship between you and Mark Lee, one of the more popular members of one of the biggest frats on campus.

Unknown Number:  Yo Jaeminnnn! Just got your new number man :) It’s mark btw

You: This isn’t Jaemin. Wrong number “Mark”.

Unknown Number: My bad. Why is my name in quotes though? I promise I’m the real Mark dude :(

You: You can be some weirdo trying to get my phone information by pretending to be one of my classmates. Who knows if you’re really Mark?

Unknown Number: I do… because I am the real Mark 🤦‍♂️ who is this anyway so I can save your number?

You: It’s y/n. You shouldn’t need to save my contact anyways. We won’t ever text again after this.

Mark: I like to be friendly with everyone just in case. Maybe you should try it instead of accusing me of being a criminal when you don’t even know me 😁

You: Goodbye Mark. You’re wasting my precious study time and you’re kind of annoying :)

You couldn’t imagine how any of your fellow students looked so relaxed and at ease with the endless piles of work. It was completely mind boggling.

Mark and his friends were those sort of people, and you were always jealous of them. How they continued to stay on top of assignments? You would never know.

“You were such an asshole when we first met.” His presence catches you off guard, but you can recognize that chuckle from anywhere. Silently turning your body to face him, you smile, dismissing his brutally honest comment.

“Well. I never knew having friends could be so…”

He finished your thought for you, “Life changing? Exciting? Eye opening?”

“Mhm.” You hum, mindlessly patting the spot next to you on the balcony, expecting him to plop down in the exact spot any second now.

“I admit, I was a complete bitch for no reason.” You stare at the sunset as you speak, knowing that Mark is simply listening in. “I was jealous of you. You were so effortlessly funny and friendly. Everyone knew and loved you, plus you got exceptionally good grades.”

Honestly, you don’t know why you were admitting to any of this. It made you feel as if you were a terrible person. Hopefully mark didn’t see you that way.

You sigh, “I wanted to be you. It was so unfair how I practically slaved away all day and night while you and your friends were out partying every other day yet still managing to pass. I wanted that to be me.”

You stare at Mark now, waiting to him to respond to such a presumptuous confession.

He was smiling, a smile full of love and kindness. He huffs out a laugh, you should’ve known he could never hate you. He could never hate anyone, no matter how wrong they could treat him.

“Can I admit something too?” He’s staring straight into your eyes now, a serious look taking over his features. “That day, I didn’t know it was your number, but-“ he clears his throat, bracing himself for the things he was about to admit to.

“I was interested in you before we became friends. You seemed pretty chill, but I never approached you since you always seemed like you wanted nothing to do with the human species. You were also really pretty…”

You ignore the butterflies that erupt in your stomach, and hopefully Mark couldn’t see the slight blush that appeared on your face.

He lays down onto his back, laughing with his arms behind his head for support. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t give up on you?” He teases, poking you in the side with his elbow gently.

You smile and hit him on the shoulder playfully, rolling over onto your side to look at him. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t block you as soon as you texted me?”

He laughs even harder now, admitting that he found it funny how you seemed so intimidating over text but in person you were completely different.

“You wouldn’t even remember me if I hadn’t kept texting though,” he responds, ending the sentence with another chuckle.

“Wish I blocked you sooner so I didn’t start warming up to your annoying ass.” You speak with a serious expression, but one glance at Mark is all it takes for a laugh to force its way out, his own laughter causing you to giggle even harder.

“God, I love you Y/n. Seriously. You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.”

There it is. “Best friend”. All hope for you was over. You’ve officially been friend-zoned.

You ponder for a moment, thinking about all that he’s done for you and considering how easily things could’ve been different if you weren’t such a jealous bitch in the beginning.

Your friendship could’ve been so much stronger by now if you had accepted his kindness from the start, and you mentally scold yourself for it.

“Say it back.” He orders, perking up from his relaxed position and scooting closer to your body in between every passing second. “Say it back before it’s too late.”

“Why should I? Admitting I wanted to be you is already embarrassing enough. My embarrassment level is already full for today, tell me again tomorrow and maybe I’ll answer.”

“Alright then,” he tsks, “Guess I’ll just have to tickle you until you admit you love me back.”

Your eyes widen in genuine terror. You absolutely hated getting tickled and promised you would personally file a complaint to the police if Mark ever even thought about tickling you.

“Mark. Stop.”

“Say it back, idiot.”

Hissing through your teeth, you prepare for the worst. You’d rather just tell him you love him back than endure his attacks of merciless tickles and teasing.

Conceding defeat, you blink at him and fight the embarrassing grin that wants to appear on your lips. “I love you too Mark.” Hearing yourself say those words out loud almost has you jumping up and down with embarrassment and sending shivers down your spine.

You take a deep breath, trying to stay in control of your emotions.

He smiles, feeling content with your words. You’ve been friends for so long, and now you’ve finally mustered up the courage to tell him how you feel.

Countless times, he’s told you he loves you, but you’ve never said it back until now. You felt like a brand new person.

There’s a comfortable beat of silence before he speaks up, distrusting the moment of pure silence.

“Isn’t the sunset so pretty?” He murmurs, eyes completely focused on something else.

“Mark. You’re not even looking at the sunset,” you laugh, seeming to be completely clueless at what he was hinting at.

He chuckles at your ignorance before taking your hands into his and looking you in the eye. “Y/n. You’re pretty.” Your breath catches in your throat, “I like you. I thought it would be so obvious by now. I’ve been hinting at it for ages but you’re just so clueless it seems like this is the only way you would ever realize.”

He grins sheepishly, wincing as he awaits your reaction.

The only thing you can do is stare at him wide eyed, jaw almost completely on the floor at the sudden confession. “You like me?”

“Mhm.” He mumbles, scooting even closer to you, his eyes gazing straight at your lips.

He moves forward, cupping your face with his hands so he can finally attempt to kiss you.

Mark had no idea why he was feeling so bold in that moment. This situation could either go extremely terrible or surprisingly well.

He stops before his lips touch yours, giving you a second to push him away if you really needed to. You lightly grasp his side and he smiles before connecting your lips together.

It feels like heaven, almost like you two were meant to be. You wonder why you hadn’t done this sooner, and then remember that you were the one being so blinded by friendship that you dismissed his obvious flirting as teasing all this time.

All of Marks emotions embrace him as he backs away, warmth and comfort echoing between the two of you. Mark is a mess, face red and hands jittering uncontrollably and you find it quite amusing.

“I cant believe I actually just did that…” Mark is so overwhelmed as he retreats, barely able to keep his composure as he nearly fumbles with his words.

Your cheeks flush with the realization that you had just kissed Mark. You struggle to keep a grin from forming on your face. “Me neither…” you mumble, bringing a hand up to your lips, still shocked.

Mark smiles at you with adoration, mustering up the courage to finally say what he’s been holding back for the last few years. “Y/n, will you be my girlfriend?”

He looks into your eyes in anticipation, barely able to contain his eagerness as he awaits for an answer.

“Mark, are you seriously asking me that right now?” You laugh, watching as marks smile fades away slightly in confusion. “How could I ever reject you?”

A sweet smile forms on your face, and the look of confusion soon leaves marks features as you kiss him again, making sure he understands that you are in fact, now his girlfriend.

#nct #nct127 #nct dream #super m #mark #mark lee #nct mark lee #mark lee fluff #nct u #kpop #kpop boy group #kpop boy group fluff #mark fic #nct mark fic #yu69ta #fanfic by yu69ta

[southpawbitch]

Whimper | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Masterlist (this is part ONE; read the others here)

word count: 1.3k

summary: you're jealous that rhett's feeling up a girl at the bar and your boyfriend hasn't noticed that you need a refill.

warnings: mentions of cheating, drinking, smoking, mentally beating yourself up in the bathroom of a bar (we've all been there, am i right?)

A/N: hiya! this little story was inspired by the song Whimper by Microwave and it [the song] goes hella hard and makes you feel a little dirty which is exactly how rhett makes me feel. i'd ideally like to turn this into a little series, but nothing too formal, so if any of this gets your gears going, i'd love to hear thots!! x MJ

You sit leaned back in the corner booth, cuddled up into Ben’s side as he engages in conversation with your friends. You’re not terribly interested in the story being told, but you pretend to listen anyway, cracking a smile here and there when it’s appropriate. You swipe your thumb down the side of the empty glass in front of you, collecting the condensation on your fingers. It makes you frown. Your drink is empty. It has been for the past thirty minutes, but Ben has yet to take notice and offer to grab you another. He may be terribly charming and a smooth talker, but he lacks any skills or characteristics that would make him a great boyfriend. No, he’s just a good boyfriend. He takes you on dates and buys you nice presents and always says the right thing, but it’s all just so predictable. He doesn’t go out of his way to make you feel special if any of his friends are around, which is how you feel tonight–slightly neglected–despite his firm grip around your waist. 

You take this as an opportunity to fully remove yourself from the conversation and take a glance around the bar, hoping to people-watch until he finally realizes you need a new drink, but then, your eyes land on a scene across the bar and you see him. 

Rhett sits in his normal seat. His Stetson is resting on the counter in front of him and a pretty girl is sitting to his left, batting her eyelashes at him and leaning in a little too close to his face as she speaks. He keeps both hands curled firmly around the bottle of beer sitting on the bar top, seemingly unbothered by her advances. He might even be leaning into her slightly, too–he’s starting to feel the buzz from the fifth or sixth beer he’s had since his arrival earlier tonight. He can’t quite remember now. She came up to him about fifteen minutes ago, and it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving any time soon. 

Almost as if he knows he’s being watched, he sits up a little straighter and turns his head slightly, making eye contact with you from across the room. The girl continues to babble on about how she’s never been with a cowboy before, but he keeps his focus on you as he removes one of his hands from his beer and places it on the girl’s leg, turning his attention back to her with a small smirk on his face when he knows he's got your attention. He can’t remember her name now, but he knows that won’t make any difference. She blushes at the contact of his cool skin against hers, giggling drunkenly when she forgets what she was talking about. 

“Keep goin’.” Rhett nods his head and looks into her pretty brown eyes as her cheeks become more red. She bites her plump bottom lip and dips her head down shyly, causing her hair to fall into her face. Rhett takes this as an opportunity for more contact, taking his right hand and gingerly pushing the piece of hair behind her ear. She’s not as confident as she was before he started caressing her leg with his big, calloused hand. He feels the goosebumps on her skin and attempts to rub them away slowly, not taking his eyes off of her. She’s pretty–beautiful, even–and he feels a little bad for playing with her like this just to make you jealous. And he knows you must be seething right now.

Across the bar, your jaw clenches. You know that he saw you and you know that whatever he’s doing with this poor tourist is just a game, or else he wouldn’t still be sitting there out in the open with her. They’d be halfway to his truck by now if anything was going to happen between them. That fact alone is about the only thing keeping you from bursting at the seams. Without saying anything, you remove Ben’s arm from your waist and instruct Jade to let you out of the booth with your empty glass in your hand and a determined look on your face. You can hear mumbling behind you–probably some snide remark about how you get when you're "too" drunk.

As you approach the bar, you make sure to stand on the other side of this mystery woman–close enough to hear their conversation without your bodies coming into contact with each other. The bartender is on her way over, but before she makes it to you, Rhett grabs her attention first.

“Another one for her, on me.” You fight the urge to look over at him. You can almost see the smug look on his face now, and if you weren’t so upset, it would probably turn you on. How is it that Rhett can buy this woman he's just met another drink and your boyfriend of four years doesn't even bother asking. He was once more of a gentleman, but those days are long gone now, leaving you yearning for something more from a relationship you've put so much time and energy into.

As you stare down at the empty glass, a stray tear falls from your left eye and rolls down your cheek just as the bartender comes back and asks what you want. You look up and suck your tears back in, shaking your head to indicate that you don’t want–or need–anything else. She takes the empty glass and leaves as quickly as she arrived. You make your way to the bathroom instead, slamming the door closed behind you and locking it before staring at yourself in the mirror. 

You’re pathetic–jealously pining over a guy you’ve slept with a handful of times in the past few months despite being in a somewhat stable relationship with someone who’s moderately caring and treats you okay. He treats you better than you deserve, if you’re being honest with yourself. You grip the sides of the white sink and drop your head. You have had too much to drink tonight. With a clear head, you wouldn’t be thinking about Rhett the way that you are right now. You wouldn’t be thinking of the way you wanted to be that girl sitting next to him, getting touched like that by him at the bar and not in his truck parked out by the barn on his ranch or on your twin-sized childhood bed while your brothers were away a few weeks ago. 

You haven’t even let Ben touch you since then. You’re worried that he’ll know something is up because you’re not sure you can find it in yourself to keep faking like you have to do with him–not when Rhett doesn’t stop until you’re satisfied and then some. Your legs feel like jelly at the thought, and you squeeze them together tightly before pushing off the sink and slowly walking out of the bathroom and back into the craziness of the bar. The girl is still sitting there, but Rhett’s been replaced by one of her friends. You glance towards the back where Ben and your friends are downing shots without you, so instead of heading back there, you turn right and leave out the double doors to the gravel parking lot where Rhett is leaning up against the building smoking a cigarette. 

He throws it down and stomps it out with his boot when he sees you. There’s a cold chill in the air that makes you shiver and as Rhett gets closer, he takes notice in the way your mascara is smudged under your eye slightly on one side, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he shrugs his jacket off and throws it over your shoulders before walking towards his truck in the back of the lot. Without turning around, he speaks to you for the first time tonight.

“Your place or mine?” 

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x you #outer range #rhett abbott #lewis pullman

[badgallly]

KylianXReader Smut

Where Reader is married to Kylian and he has been coming home late, causing a heated argument between the two that ends up in SMUT.

Hi guys how are you ? i've never written a smut before, here's my first smut from kylian, which is also a request from a follower. It's simple… but I hope you like it. Constructive criticism is always welcome too <3 make requests!! xoxo and stay with god <3

ps: english is not my first language ;)

I have been married to Kylian for just over 2 years, but I feel like our marriage is going downhill by the day. A few months ago Kylian started coming home late, always with a lame excuse.

And today is another one of those days. I wake up, run my hand over the sheets and feel the empty space. Again…this has become a daily routine for me. I take my cell phone and look at the time, it's just over 1:30 in the morning. Again kylian will be late. I wake up quickly and a mix of emotions take over my body, anger and disappointment. these are the feelings that most describe me right now! Just thinking that kylian might be out there making out with another bitch makes my blood boil. As Beyoncé's Hold Up song says, I don't know what's worse looking jealous or crazy.

I take a deep breath trying to calm myself down, and wait for Kylian to get home and have a serious talk with him. Today he doesn't escape me, I'm tired of being the silent wife who swallows all his lame excuses. Today this little story of his will end once and for all!! I go back to bed just waiting for Kylian to arrive, which doesn't take long to happen.

I hear keys jingle downstairs. He arrived. I hear your footsteps going up the stairs. I'm going to pretend I'm sleeping to see his sly face.

Soon the door opens, he's wearing a long-sleeved Dior shirt, sweatpants and white sneakers. Very cool for someone who would only go to a 'fraternization' of team. He looks at me, then turns his back to get out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. soon he goes to the balcony as he usually does every night, enjoying the parisian night .

I give a slight cough and then kylian turns immediately, landing her eyes on me:

_did i wake you up mon amour? Sorry!

_ you wake me up every week kylian, with your PSG fraternizations or whatever other shit you insist on coming up with.

_what ? What are y/n talking about?

_ Don't make a fool of yourself kylian, I'm not an idiot, I'm fed up with your lies and you getting home every day at dawn, you don't even pay attention to me anymore kylian!

_ y/n stop raving, you know very well that I work in one of the biggest clubs in the world and not to mention that I'm a member of it, so it's to be expected that I have more work than usual.

_ it works? So you call parties and work meetings? This isn't the first time kylian, you've been doing this for months and I've been quiet just watching, but enough! _ I say screaming and without more patience. Continuous:

_say screaming and without any more patience. Continuous: _I want the truth, do you have a lover or what? It is better to speak once and for all!

_what ? says kylian horrified _y/n you are completely crazy, you married me knowing who I am and what my life as an athlete would be like, I'm arriving late because of club meetings because of the new Champions League season, and get-togethers are part of that, I can't just ignore it them or leave them aside, I've already called you for most of them, you who never wanted to come, I'm not going to stop my life because of your whims! Says kylian also changing her voice.

_ It's always the same crap, the typical cheating man who blames his wife for his shitty mistakes. Fuck Kylian! I say screaming, I can't take it anymore with so much anger.

that moment kylian's gaze darkens looking at me for a few seconds a shiver goes up my spine as he approaches me holding my arm tightly to the bedroom _ Let go of me, let go of me! I say trying to free myself from Kylian's grip

He turns me around sharply, now gripping my waist tightly. _ Respect me y/n! Kylian says in a serious and angry voice when her eyes now filled with pure lust land on my body that is in a pink silk nightgown. I notice a bulge growing in his pants which turns me on. _Now you're going to pay me for your filthy little mouth and your lack of trust in me you little bitch.

He takes me to the bed and gets on top of me. Kylian starts to suck my neck which I'm sure will leave the purple mark afterwards. He lowers his hand to my panties, pulling them away and putting two fingers inside my pussy

_Isn't it attention you want? That's what I'm going to give you, but then don't complain if you can't walk tomorrow_ says kylian pushing her fingers inside me.

_ so wet for me, hot _ he makes back and forth movements slowly with his fingers making me moan his name

_kyliannn please

_please what a naughty bitch?

_ faster kyky

_ I want you to come on my fingers, ma belle he sticks his fingers in my center hitting my g-spot my mind goes blank and I start seeing stars, I can't feel my body anymore _Vou cum kyky! I say before I melt in your fingers I come in your fingers. He withdraws his fingers, placing them in his mouth with my liquid.

_Delicious He takes off my panties and pulls down his sweats along with his boxers, revealing his big, thick cock. I may have been married for 2 years to Kylian, but I still haven't gotten used to her size

_ of four now!! My legs were still shaking from the orgasm I just had. he orders and I immediately do what he says getting on all fours on the bed. He places his tip at my entrance making me gasp again.

he pushes his length at once making back and forth movements slowly making me adapt to his great length making me moan

_so tight my doll

_Kylian! I moaned loudly closing my eyes as he increases the thrusts he holds my face

_look at me ma belle he pulls my hair making me look at him. I look at kylian who is looking into my eyes as he starts increasing the beats on me he holds my breasts squeezing really hard

_says you're only mine and that tight pussy too

_ I'm just yours Kylian, my body is all yours! I speak weakly, the words barely making it out of my mouth.

_ Now be the good little bitch you are and cum on my dick

_keep moaning until I feel like I'm going to

_I to cum kylian...

as soon as I speak, immediately another orgasm hits me deliberately around Kylian's cock. my body goes limp but kylian keeps pushing deep and then releases his cum deep inside me and stays there for a few seconds before pulling out of me Then he kisses me, a long passionate kiss: _ je t'aime mon amour !

_I love you too Kylian! I say looking into your eyes

_I could never betray you y/n you are the only woman in my life, I only have eyes for you… you are the woman of my life y/n, I want to have children with you, you are my safe haven. I'm sorry I haven't paid attention to you lately and I made these mistakes with you I promise to be a better husband y/n I love you ma belle

_ It's okay, I forgive you… I love you too Kylian He kisses me again sweet and slow i really love him…

#kylian x reader #kylian mbappé #kylian mbappe smut #kylian mbappe imagine #kyky #kylian #kylian mbappe #mbappe x reader #mbappe psg #mbappé #mbappe

[fandomnsfw]

Pain Makes You Human - Peter Hale x Reader

Pairing: Peter x Reader

Prompt: Requested by ANON

Warning: mentions of self harm, a bit of angst and self loathing ALSO SMUT because you guys wants me to take cold showers everyday...even in winter 😂

Thank you to my lovely Beta as always! @lets-imagine-fanfics

ENJOY!!!

******

Being a teacher is the only thing you ever wanted to do. Even when you had a rough patch in your teens and ended up homeless, it was still your dream. So when you came to Beacon Hills, after finally getting your teaching degree, you couldn’t have been more ecstatic... Except you soon found out why there were so many openings to jobs in this town.     

Being startled by a giant beast that oozes black smoke can seriously make a person question their life choices. According to a few rumours, this wasn’t the first strange thing that had happened. However, as a teacher for some reason, your only concern was that a bunch of kids seemed to be at the centre of all of it.    

Soon enough you’d manage to find yourself in the pack, as their favourite go-to teacher when they need to leave for a supernatural crisis. You soon became quite close to everyone, even Stiles. Who quite naturally didn’t trust you at all when you came to town.    

However, after La Bête you and he were quite close. A lot like a brother and sister but that didn’t stop the boy sending you flirty comments as a joke.     

“Come on, Y/N, you know you love me!” Stiles whined as he wrapped his arms around your waist and started to sway you back and forth.     

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski, I suggest you get your hands off Y/N before I shoved this spatula up your god damn ass.” Derek snapped as he pointed the spatula directly at Stiles.     

“Aww, don’t be jealous, Der Bear! I love you more!” Stiles chuckled sarcastically as he pranced over to Derek. You let out a snort before continuing to get out a bowl for your cereal.     

It was pack night the previous night so you were all cramped in Derek’s loft, that didn’t seem to bother anyone. It was now Monday and everyone was rushing to get ready. You usually drove Scott or Stiles to school depending on if Stiles bring his jeep.     

“Oh, have you two finally got your act together?” Peter chuckled as he strolled into the kitchen with a smirk.    

You let out a sigh before shaking your head at him letting him know the two were just flirting and nothing more. He rolled his eyes before pressing a kiss to your temple which caused you to smile down at your cereal.     

“Dad, can you please not kiss in front of me. It’s gross.” Malia groaned as she walked into the room with a disgusted face.     

“Malia, it was hardly explicit. I kissed my lover on the head it’s hardly anything to cringe about.” Peter sighed his fatherly tone shining through.     

“Ew. Don’t say the word 'lover' either. What century do you live in?” Malia gagged as Stiles laughed into Derek back.     

“I quite like the fact your father calls me lover. It feels more mature and intimate.” You snorted playfully earning a chuckle from Scott who was dragging a very sleepy Liam and Mason behind him.     

“Lover is a term a lot of older wolfs use.” Derek laughed as Stiles pulled away to look at him with wide eyes. Suddenly every wolf in the room sniffed the room and started groaning minus Peter who looked a little smug whereas Derek just looked shocked.     

“Oh, come on, can we at least try and pretend we didn’t just smell that!” Stiles huffed his cheeks flushing softly.     

“Did you just pop a boner from Derek saying the word lover?” You laughed as you placed your now empty bowl in the sink.     

“Oh, come on! Am I that obvious!?” Stiles huffed before pouring some coffee into a flask and storming out of the loft with a pout.     

*****    

You watched as the seniors poured into your class. Scott, Stiles, Lydia and Malia were already sat down which made you laugh because every teacher in the school never understood why they came early to your class, that is +until you carefully explained that you were close to the Sheriff and were also dating the uncle of Stiles’ boyfriend. Though Stiles didn’t know that you’d told the teachers that.     

You slipped your cardigan off before making your way to your desk. Before you could open your mouth a student spoke up causing you to groan.     

“Yes, Luke?” You huffed, your hands coming to rest on your hips as you impatiently waited for his question.     

“Teach, either your seriously one kinky bitch or you need to join the emo clique because those are beyond gross.” He snorted as he stared at your arms.     

Before you could retaliate or even think about his words, Stiles was out his seat and throwing Luke against a wall, holding him there by his throat. You ran over to the pair careful not to trip over in your heels before hitting Stiles’ back. Scott was out his seat and holding you back in seconds.     

“Stiles, let him go!” You snapped as you tried to struggle against Scott’s grip.     

“If you EVER talk to her like that again I will find you and I will beat you so bad you’ll be begging for death! Do you understand!?” Stiles screamed, the deepness of his voice shocking a few of the other classmates.     

“Why, did I upset your little girlfriend?” Stiles laughed at the boy’s response before looking into the boy's eyes, so coldly it sent visible shivers down his spine.     

“I SAID! Do. YOU. Understand?” Stiles growled causing the boy's eyes to widen.     

“Y-Yes!” Luke stuttered softly before Stiles finally let him go. You looked at Stiles as he turned around ignoring the boy who was now sitting on the floor catching his breath.     

“If a little brother can’t protect his sister what kind of man would I be?” Stiles laughed before ruffling your hair gently.     

“I-Idiot. I’m gonna have to give you detention now…” You sniffled as you wiped away the tears that had fallen.     

****    

You sat in your car outside of your apartment, staring down at the scars with hatred. You wished they were gone. You hated that you always had to hide your arms like some sort of innocent girl who goes to an all-girls Catholic school.     

Luke’s words kept running through your head. Despite the fact that his words were childish, they still hit a nerve within you. Peter knew and had seen your scars but he had always told you to never cover them because it was a reminder that I was stronger than some. That I had gotten through something most people couldn’t even dream of. However, that didn’t stop your tears that began falling down your face.     

You weren’t sure how long you sat there crying but when someone opened the door and you got hit with the scent of Peter’s favourite cologne. You knew you had to of been sat there for at least an hour.     

“Woah, baby, what’s the matter?” Peter asked softly as he picked you up and locked your car.     

“N-Nothing.” You sobbed as you clung to him tightly.     

“Sweetheart, you finished school over an hour ago and you look like you haven’t moved in at least that long. Your make up is all over your face and most of all you’re crying.” Peter sighed sadly as he carried you into your apartment with ease.     

“Oh, j-just another thing that makes me l-look gross.” You cried out as you wiped at your face furiously.     

“Who the hell said you were gross!?” Peter asked angrily, his eyes flashing blue as he stared down at you.     

“N-No one.” You knew even if he wasn’t supernatural he’d know that was a lie but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.     

“I’m calling Stiles.” Peter huffed angrily.     

You shot out your seat and tried to grab his phone but he held you back as gently as he could. The phone rang twice before Stiles picked up, his voice calm as if he knew why Peter was calling. Peter glanced at you as he asked what happened today.     

‘A student said something about her scars.’ Stiles answered sadly.    

“What did they say?!” Peter growled viciously.     

‘That she must either be a kinky bitch or belonged in the emo clique because her scars were gross.’ Stile huffed his anger matching Peter’s     

“What’s his name?” Peter snarled    

‘I handled it, don’t worry.’ Stiles replied calmly.     

“Thank you, Stiles.” Peter muttered in a soft tone that he only ever reserved for you before hanging up.     

He turned to you with a frown before picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom. His body was warm and inviting as usual, but for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to relax into it. You felt like you didn't deserve it.    

He placed you on the counter next to the sink before walking to the bathtub and turning the taps on. He was quiet which wasn't alarming because as much as Peter was sarcastic he enjoyed the quiet.    

He put one of the many lush bath bombs he’d bought you into the water before turning to the small makeup area you had on the opposite side of the sink.    

He picked up the packet of makeup removal wipes and moved back towards you, whilst taking one out. He reached towards your makeup smeared face and began wiping away the evidence of your minor break down.    

After another wipe was used your face was clear if makeup and the bath was done running. He stripped off the rest of your clothes along with his before picking you up and placing you in the bath.    

You moved forward silently so he could get in behind you. Once he was sat down he gathered up your hair and tied it into a messy bun so it wouldn’t get wet. It was amazing how he knew your daily routine. How he knew you didn’t wash your hair every day or how you used makeup removal wipes to remove your makeup but you still washed your face.    

He was beyond the perfect partner which is why you knew now that you were settled into the bath a conversation was about to happen. Whether you liked it or not.   

“You know your scars are not ‘gross’ right?” Peter muttered against your shoulder before pressing a soft kiss against your skin.    

‘No, I don’t know that.’ You thought bitterly.   

“Y-Yeah.” You lied despite knowing lying to a werewolf was useless.    

“Why don’t we try that again?” Peter sighed sadly as he picked up your exfoliating gloves. Usually, you would’ve laughed at the sight of the great Peter Hale wearing baby pink exfoliating gloves but right now you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.   

“You are not gross. Your scars are not gross. Nothing about you is gross.” Peter muttered as he rubbed your usual body wash into the gloves.    

He began rubbing the gloves over your body with just the right amount of pressure so it didn’t hurt, yet still left a slight tingling feeling on your skin. After finishing your arms he moved onto your back when finally he spoke up again.    

“I will tell you again. Your scars are proof  that you are a survivor.” He muttered as he continued scrubbing your back.    

“They’re self-inflicted.” You hissed bitterly causing him to stop all movements.    

“That means nothing to me.” He scolded before continuing his circular motions.    

“What do werewolves do to regain control if they can’t anchor it?” Peter asked gently.    

“T-That depends o-”   

“What do they do, Y/N?” Peter interrupted his tone leaving no room for avoidance.    

“T-They hurt themselves…” You muttered quietly.    

“Pain makes you human. Self-harm is different for everyone. Some do it for release, others for it to ground them. But…” Peter muttered as he began scrubbing your chest with slightly lighter circles this time.    

“…Everyone deals with things differently self-harm involved or not.” He sighed quietly as he started on your legs.   

“Some go insane and kill their niece to enact vengeance.” Peter.   

“Some bury it until they become sour and hateful towards everyone.” Derek.   

“And others lean on friends and move on in a healthy way.” Scott.   

By the time he’d made his point your whole body had been washed leaving you clean and feeling slightly better about the day’s events. You knew this conversation wasn’t over by a long shot but at least now you felt willing to listen.   

After Peter washed himself with his own sponge he rinsed you both off and picked you up to help you out the bath. Once he set you on your feet you wobbled a little before righting yourself. He walked towards your makeup area and picked up your toner and moisturizer before moving back to you once again.    

He used a cotton pad to apply the toner gently all over your face. You almost laughed at how sweetly domestic the scene was but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to just yet, instead you settled for a sad smile as he waited for the toner to dry.    

Once he finished putting your moisturizer on, he dried you off then wrapped the towel around you. You followed him to the bedroom silently waiting for his next words but as you came to a stop in front of him, words were clearly not how he was going to proceed.    

You let you towel fall as he picked you up and placed you on the end of the bed carefully, before kneeling down in front of you and proceeding to kiss up your smooth legs.    

His movements were slow and loving causing your breath to stutter. Your eyes never left his, until he finally reached the scars on your thighs which evidently made you avert your eyes.   

Most people didn't know about the scars on your thighs. Mostly because after a 'conversation' with your parents about how they'd force you to get help if they saw anymore, you'd decided to switch to a less noticeable place.   

When his lips finally pressed against your scars your breathing stop for a second before you finally forced yourself to look. When your eyes looked down Peter's were staring straight back at you with so much love and affection it almost made you whimper.   

As he continued kissing up your body you let out a soft moan. He skipped past your core which usually would be a form of playful torment. However, right now, you knew this wasn't about pleasure. It was about reassurance that no matter what, this man would love you.   

As he moved to your arms his eyes flicked back to yours making sure your eyes had not once again averted. When he was happy they hadn't he continued placing soft wet kisses against the scars.   

You finally released the breathless whimper you'd been holding back causing Peter’s eyes to search your face for any signs of sadness. You knew he could use his wolf senses to tell how you were feeling but he didn't like intruding on your personal emotions.    

As he kissed you shoulder you finally gave in and cupped his face gently before pressing a soft chaste kiss on his lips. His lips were soft yet slightly swollen from all the kisses but you didn't care.   

When you pulled away your eyes searched his to see if any pity was reflected but all you saw was determination, love and the slightest bit of lust.    

“You are beautiful inside and out. And I would not change one thing about you.” He whispered against your lips.   

Your E/C eyes teared up as they stared into the ocean blue ones that were your lover’s. This was the man who had his entire family ripped away from him. The man that went insane and came back from the dead.   

But most of all...   

This was the man you loved.   

“Make love to me.” You whispered brokenly. He gave you a small nod before standing up and moving you further onto the bed. You laid down opening your arms and separating your legs so he could situate between them.   

Once he was within reach you wrapped your arms around him tightly. He leant down at the same time pressing his lips to yours in a slow yet passionate kiss.    

He licked along your bottom lip before pushing his tongue past your lips and twisting it with yours. Unlike most of your kisses this one wasn’t a fight for dominance it was a fight for understanding. His hands caressed your body so desperately yet tenderly it was like it was the last thing he'd ever do. You were panting against his lips as he pulled away slightly, his eyes boring into yours.    

His hand made it to your sex which you knew despite the lack of your usual heavy foreplay was dripping wet. He brushed his middle finger down the centre of it causing you to gasp and him to groan in satisfaction at the wetness he felt.   

When he pushed two fingers into you, you couldn't help the filthy moan that escaped your lips. As his finger began thrusting in and out of your heat.    

The steady string of moans leaving your mouth was causing Peter’s breathing to deepen as he kept his steady pace. He scissored his fingers inside of you gently stretching you out.    

After a few minutes, he pulled out his fingers and slid three in this time. You clung to his shoulders your light pink nails digging into his back as you attempted to ground yourself. When you couldn't take it anymore you clenched around him letting him know you were close. He pulled his fingers out earning himself a whimper from you.   

“Please, Peter...I-I need you inside me.” You pleaded desperately as he let you catch your breath.    

“Okay, my love.” He replied, his voice tender as he caressed your cheek with his other hand.   

He lined himself up with your entrance before giving you a careful look. His eyes stared into your as he pushed inside of you slowly.   

In your younger years before you met Peter, you always found staring into your partner's eyes awkward and uncomfortable but after you fell in love with Peter that changed. Yet suddenly it was no longer awkward but a way to convey your love for the other person. It made you feel closer to Peter than you had anyone in your entire life. And to you that meant something.    

“Peter..” You moaned as your back arched causing your breasts to push against his chest.   

“I've got you, baby.” He whispered as he started moving in and out of your tight heat. His thrusts calculated and slow as his forearm supported his weight next to the right side of your head, his hand entangled in your hair as the other cupped your face gently.   

Every thrust he made had you panting a moaning against his lips. His hot breathe mingling with yours as he finally started letting out husky groans of pleasure.    

Every sound of ecstasy he made only served to push you closer to the edge. Your body pressed so close to his as you cling to him for dear life.   

“P-Peter... ‘M close.” You stuttered against his lips.   

“Me t-too, my love.” He groaned as his eyes flashed blue and his thrust became uncalculated.    

He moved the hand from your cheek between you and proceeded to press a finger to your clit. He barely circled the bundle of nerves twice before you were moaning out his name in release. He thrust a few more times as you clenched around him before he poured his seed inside you. Your name slipping past his lips as he came.   

After a minute he pulled out and moved to the bathroom. He came back with a washcloth and a hairbrush which caused you to chuckle softly, your voice still wrecked from all the moaning. He wiped you down before sitting you up and untying you hair. He brushed through the waves before sitting behind you and concentrating on braiding your hair so it would be wavy for tomorrow as well.   

Once he was done, he pulled you both under the covers able you lay on his chest.    

“I love you.” You mumbled against his right peck before pressing a soft kiss there.   

“I love you too, Y/N.”   

#peter hale #peter #hale #peter hale x reader #peter hale x you #peter x reader #peter x you #teen wolf #tw #teen wolf imagine #imagine #smut #fluff #angst #self harm

[mintywolf]

So okay here are the notes on my overly-intricate, still-unwritten CR Daemon AU

The catalyst was mainly me thinking about how absolutely unsettling Pâté would be in a universe where everyone has talking animal companions that are an extension of their soul. Matilda lost hers (a rat named Patter), so the major part of everyone’s fear and distrust of her is not that she looks off, but an instinctive, soul-deep dread and disgust because she has no daemon.* So, to blend in better and to alleviate her own crushing loneliness, Laudna (who has renamed herself because she doesn’t feel like the same person anymore without him) started carrying around a dead rat and pretending he talks. :(

(*apparently.)

And Imogen is the first person in a very long time to regard her with compassion rather than horror. She’s still weirded out by her lack of daemon but once she finds out how she lost him she’s very upset and angry on her behalf. Her daemon (a tressym) is more sympathetic than she is at first and wants to approach and comfort her because she’s so distressed that Laudna doesn’t have a daemon, about which Imogen is initially a little jealous, but once it sinks in for her how absolutely lonely she’s been and for how long (and maybe after they’ve gotten to know each other a little better unless this is like, how they came to understand each other’s soul so well) Imogen’s daemon voluntarily breaks the taboo by letting Laudna touch her. (Out of politeness she also gives Pâté a little nose boop but he kind of freaks her out.)

Now originally this was just going to be a sweet little oneshot about Imogen and her daemon finding a daemon-less weirdo in her garden shed and showing her the first kindness she’s seen in 30 years but I am just incapable of NOT getting overly involved in the Briarwoods backstory, haha.

Sooo back in Vox Machina era Ripley, under the Briarwoods, was doing experiments on Dust and daemons and discovered that the burst of energy released by severing someone from their daemon could be used to open a temporary gate into another world. They pointed her research in that direction, intending to use that power to draw the Whispered One into Exandria. Meanwhile Delilah, intrigued by the severing, started doing experiments of her own on unsuspecting castle staff and citizens of Whitestone. The subjects that didn’t die immediately without their daemons became obedient, soulless thralls that were easy to command, if short-lived (so this is this universe’s equivalent of necromancy) but it wasn’t quite what she was looking for. She wanted to become immortal by separating her daemon (a wolf* ) from herself so that it could travel far distances from her and persist after her death to attach itself to a new vessel. (*originally I had Delilah’s daemon as a pine marten because despite having read the books numerous times I always forget that Pan doesn’t settle as an ermine, he ends up a pine marten too. I chose it because they are elegant and auburn and devious and apparently have a pleasant scent. But it’s kind of a rare animal in fiction so I didn’t want to copy the book that closely even in an au based on it. A wolf is kind of a too-generic animal for her but there’s a reason it’s a wolf.) So poor Matilda and the others were invited to the castle “for study,” which led her to believe that Delilah had taken an interest in her magical abilities and was going to become her tutor but alas. :( The other six and their daemons in the study died outright and though Matilda survived the severing, Patter died shortly afterwards, so Delilah, getting impatient because of the approach of VM, considered her a failed attempt and abandoned her, not realizing that Matilda’s own magic had caused her Dust to cling to her and retained some scraps of her personality and agency so she was more than an empty husk like the other thralls.

Making some final adjustments, she tried it again on Cassandra de Rolo, and this time it worked. Cass was severed from her daemon, which survived, leaving Cass under Delilah’s control while she had her daemon imprisoned. Finally she performed the severing on herself, but her magic and its resentment at being parted from her caused her own daemon to become corrupted by the ritual. (So idk maybe it even started out as a pine marten but ended up . . . that. Vax’s daemon started out as a snake but changed into a raven when he became the Matron’s champion and Percy’s daemon was mutated by Orthax so settled daemons being forced into a new shape under extreme duress is possible in this au. I kind of like the wolf —> Hound of Ill Omen foreshadowing though.) Meanwhile VM were on their way. Percy knew that Ripley was doing some kind of nefarious Science under the Briarwoods but they didn’t know exactly what yet. Then they were suddenly attacked by an extremely messed up looking wolf, which took back Delilah’s stolen grimoire and escaped and they were all like wtfffff because they’d never seen a daemon without a person nearby before and it’s extremely unsettling. Especially one that looks like THAT. So they knew something bad was going on in Whitestone even before they got there and saw all the daemon-less people shambling around pathetically. So even though the plan to open a gate for the Whispered One was foiled (temporarily) by VM, her other experiment worked — she was able to send her daemon far away from herself before she was killed and it moved on to her clones, prolonging her life for another year. After Vox Machina finally burned through all of those as well it went off in search of a new vessel and eventually found Laudna but, unable to bond with her like a regular daemon, it forced its way in. So her Hound of Ill Omen is Delilah’s old daemon, gnawing at her ribs, resentful of Delilah for separating them but resentful of her for not being Delilah, whispering promises of power if she will just accept it as her own.

#continuing from a discord discussion and putting it here so it's easier to find

[wellhalesbells]

Can you tell us about How to Breathe 101?

Ah yes, the one I am actively, actually most trying to finish (before I got distracted by this week's fullmoonficlet prompt anyway). It's one of my favorite genres in fiction and in this specific fandom it's: Stiles fell first, but Derek fell harder.

It was originally just going to be a short fic about Derek learning to breathe in harmony with his pack. Since panic attacks are so woven into TW via Stiles, I kind of wanted to explore Derek having these kind of slow motion ones. Not necessarily because he wants to be alone but because that's what he knows, that's what he's gotten comfortable with, and holy shit there are so many people depending on him now, relying on him, and actually wanting to be in his space and how does he both accept that and allow himself to rely on that when he knows how transitory everything is?

I really, REALLY love when people miss their window - or, more accurately, perceive themselves to've missed their window and are now pining for someone they know once loved them. Inject that shit directly into my VEINS, please!

The plan was to have a much shorter progression but then I added in a more mage-y magic Stiles, with his power connected to growth and potential and blossoming (because no one can accuse me of being subtle LOL), and gave him an OC love interest so there was a distraction from any possible festering - I really didn't want Stiles to have even a hint of bitterness and that was a good way to be like: don't focus on the pit of despair, have casual sex! And also a good way to get across that Derek's love isn't possessive but rather focused around Stiles' happiness, which is always a big one for me (which is not to say I don't love jealous/possessive stuff, I DO, but sometimes that's just not what ya want). Then I set Stiles' magical edification in Ireland and got distracted with the wind over the bluffs and the sea crumbling cliffs and all that wild, fresh air there is to breathe and that's where I am at the moment.

Snippet:

Stiles takes him up over the bluff, fingers trailing currents as they walk, and they can see the cottage in the distance.  A dilapidated daffodil yellow and foggy gray (once white) thing that looks uninhabited.  It’s hilly terrain but clear as far as the eye can see.  The grass is buffeted up against their calves by the relentless wind and they can hear the ocean even if they can’t see it from where they are. “It’s beautiful,” Derek says. Stiles breathes deep.  “Magic, right?”  He throws a wink over his shoulder before holding out his hands, palm parallel to the ground on either side of him, and closes his eyes.  The long blades of grass shift and swirl and shoot up and up and up, getting larger and wider and greener as they grow, striving to tickle Stiles’ fingers as they pass his knees and hips.  They keep going until Derek has to tilt his head back and the strands twist at the apex above their heads and Derek can’t help the startled sound he makes as the tunnel forms, extending further with every step Stiles takes. The grass doesn’t stay static either, it’s still rustling, braiding itself together, sliding into every empty place, forming an arch above them.  The day darkens around them as they’re sealed off from above. Derek stares, first at the living thing surrounding them, and then at the man in front of him. “I had no idea you were capable of this.” “Neither did I.”  Stiles half-laughs.  “I don’t think Maire or Ciaran did either.  Honestly, I think it freaks them both out a little so, y’know, discretion?  I’ve been trying to do that whole thing.  Cutting back on it a little, pretending everything’s a bit harder, doing a little less than I’m actually capable of.  Not that—I mean, they’re supportive and all but I get the feeling this is new and therefore different for them.”  He drops his hands and the grass unbraids, slithering, sinking back down into the earth as though it was never anything else.  He’s not looking at Derek.  “It’s nice not to have to hedge.” He waits a beat then waggles his eyebrows over the pun and Derek rolls his eyes.

Wip list is here!

#!ask #wips #my writing #thanks so much for the interest! #maybe i will one day finish this fic??? MAYBE???? #sterek #teen wolf

[hcneygemini]

sentence starters from my wip fics, pt. I

please do not add to this list nor repost the list as your own. tw: mentions of murder + attempted murder.

I just fell for that, didn’t I?

Is it because you like me so much?

I bet you regret this now.

Your heart’s pounding.

You’re too empty headed to know much of anything.

Oh, come on! I know something about seduction.

I know you’ve never heard of it, but some people have friends.

I don’t wanna hang out with the dork gang, though. Just you.

Yeah, well I’m an asshole, so we’re even.

I couldn’t sleep because you weren’t there.

Is that your way of flirting?

You’ve never gone to these lengths before.

You can be a real smart ass sometimes, you know?

I wanna see a different side of you today.

You made one mistake though—you didn't disarm me.

Kiss me.

You’re definitely not boring.

What are you thinking about?

We have to learn to confront it at some point.

Can you wait to kill me until I finish breakfast?

What’s the matter? Jealous?

I’ve never been more serious in my life.

[ Name ] won’t shut up about you.

Stop pretending to be mad.

It’s part of my evil plan.

I’m not repeating anything [ name ] told me in confidence.

You shouldn’t be so vulgar.

We both know we’re not a couple.

You can’t keep just walking away.

Stop being corny, I’m tired.

You look peaceful when you sleep.

I don’t think you think I’m serious. But I’m always serious!

I didn’t go looking for this.

I don’t like trusting people.

Please keep your feet off of my desk.

Wow, you’re so stoic and unafraid of threats!

How much of anything was real?

Was this the truth you wanted?

Past me had shitty taste.

You're so much more than that.

So, we were lied to.

This is really pathetic, you know.

Why should I go anywhere with you?

I have some ideas, but you have to trust me.

I see your cruelty's still intact.

Shit, you're really pale.

Would you stop trying to leech off of the traumatized children?

I don't have time to detail the extent of my work to you.

Why can’t you just talk to me like a normal person?

Yeah, well, I can deal with my shit myself.

Isn’t everyone so much happier without me around, stirring the pot?

I’m tired. Can your love confession wait until tomorrow?

No good deeds go unpunished, or whatever.

I got two people killed… er, technically maybe three.

Tell me another one of your preachy, boring life lessons!

Careful, I can hear the cogs turning in your head from here.

No one here is ‘okay.’

You didn’t have to come, you know.

We both know what I did.

Don’t give me some shit about ‘finding yourself’ and ‘healing.'

Hey, don’t think of it as bribing! Think of it as… a reward for putting my best foot forward.

Jeez, am I the only topic of the rumor mill?

You fell asleep on me.

I guess movie night is a good sedative.

I think I did something. Something bad.

Why do you have to make a joke out of everything?

You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.

Why were you so out of it last night?

You know, they’re not so bad if you would just get to know them.

Hey, where the fuck have you been?

Why would I forgive someone who tried to kill me?

Well, shit happens!

You’re either plotting to kill me in my sleep or you’re in love with me.

Are you asking me to stargaze with you?

Life doesn’t need to have some big meaning, I guess. I mean, I’m happy right now.

I come with tidings!

It's a cake that says, 'Sorry for trying to have you murdered!'

I can’t trust your big mouth.

What do you do when you disappear during the day?

I’ve never exactly been in a relationship.

At least take me out before talking about commitment.

Why do you spend time with me?

I’m learning more about you. The real you. And I… like [ them / her / him ].

Wow, you’re lame as shit.

Wait, so you’re seducing me by accident?

You two really like each other, huh?

Wow, your voice is so sexy in the morning.

#rp meme #roleplay meme #sentence starters #inbox meme #rp prompts #violence mention tw #murder mention tw

[ganyuslily]

ALL THE THINGS I COULD’VE BECOME (TELL MY MOM I’M SORRY).

he loves her in a way only a child can love their mother and yet, at the same time, he hates her in the exact same manner.

ei&scaramouche + scara&puppet!reader. familial.

angst. i guess…. also im clinging onto the headcanon that scara had long hair before he cut it off in a fit of rage

this is very chaotic. and messy. and in general kinda weird. anyways i think scara with yet another puppet!sibling that is also imperfect yet tries to stay at raidens side with everything they have is a sad concept

scaramouche is nothing else but destruction.

he wants to rip apart raiden ei’s chest, dig his bloodied hands into it and see for himself if she’s empty on the inside the same way he is. if the space between the ribs where the heart should be is an empty void.

comfort. it would bring him comfort.

because no matter how much scaramouche says he despises his god, his creator, his mother — it is simply not true. he wants to see, he needs to know, that fundamentally, they’re both the same. that they’re both empty on the inside, with no heart in the place where it should be. that if you would hit their chests, all you could hear would be an empty sound.

“you see, i love my mother as much as i hate her.”

(he thinks he might love her as much as he loves himself — which is almost nothing. how can he love someone if he cannot even love himself? oh, but at the same time he does love her, more than life. more than death. more than anything in the world. he loves her in a way only a child can love their mother and yet, at the same time, he hates her in the exact same manner.)

“i cannot forgive her, and yet i crave for her to tell me she’s proud of me. silly, isn’t it?”

he wants her to braid his hair and sing him to sleep just one more time. one more time, and then they can go back pretending they never even met. that she is not his mother and he is not her son. just one more time.

his mother has braided his hair one time in his whole life; when he was created. he kept the braid until it fell apart. after it did, he cut it off — no one but his mother should be able to braid it ever again.

you once made a grave mistake of comparing him to her — visually, they are oh so similar. you never heard him scream at you the way he did that night. he was screaming at you and yet you knew he was just screaming at her. you know he’s jealous — in comparison to him, you are not similar to your creator in the slightest.

i am not like my mother, he’d scream. i might’ve been created in the image of her, my flesh her flesh and her bone my bone, but i am not like my mother. i am not her. i’ve never been and never will be.

“don’t tell her any of that, though. she doesn’t deserve to know. if you do, i will find you,” he says after a long silence. you just nod with an emotionless face.

(sometimes, he wonders if you feel anything at all. perhaps, raiden ei forgot to make you able to experience that. or perhaps, it was just another flaw that made you imperfect in her eyes. she’s cruel, your creator and his mother.)

you know he wants you to tell her that and he knows. he also knows that raiden ei will know all of this before the next sunrise — for you are her creation too and you have always stayed at her side, even after being discarded.

he feels sorry. for who? he doesn’t know. perhaps, for no one. perhaps, for the both of you.

(perhaps, deep in his heart, a part of him feels sorry for his mother too.)

hi. missed me yet? please remember to reblog and leave feedback! it helps me a lot and also makes it easier for me to improve my writing :] i hope you have a wonderful day/night!

#genshin impact angst #genshin impact x reader #raiden ei angst #scaramouche angst #scaramouche x reader #raiden ei genshin impact #scaramouche genshin impact #man how do i tag this #i give up #ganyuslily.writes