#okay we should think it through from every angle just to make SURE it's not going to be a problem again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyhotteoks · 12 days ago

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in bloom - part one (j.yh + j.wy); section two

summary: one night, you and your boyfriend and your best friend are watching a movie, only you didn’t realize this movie would have a sex scene this long. or that they would notice how uncomfortable it made you. when you finally confess to them why, they take their time guiding you through every life experience you’ve always felt too late for, one kiss at a time. part one; section one | part one; section two | part two masterlist

note: this was inspired by my 🪻 anon who sent a suggestion about a yunwoo fic centered on loss of virginity. what was supposed to be an ask reply became a full fic. see under the cut for more detailed notes and disclaimers. part two coming soon.

warnings: virginity, late bloomer reader (she’s 26), demisexual!reader, complex relationships to sex, sexuality, and pleasure. fluff, angst, and emotional hurt/comfort, frank conversations about sexual experiences and norms including body hair and preferences, references to disassociation during sex but in the past, brief mention/question about sexual trauma (there is none), bisexual!wooyoung, bicurious!yunho, nervous / inexperienced reader, shy reader, embarrassed reader, slow and i mean SLOW sexual acts, lots of consent, kissing galore, nipple play, body worship, masturbation (f), fingering, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), hand jobs, yunwoo teaching how to and reader learning for basically ever sex act….. lots of soft pet names y'all know me, an extremely earned 'good girl'

pairings: boyfriend!yunho x best friend!wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: smut and more smut

word count: 18.9k

note! this part was too long for tumblr! be sure you read section one first! linked here

You and Yunho both watch him carefully as he guides your hand down between your thighs, his eyes darting back up to yours every few moments to be sure he isn’t crossing a boundary.

“I think you should touch yourself,” Wooyoung prompts softly, pressing your hand lower so that it settles over your sex, “Yunho’s right, you should teach us what you like,”

You swallow nervously, “How do I teach you?”

“Just let us watch,” Wooyoung murmurs, “pretend we’re not here if it helps, just… show us what your body likes,”

The tension is so thick you feel like you could cut it, but somehow their idea seems right. It makes sense, and more than that, it feels safe.

You glance between them, wetting your lips and nodding, “Yeah, yeah, okay,”

Yunho sucks in a breath but stays still.

“Can we,” You adjust in the bed, “can you not touch me for this? Can you just watch?”

Wooyoung’s hand slips off your thigh, “Yeah, we can do that.”

You push away from Yunho and he slides back to give you some room, still lying by your side but this time just propped up on his hand and watching.

With a sigh you settle onto your back in the familiar position you’ve always touched yourself in, flat to the mattress, legs spread open, knees slightly bent as you angle your hips up.

“Alright,” You let out a nervous breath, “I guess… I’ll just, yeah, I’ll just do this,”

With familiar movements, you reach between your legs with your left hand and settle the pads of your fingers over your clit, warm and firm under your touch from arousal.

Their eyes are trained on you, and you swallow again, nervous.

“Baby,” Yunho says softly, “close your eyes.”

You let them flutter shut.

“It’s just you in bed,” He murmurs, “let your mind go to wherever it normally does. Just feel.”

It takes you a moment, awareness thrumming through you as you hear their slow breathing, every shift in the sheets, but you focus. You clear your mind.

Alone, relaxing in bed.

You think of the last thing that turned you on, the book you were reading that tugged at the tight coil inside you, the faceless male lead who’s romantic tenderness to the heroine got you feeling indescribably restless.

You sink into the mattress, you let it all fade.

With a breath, you start to touch. Slow circles of your fingers over your clit, dipping down to gather more wetness from your dripping core, your free hand sliding down over your body from rib to hip.

Warmth pools in your belly, and you let out a soft breath, head relaxing to the side as you keep your eyes closed.

You slide your hand up and over your abdomen again, brushing against your thighs, and the faceless figure in your mind starts to shift.

You feel the ghost of Yunho’s hand on your skin, of Wooyoung’s kiss.

Staggered images filter through, little flashes in your mind’s eye as you start to roll your fingers a little faster.

Yunho’s full lips, parted and pink.

Wooyoung’s eyes, shaggy hair falling across his forehead.

Your mouth makes a soft pop as your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth, a gentle sound on your lips, and more floods through your mind.

Long fingers, veined forearms, taut abdomens, the straight cut of Wooyoung’s collarbones and the broad set of Yunho’s shoulders. Arms around you, warmth enveloping you, hands searching your body with soft curiosity, lips on your skin.

You make a tight sound, adjusting your hand, your legs straining a little wider.

Your mind tumbles over the thought of them.

Wooyoung’s smile, Yunho’s laugh. Tanned skin, freckles, their light dusting of body hair. Soft pressure, gentleness, tenderness, whispered breath on your skin.

You suck in a sharp breath, back arching a little, and you slide your other hand down to find your entrance, pushing two fingers deep inside yourself.

The weight of the mattress shifts and you hear a thready inhale that’s not your own, but it doesn’t matter.

Your head starts to rock back, pressing into the mattress as hot pleasure swirls in your gut, and your fingers find the pace that always makes you come. Fast, steady circles on your clit and a matched rhythm for the two fingers that pulse in and out. Your thighs spread wider, knees drawn up, hips rolling down to chase the feeling.

“Ah,” You stammer out, “ah,”

Eyes pressed tightly together, chasing the feeling.

Images continue to flash in your mind, a mix of sensations.

You’re chasing hard now, desperate, but you can’t reach it.

Jerking into the mattress you keep working your clit, but your other hand flies up to your breast, squeezing hard, tweaking your nipple with a tug and then a steady flick, but it’s not enough.

You need it all, suddenly, sharply, and you’ve never needed that before in your life.

A pained whine pulls from your lips, frustration laced in the tone, and your heel slips against the mattress, pushing the blankets down further in the bed.

You need more.

With a desperate sound, you reach out to the side where you know Yunho is, searching for his hand.

He takes it, silently, giving you a squeeze to tell you he’s here, he’s got you, but that’s not what you need.

Eyes still closed, you drag his hand forward with a sharp tug, drawing it to your breast.

His fingers close over your soft flesh, his body shifting closer, and he gives you a tentative squeeze to mimic the sensation of your own hand.

“Yes,” You shudder, “fuck,”

He doesn’t speak, but you hear his breath change, and feel his fingers roll over your painfully hardened nipple.

With a staggered breath you reach down, but instead of touching yourself, you leave your hand open, “W-Woo,” you’re begging, “please,”

“Fuck,” You hear his soft curse, his hand sliding into yours.

You direct it down, pushing it where you need it.

His fingers are thick, thicker than yours to be sure, and when he sinks two inside you the stretch is sinful.

You moan properly this time.

In tandem, they work your body while you rub your clit, your free hand flying up to grip the pillows above your head, your face pressing into the soft skin of your own bicep as you pant.

“God,” You manage, something hot curling in your gut.

Yunho makes a tight sound next to you, his fingers rolling and tugging at your nipples with precision, and Wooyoung curses again between your thighs, the sound of his fingers pulsing in and out of your dripping cunt a filthy wet mess.

It hits you without warning this time. Normally you work yourself up to a quiet, rolling pleasure that leaves you feeling comfortably satisfied, but this orgasm is sudden and intense. A crackle of heat sparks from your clit to your nipples, zinging through every part of you, and it’s like a pressure valve releasing.

Your legs snap shut around your hand and Wooyoung’s, body wrenching up in arched ecstasy, and you cry out against your own skin, body shuddering in fits and starts.

It takes a second for your body to come back online, but you feel it when Wooyoung’s fingers slowly slip out of you, and when Yunho’s hands change from stimulating to soothing.

Still trembling, chest rapidly rising and falling with your shallow breathing, your body finally slackens and your eyes start to open.

They’re quiet, afraid of unsettling the moment, and then the realization hits you.

No one in the world has ever watched you come before, no one’s ever seen you fall apart, but what’s more is that no one has ever been a part of the reason you did before. It’s more intimate than being naked, and more meaningful than any lost virginity.

Emotion builds up in your chest, throat thick with it, and you take an unsteady inhale.

Yunho’s hand on your chest stills.

You reach for him, pulling his arm, “Please,”

He’s unsure, you can feel that in the way he wraps his arms around you, but then you grab onto his shirt like a lifeline and his hand cups the back of your head protectively, tenderly. Wooyoung slides up to your other side, his hand ginger on your bare hip as he watches you recover.

“Are you here?” Yunho asks, his voice a whisper.

You nod, steadying your breathing.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and Wooyoung’s hand tightens on your waist.

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung finally asks, nervous energy in his tone.

You nod again, getting the emotional tidal wave under control, “Just hold me,” you manage, “please,”

“Right here,” Yunho’s hand brushes over your hair, “Woo,”

There’s a shift behind you, and then his body joins you, the three of you pressed tightly together.

Yunho rocks you slowly, lips against your forehead as he murmurs. Your best friend rubs soft circles into your skin, kissing your shoulder slowly, chastely.

You don’t need either of them to say it, you know with perfect clarity that they love you.

Time stretches with them tucked around your bare body, and eventually, your breathing slows and your sudden rush of emotion fades into the background.

You shift back, looking up at Yunho and to the side where Wooyoung leans over, “Hey,” you manage.

“Hey,” Yunho’s fingers brush over your cheek.

“You okay, babe?” Wooyoung asks gently.

You nod, exhaling slowly, “That was a lot for me,”

Wooyoung looks nervous, his expression pinched with concern.

You reach for him, smoothing his worried brow, “It was a lot because it was new,” you explain softly, “I’ve never done that in front of anyone.”

He softens, “How was it?”

“Incredible,” You whisper, “I’ve never… it was so intense,”

Wooyoung nods, kissing your palm, “It looked intense,”

“I fantasized,” You confess with a small smile.

Yunho returns your smile, but there’s a question in his expression, “About?”

“You,” Your smile stretches into a grin, “both of you,”

“Is that new too?” Yunho’s eyes flick over your face.

“I’ve never done that either,” You confess softly, “I’ve never thought about a real person, not like I did,”

“But you thought about us?” Wooyoung asks, his voice hesitant.

“Yeah,” It feels like a victory, and maybe they don’t understand it fully, but they’re smiling with you, “I did,”

“Come here,” Yunho cups your face, pulling you up into a kiss, sighing against your lips as he tenderly holds you.

Sensation stirs in your body again, the thrill of it lighting up your stomach, and you grip his shoulder, “Mm,” you nod, deepening in the kiss, “yes,”

Yunho pulls away, his breath a little ragged, “Wait, wait,”

“W-what is it?” You breathe.

“Are you,” He breathes, shaking his head, “should we-,”

Wooyoung laughs gently, “Do you want more, is what he’s trying to ask”

Yunho blushes, pink darkening in his cheeks.

“Oh,” Wooyoung nudges him, helping break the tension, “you are down so bad for her,”

“Shut up,” Yunho rolls his eyes, but you watch as his ears darken too, a scarlet warmth that tells you everything you need to know.

You interrupt them though, finding their hands and drawing them closer, “Yes, yes I want more.”

Yunho’s head snaps up, “You do,”

“I just needed a minute,” You confess, “but I’m not ready to stop,”

“That’s my girl,” Wooyoung surges up, kissing you hard and fast, and then slides down the bed again.

“Woo, what are you,-”

His fingers slip between your knees, pressing them apart until you’re following his touch and falling open again, “Do you still want slow?”

You nod, your breath fully caught in your throat.

“Okay,” He drops to his stomach again between your spread thighs, kissing the tender skin there just once before looking up at you, “If you want me to stop, say anything. Push me, tug my hair, however you need to tell me, tell me. I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” You whisper.

“Yunho,” Wooyoung directs, “hold her for me, if she gets too quiet, let me know,”

“Got it,” Yunho smiles, blinking at the sudden interaction. You gather that he’s not used to being told what to do by anyone in the bedroom, but when it comes to your comfort, he just nods.

“I’m gonna lift you up a bit,” Wooyoung explains, sliding his hands under your splayed thighs, “just get comfortable, okay? Just like that,”

Your legs settle over his shoulders.

He kisses your cunt and your head falls back with a gasp.

Yunho watches your face, curling close to your body, but all he sees is pleasure.

Wooyoung’s mouth is slow and warm, his lips soft against your center, his tongue firm as he starts to trace your skin. Your hand shoots out instinctively to grab the sheets, to ground yourself, but you find Yunho’s palm instead and he laces your fingers together, giving you a squeeze.

You’re wet, still dripping from your first orgasm, but you can hear it when he inhales, the sound almost pornographic despite the tenderness of his touch.

A soft sound pulls from your lips, your hips jerking, and when Wooyoung groans into your heat, the vibrations roll through you.

He presses into you slowly, working you open with every deliberate stroke of his tongue. There’s nothing frantic in the way he moves, only focus. Your hips twitch, a gentle jerk you can’t fight and he hums low into your skin, a ripple spreading out beneath your navel.

Your breathing changes first, growing shallow, tight, your hand growing more solid in Yunho’s group as the feeling starts to build and crest.

Wooyoung’s tongue circles your clit in patient, repeating spirals, a mimic of the way you rubbed yourself and something inside you starts to gather. It’s not like your orgasm before, the way it snapped suddenly with urgent pressure, this pleasure is quieter, gentler. It builds around you like a rising warm bath, carrying you into its sensations with ease.

Your thighs twitch again, feet flexing against the sheets, and you sigh.

Yunho nuzzles your temple, “Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t rush it,”

Wooyoung’s mouth lifts, looking up to check you, “I got you, I promise,”

You exhale shakily, wetting your lips and nodding, and as Wooyoung sinks back down your hips rise to meet his mouth. He shifts with you, one hand pressing up under your thigh to hold you closer to his eager mouth, his other hand reaching around and settling over your lower belly.

This pleasure is new, not because it’s wholly unfamiliar, but because for the first time you’re able to sink into the feeling of someone’s hands on your skin. Someone’s body working to please yours, and you want it, you want to live in it.

Wooyoung gently sucks at your clit, sighing a breath of warm air against your slick skin, and your body warms. A tingling shifting down your fingertips, curling in your toes. A breathy sound catches in your throat.

“Hmm,” Yunho kisses your hair, “you’re doing so well,”

You sigh, a pleasured sound, your fingers pressing into his hand, your head starting to dig back into the mattress.

You’re close now, so close it almost scares you. Pleasure starts to catch again, full and steady, and Wooyoung pushes down more firmly with his mouth, his tongue thrusting into you, lapping up you, flicking steadily against your aching bud.

It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, but in a way that’s starting to make you feel alive.

You gasp, back arching off the mattress, and your free hand flutters like it doesn’t have a place to land.

“There she is,” Yunho says, his voice quiet and warm.

Slow and deep, the rush of pleasure that hits you this time is an undulating wave rocking through every nerve in your body. You fall into it, open to it, trembling against Wooyoung’s mouth as you moan and twitch.

Your voice shifts, not a cry like last time. It’s a long, low release, a bloom.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths as you come down, your body easing back into Yunho’s waiting arms. His hand strokes up and down your side, steady and warm, the lightest pressure of his fingertips along your skin.

Slowly, Wooyoung lifts his head, his lips parted and face flushed, chin slick with your arousal.

You sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling, “That,” you manage, your voice a bit hoarse, “felt so good,”

Wooyoung breathes out a shaky laugh, resting his forehead on your thigh, grounding himself there like he needs this contact just as much as you do.

Your pulse is still fluttering under your skin, and when you look down at him, he’s watching you with such an unguarded affection it tugs at a deep, quiet longing long dormant in your chest.

Reaching out, you brush your fingers through his damp hair, and Wooyoung leans his cheek into your palm without hesitation, his own eyes softly closing as he feels your warmth.

He cups your hand against his face, turning to kiss your palm, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” You promise him, “I really am,”

Wooyoung kisses your thigh once more, and then slides up your body to rest beside you, face level with yours. You smile as he shifts into your space, and you realize you’ve always been safe with him, comfortable with the way his skin feels on yours, his touch, always so freely given without expectation of anything in return.

It’s only natural you ended up here.

Wooyoung’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, “I’ve never seen you like that,” He comments softly.

“Like what?”

“So relaxed,” He smiles a little, “free,”

You soften, your body tucked into Yunho’s behind you.

Wooyoung smiles, just a little, “I love you,” he says it so simply, “you already know I do, but, God, I do love you,”

Emotion swells behind your ribs again, “I love you too,”

Wooyoung’s eyes flick up over your shoulder, but whatever he finds in Yunho’s expression must soothe his anxiety because he smiles, and dips to your mouth. He kisses you this time with affection, you feel it in the slow pull of his mouth, the way his hand slides up your arm before cupping your cheek.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs as he leans back.

A little laugh escapes you, “You keep saying that,”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung grins.

Yunho’s body curls closer around you, his hand resting on your bare hip, “He’s right,”

Turning your head to find his eyes, something in your chest tugs loose at the sight of him.

Utter affection, the closest thing you’ve ever seen to devotion, heavy in his soft eyes. When you reach for him, he comes willingly, responding to your movements with his own like a dance he knows the steps to by heart.

Your lips meet, a catch of breath in his throat as he holds you close.

This time, you kiss him, your fingers on the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as your mouths part, tongues connecting between breaths.

“Jagi,” He sighs.

Your lips part so you can look up at him, “Yunho?”

“Yes?” His voice is quiet, looking at you like he can read your every thought.

“Thank you,” You whisper.

His brows lift, expression clearing, “For what?”

“For being patient with me,” Your eyes flick down so you can get the rest of the words out, “for waiting for me, not pushing me. I didn’t know how much I needed that,”

His warm lips connect to your forehead, “You’re worth waiting for,” he murmurs, fingers stroking up and down your spine, “sweetheart, you’re more precious to me than I ever knew someone could be,”

Your eyes close as you let his words sink in, breathing quietly together, and you nod just a little, hopeful that he understands that you mean it too.

He leans back to see you after a beat, “I just want you to feel good, and feel safe,”

“I did,” You assure him, “I still do, which is a miracle,”

Wooyoung kisses your shoulder and nods, “It just means it feels right, babe,”

For a moment, his lips linger at your shoulder while Yunho’s hand cups your waist, his thumb stroking a soothing line into your skin.

The room is quiet again, another breath to let you get your bearings in this new territory, to understand the shape of the intimacy building between you. Your eyes are closed as you breathe in and out, body languid after your back to back orgasms, and you let your mind drift.

After a moment though, your senses shift. Your mind is so attuned to touch, typically preoccupied with the ways that it makes you feel discomfort or on edge, so you’re good at spotting the hidden meanings in people’s hands.

Wooyoung’s arm wrapped around you isn’t relaxed, there’s a subtle tension in his position, and in the sound of his tight exhales, every few breaths one just a bit deeper and laden with something urgent.

Your attention shifts, and you notice the way Yunho’s fingertips aren’t brushing softly, not anymore, there’s a press to it, a restraint of something more.

You blink your eyes open, level with Yunho’s chest, but when you shift backwards, sliding your leg just right, your body slots together with Wooyoung’s and you feel an unmistakable hardness.

He sucks in a soft breath, arching a little to guide his hips away from yours, but no one moves, no one mentions it. You watch as his hand tightens on the mattress, just a little, but enough.

From your position here, you can’t see Yunho’s face, but you study his body language. There’s a faint strain in his jaw, a tense cord of muscle in his neck, his breathing shallow and carefully controlled. When you readjust in the bed, he readjusts too, something clearly aching under his skin.

Glancing down to his hips, you nearly lose your breath when you see that he’s hard too, impossible to conceal in those sweatpants, despite his best efforts and careful positioning.

They’re both hard, and if you’re guessing, they’ve been like this for a while.

Your chest flutters, something quickening in your chest.

They wanted you.

They want you, still.

Your mind flicks through all of it, every touch, every word. Every second since you crossed the threshold of this bedroom has been about you – your comfort, your peace, your pleasure. Never once did they try to turn your attention or coax you into something further or faster.

The contrast of that slices through you.

Every guy you tried with, every single one, picked you for what they could take from you, not what they could give.

The decision is made in your mind before you even verbalize it to yourself, and you find yourself reaching, your hand settling on Yunho’s abdomen, “Yunho?”

He twitches at your touch, you feel his muscles quirk under your fingertips, but he answers you with his softest voice, “Yes?”

Your hand drifts a little lower, “You’re hard,”

His hips turn, trying to conceal that fact, and he leans back to see your expression, “Sorry,” he clears his throat, a flash of embarrassment moving across his face, “yeah,”

“Don’t apologize,” You smile a little, hand sliding back up to a safer spot on his chest, “you’re fine,”

Wooyoung snorts a little breath of air, “I’m pretty sure I’ve been hard since you kissed me,” he admits with a crooked grin.

You nudge him with your elbow, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Yunho brushes his hand against your jaw, “Baby, this wasn’t about us,”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung nods, “we’re fine, we’re more than fine.”

You study his eyes a moment, and you know he’s being truthful. You know if you said this was over then this would end right here.

You move then, extricating yourself from their arms and sliding up in the bed, the sheet slipping off you until your skin is bared again to them in the soft light. Their eyes track your movements, unsure why you needed to make space, but they wait, they watch.

“You’re both hard,” You say it funny by mistake, like you’re trying to get your facts straight.

Yunho’s eyes flick to Wooyoung, then back to you, “Yes,”

“You both want me?”

“Yes,” Their voices blend together, answering you without hesitation.

“So then,” Your teeth catch on your lip, “let me try and make you feel good too,”

Wooyoung’s brows lift high in surprise and he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do anything for us,”

Yunho’s nodding, opening his mouth to say more, but you get there first.

“Stop,” You shake your head, “I’m okay, I feel good,”

His face softens, but you still see his hesitation.

“This is a part of sex too, isn’t it?” You look to Yunho, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but you said you’d teach me.”

Yunho’s eyes darken with something more, a tense pulse in his jaw, but he nods.

“So, teach me,” You breathe, a smile on your lips.

The silence hangs, none of you breathing, and you look back and forth between them.

“Jesus,” Wooyoung finally cuts the tension, running a hand over his face, “you’re perfect,”

Yunho shifts in the bed, sitting up to meet your eyes, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” You nod, “I want to try,”

“Try what exactly?” Yunho’s hand against the bedding flexes, trying to keep his obvious need under control.

“Um,” You feel the heat rise again in your cheeks, and then you look too Wooyoung, “your mouth felt… would my mouth feel that good for you?”

Wooyoung groans, falling into the mattress face first, but he nods, “You’re going to kill me,”

“So, that’s a yes?” You grin.

“That’s a big fucking yes,” Wooyoung exhales, pushing himself up to a seat with you both, “if you’re comfortable, we can do that.”

“I want to do that,” You say, and you mean it.

Yunho takes a deep breath and then shifts off the bed, “Alright,” he swallows tightly, and as he stands you see the impressive tent in his sweatpants, “jagi, is it alright if we get undressed?”

“Yes,” You nod, a little too eager and he smiles at you, amused.

Wooyoung slides off the bed too, and you watch as they start to peel off layers.

Yunho starts to talk, but your eyes are locked on the way that his body looks when he shucks off his shirt, the way his fingers move when he pulls at the tie of his sweats. His lean, corded muscle tensing and relaxing as he moves.

“If you start to get uncomfortable,” Yunho says, and your eyes fly up to his, “tell us, I don’t care what we’re doing or what we’re saying to you,”

Wooyoung nods emphatically.

“I don’t care if Woo says he’ll die if you stop,” Yunho says, and it’s funny, but his voice is firm and clear, “if you need to stop, we fucking stop.”

“I got it,” You smile, “stop means stop.”

You take a breath, and realize they’re both almost stark naked in front of you. You take them in all at once, pupils dilating and head going fuzzy.

They’re both lean, the bodies of men who are endlessly active – running, biking, dancing, all movement and cardio and stamina, but every line of their muscles are well defined. Their cocks visibly strain against the cotton of their boxer briefs, and you feel a curl of heat in your belly just like before.

Wooyoung shoots a look at Yunho and rolls his eyes, “She’s okay,” he says as he reaches out a hand to you, “I’ll take very good care of your girl, Yunho-yah.” The teasing emphasis on Yunho’s name pulls a smile from your lips.

Yunho’s jaw tightens, but he exhales through his nose and nods, “I know,”

Taking Wooyoung’s hand, he pulls you forwards, “Come here, babe,”

You end up standing, and you let him guide you as he shifts your positions, sitting down onto the edge of the bed.

“Here?” You check, nodding, moving to get on your knees.

Yunho’s hand on your lower back stills you, and he reaches past both of you to grab one of the thick throw pillows, sliding it onto the floor between Wooyoung’s feet, “Don’t hurt your knees, baby,”

“Right,”

Slowly, you drop down, situating yourself with your hands on Wooyoung’s thighs.

It’s still for a moment, no one moving, but then Wooyoung drops back onto his elbows and lets his legs open wider, “Doing okay?”

“Mhm,” Your eyes are glued to his clothed cock.

Yunho’s hand brushes over the back of your head as he steps from one side of you and Wooyoung to the other, and then he crouches behind you at your side, one of his heavy, warm palms settling on your lower back.

“Okay,” You breathe.

Wooyoung’s eyes look hot, need unapologetic in his gaze, and as you reach for his waistband his hands tighten in the blankets under him.

“So,” You manage, hooking your fingers under his underwear, “I’ve never done this before, obviously,”

“Doing great so far,” Wooyoung exhales.

“This seems like a clear first step to sucking your cock, Woo,” The words roll off your tongue, an easy jab with your best friend.

Yunho laughs at your side, his lips pressing against your temple, “Quick study, baby,”

Wooyoung’s smiling too, but it fades into a completely new expression on his face when you pull his boxers down completely.

Your eyes flick over his cock immediately. He’s rock hard, cock flushed pink and leaking, a string of precum connected from the tip of his velvet head to his belly. It’s thick, that’s the first thing you think, and perfectly proportional for him.

“Jesus, fuck,” Wooyoung breathes, “you look so hot right now, babe,”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans.

Yunho gives you a moment, and then his hand flexes on your back, “Start slow,” he urges you softly, “touch his thighs,”

You let your hands slide over his skin, over the dark loops of his thigh tattoo, strong quads rippled under your palms. He’s warm, soft, and his cock twitches the closer you get to his hips.

You catalogue that quietly.

“Just like that,” Yunho nods, “we like being teased too,”

Wooyoung swallows.

“It feels good?” You check with him, your nails gently brushing over his inner thighs, a mirror of how Yunho touched you earlier.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Yeah,”

“You can press,” Yunho offers, “here,”

You look down, looking at the place he gestures to on his own thigh.

Your fingers travel there, on the tender skin of his inner thigh, close to the heavy weight of Wooyoung’s balls. You hear his breathing change, and when you press he groans.

“Kisses feel good there too,” Yunho murmurs, his voice low and tight as if you were touching him too, “anywhere close that’s not his cock,”

You nod, attentive, sliding closer to him between his splayed knees, and despite the curling nervousness in your gut you press a soft, featherlight kiss to his thigh.

“Ah,” Wooyoung hisses, hands tightening.

“There,” Yunho encourages, “that’s good,”

You kiss again, a little firmer this time, exploring him more, inching closer to his hips. With a flash of heat in your own chest, your tongue licks a slow stripe from the soft juncture of his groin back up to the straining tendon at the base of his cock.

Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath and jerks, “Oh, fuck,” he pants, “what the fuck,”

“Bad?” You look up at him.

Yunho’s hand tightens on your back and Wooyoung shakes his head.

Wooyoung’s cock twitches by your cheek, and you smile, “This isn’t so hard,”

Wooyoung bites his lip, a laugh caught in his throat, “Yeah, well,” he says, “my cock is,”

You roll your eyes up at him.

“Baby,” Yunho shifts, positioned a little closer to your side, “do it again,”

You nod and repeat the hot line of your tongue.

“Good,” Yunho sounds breathy, and out of the corner of your eye you see his hand rest over his own cock, curling around the thick length through the fabric of his boxers, “same thing, but here,”

Yunho reaches around with his free hand and without touching Wooyoung’s cock, he draws a line from base to tip. His hand settles on Wooyoung’s thigh, and you hear Wooyoung groan.

You lean in, and with hesitant pressure, you lick a line up Wooyoung’s cock from base to tip just like he showed you.

Wooyoung pants, “You can, uh,” he gathers himself, “press more,”

Your eyes flick up at him, but you lean in to try again.

Wooyoung’s cock jerks away from the sensation though and you stop in the middle, a hesitant look in your eyes.

Yunho’s hand on your back gently slides up, cupping the back of your head with the most gentle pressure, and then uses his free hand to press flat to the front of Wooyoung’s cock, bracing it, “Again,” he encourages softly, “the pressure feels good, you’re not hurting him.”

This time, you press, really press, with the firm muscle of your tongue. The wall of Yunho’s hand gives Wooyoung’s cock room to shift away, and for the first time, you hear your best friend moan.

“Oh, Jesus,” Wooyoung sinks into the mattress, flat on his back now.

You repeat the motion, and again, and again.

“Focus here,” Yunho’s fingers curl around your best friend’s cock, softly brushing against the seam at the head of his cock, a heart shaped curve of velvety smooth skin.

You bring your tongue up, and focus your attention there. Kitten licks, heavy presses, doubling down on anything that makes Wooyoung pant, moan, grip the sheets.

“Still good?” Yunho’s fingers brush over your hair.

You almost forgot. For a very real moment, none of the fear existed, none of the nervousness.

“I’m great,” You smile, kissing the head of Wooyoung’s cock.

“Fuck, fuck,” Wooyoung’s hips jerk.

“Alright,” Yunho kisses your temple, “I think we can stop torturing him,”

“Please,” Wooyoung twitches, his body flushed pink with need.

“Come here,” Yunho presses between your shoulders to get you higher up on your knees, and then he stands, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Wooyoung so he can get a better vantage point.

“Baby,” Wooyoung makes a heady whine, and something low swoops in your belly, “please, if you’re good, if you, please, touch me,”

Yunho looks pleased, Wooyoung looks wrecked, and you’re pretty sure the rest of this is self explanatory.

Bracing yourself with one hand on his hip and the other at the base of his cock, you sink down over him, enveloping his cock in the wet heat of your mouth.

Wooyoung moans, deep from his chest as you sink down as far as you can go.

“Easy,” Yunho breathes, his hands gathering up your hair to move it out of your way, “easy, baby, you don’t have to take him all the way,”

You adjust, shifting focus to his cockhead.

“That’s right,” Yunho murmurs, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes your belly tighten.

This part feels instinctive, but you’re still a little fumbling. Getting the right amount of wetness, tightness to your mouth, you try to listen to his sounds as you pass your lips up and down.

“Ah, fuck,” Wooyoung jerks, a little, “use your tongue, press up with your – fuck, just like that,”

Your hand tightens on his thigh as you adjust.

You taste the salt on his skin, the start of his release on your tongue, but you don’t mind it. You think you’d drink him down just like this if he keeps talking to you this way.

“Suck me,” He begs, “just p-pull with your,”

You hum softly, and suck.

“I’m gonna come,” Wooyoung shakes, “I’m not gonna last,”

“Ease off,” Yunho instructs and you lift off.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung physically arches, his chest heaving, “what the f-fuck did you do that for?”

“Feels better if you wait for it,” Yunho explains, looking at you, “it’s the same for you. I’ll show you sometime,”

You don’t know what is shifting in the air between the three of you right now, but for the first time in your life the idea of a next time leaves you with the good kind of ache.

Wooyoung looks down at you both, pushing up on his elbows, “What are you?” Wooyoung says, a shocked smile on his face, “some kind of dom?”

Yunho grins, shaking his head, “No,” he keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, but he strokes the back of your head with his hand, “but she said teach her, I’m thorough,”

They’re flirting.

Something drops in your belly, and your lips part as you watch them.

“Edging is not lesson one material,” Wooyoung pants, “Jesus,”

Yunho shrugs, his hand smoothing over the back of your neck, “You don’t like that?”

“Not what I said,” Wooyoung chuckles, and then he sits up, “take those off,”

Yunho’s lips quirk into a half smile, his eyebrow raising just a tick.

You find your voice all of a sudden, “Take them off,”

Both of their heads snap to you.

“You heard her,” Wooyoung nods, taking in your expression, knowing exactly how much you want this from one look.

Yunho softens for one second, but you cut him off.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” You tell him, hand sliding up his thigh, “I want this, let me want this.”

Yunho peels off his boxers without another word.

“Shit,” Wooyoung says as Yunho settles next to him.

His cock is so much bigger than you thought it would be. It’s the only way to say it, it’s big. Heavy, long and surprisingly straight.

Yunho clears his throat, “Yeah, well,”

You burst out a laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth.

“I wouldn’t recommend laughing the first time you see your boyfriend’s cock, babe,” Wooyoung just grins.

Yunho’s cheeks go pink.

“It’s just,” You shake your head, “I see what you mean about wanting to know I’ve never done this before,”

Yunho’s lips quirk, “Yeah,”

“Jesus,” You breathe, “we’re going back to slow when we get to the sex part,”

His hand slips into yours, “Of course we are,”

You give him a squeeze, silently letting him know you’re fine, and then look up to Wooyoung.

“Good?” He checks.

You nod.

“Alright,” Wooyoung trades a look between you and then reaches out, “edging is lesson one, my ass,”

You watch as Wooyoung’s hand closes around your boyfriend’s cock, and Yunho groans, his head falling back for a second as he lets himself feel it.

“Lesson one,” Wooyoung says, drawing his hand up and down over Yunho’s shaft, “is hand jobs,”

You shift closer on your knees.

“Yunho,” Wooyoung says, pressing a hand over his chest, “relax,”

He sinks back onto his forearms, eyes trained on Wooyoung.

“He explained teasing,” Wooyoung says, meeting your eyes, “same principles apply here,”

You slide your hand up Yunho’s thigh, sliding closer to him so you can find the spots he showed you.

“Yeah,” Yunho nods, swallowing tightly.

“Watch my hand,” Wooyoung says, “watch my wrist,”

Your eyes flick down from Yunho’s face and you watch with rapt attention. His hand bobs up and down, clear pressure around all sides, his wrist loose and rolling, making sure to connect over the head of Yunho’s cock with each stroke.

You nod.

“Not this,” Wooyoung shifts to a stiffer, less natural looking grip and drags his hand up and down twice.

Yunho hisses, “Alright,”

“Got it?” Wooyoung asks you, his hand lifting off.

“I think so,” You exhale, nerves bubbling inside you as you take Yunho’s heavy length in your hand.

Yunho jerks, his teeth tightening together, jawline tense, “Fuck, baby,”

“Tell me if I do it wrong,” You say to them both, “I want it to be good for you,”

Both of them groan.

With slow movements, you try to mimic Wooyoung’s strokes, keeping your hand tight and your wrist loose.

“Higher,” Wooyoung prompts softly and you comply, “yeah, good,”

You work him more, until he’s panting.

“Babe,” Wooyoung interrupts, “give me your hand,”

Yunho makes a tight sound when you lift your hand off him, but you follow instructions, offering Wooyoung your hand, palm up.

He spits in it, and you gasp, “Woo,”

“Trust me,” He nods, “watch,”

Yunho’s eyes are blown wide, and when you wrap your wet hand back around his cock, his hands turn into tight fists at his side.

“It’s good?” You look up at him.

All he can do is nod.

Wooyoung smiles, “Keep going, you can go a little faster,”

You work your hand, ignoring the start of an ache in your muscles.

When Yunho groans, you look up and watch as Wooyoung lays his hand across your boyfriends abs, “You have a really pretty cock, Yunho,”

“Fuck,” Yunho’s head falls back.

“And a pretty girlfriend,” He adds.

Yunho nods, “So pretty,”

Something stirs in you. You grip his cock a little tighter, working him faster.

“Christ, yes,” Yunho nods, his voice finally needy and breathy, “good girl,”

You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting at his words.

Wooyoung grins like the cat who got the cream, “You’ve got him, keep going,”

“Ah,” Yunho’s eyes roll, “mm,”

You watch as Wooyoung wraps a hand around his own cock and starts to pump it. With a little shake of his head, he silently tells you not to worry.

There’s a promise of next time in his eyes.

Whatever happens tonight, this isn’t the end, that you know for sure.

Yunho’s sharp groan brings you back.

“Want you to come,” You lean on his thigh, the words slipping out like you’ve said them a thousand times before.

Yunho moans, his eyes meeting yours, nodding.

“Please,” You manage.

Wooyoung curses softly next to you.

Yunho’s eyes widen hungrily when he sees the picture of you both, you perched on your knees between his thick thighs jerking him so perfectly, Wooyoung working himself over, too desperate to wait.

“I’m close,” Yunho’s chest starts to go dark red, sweat beading at his forehead, “please, don’t stop,”

“Not stopping,” You promise.

His hips jerk, like he wants to fuck himself into the tight ring of your hand, and Wooyoung’s hand presses him down.

Yunho groans, and then he shifts the energy, his hand wrapping around yours where you grip his cock, fingers slotting together around his length, “Yes, baby,”

You nod, both of your hands syncing in time until he takes over, desperate and needy, using your hand as a cocksleeve as he fucks himself hard and tight.

“Oh fuck,” Wooyoung groans.

“Yunho,” Your voice is close to a whine.

That undoes him.

His mouth drops, breath heavy, and he pumps himself hard until his cock erupts, hot ropes of pearl white cum shooting up onto his chest, covering your combined hands as he milks his pulsing cock.

Wooyoung groans, following him over the edge, his own release painting his abs.

It takes a moment, both of them shaking and recovering, but then Yunho reaches for you and wraps his hands around your arms, hauling you up onto his chest and kissing you breathless.

“You’re so fucking incredible,” He says between heady kisses, your bodies flush together, the mess of his release slick between you.

The bed shifts, Wooyoung falling onto his back next to you both, his hand giving your thigh a squeeze.

Gently, you slide off his chest to lie between them once again, warm bodies draped over soft, damp sheets.

Your breath is the only sound.

Yunho has your hand still wrapped in his, a grip that says he’s not letting go any time soon.

Your free hand settles in Wooyoung’s hair.

Yunho murmurs into the quiet, “Hey,” his voice low, careful, “you okay?”

You nod, a slow smile on your face, “Not okay,” you breathe, “I’m good.”

He gives your hand a squeeze.

“This is the best I’ve ever felt with anyone,” You confess.

Wooyoung kisses your arm, “You deserve that,” he says, “always.”

A warm ache settles inside you, sated, calm.

Yunho’s fingers brush along your skin, Wooyoung’s lips pepper kisses as the three of you stretch into the afterglow.

“Can we…,” You sigh, “can we just pause here for tonight?”

Wooyoung looks up at you, “Too much?”

“No,” You assure them, “but this was perfect, I want to have one perfect night,”

“Whenever you’re ready for more,” Yunho says, kissing your hair, “we’ll make sure it’s perfect too.”

“When you’re ready,” Wooyoung agrees, “whenever that happens.”

“Tomorrow,” You smile, “stay over, let’s keep going tomorrow,”

Yunho grins, “Tomorrow,” he nods.

“Hell yes, tomorrow,” Wooyoung kisses your arm.

“For now,” Yunho says, sitting up, “let’s get you cleaned up,”

Slipping from the bed, your body feels lighter. Your skin is still tingling, every nerve humming with awareness. Yunho guides you to the bathroom, Wooyoung padding softly behind you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped up in the steam of the shower with both of them.

Under the water, your eyes fall closed and you sink into the night, letting your forehead rest against the cool tiles.

They don’t push you, they don’t dig deeper. They give you a moment to breathe.

Yunho’s soft fingers work shampoo into your scalp while Wooyoung laters a loofah with your body wash. Their hands pass over you with equally tender care.

After, Yunho finds you soft clothes to wear and Wooyoung disappears into the kitchen to whip up something more substantial to eat.

You’ll talk later about what this means for your relationship, but for now the way Yunho looks at you tells you everything you need to know about where his head is.

On the couch, all three of you are wrapped up under the blankets just like a few hours ago.

This time though, their hands on you feel essential. Your head rests on Yunho’s chest, your legs stretch out over Wooyoung’s, one of their hands on each of your thighs.

Some game show plays on the television, but you’re focused on the steady, tender beat of Yunho’s heart under your cheek and the soothing stroke of Wooyoung’s hand along your skin.

You laugh, so soft, so content, “So…,” you murmur, “did we… did we just have sex? Did I dream that?”

Yunho smiles wide, his lips pressed to your hair, “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice warm and certain, “we did.”

“Wow,” You breathe.

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung nudges you.

Your hand tangles with his, “Here,” you tell them honestly, “whole.”

As the couch grows quiet again, you sink into them, into the knowledge that this wasn’t one time, one moment of impulse. It was the beginning of something new, of something honest.

Your skin on theirs, you’re right where you belong.

Ready to breathe it in again tomorrow.

#honeyhotteoks fics #honeyhotteoks updates #jeong yunho #yunho #ateez #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #yunho x reader #wooyoung x reader #yunho fic #yunho smut #wooyoung fic #wooyoung ff #yunwoo fic #yunwoo x reader #ateez fic #ateez series #ateez ff #ateez smut

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inkieun · 1 month ago

Text

Pretty Mouth 2 — Geum Seong Je x F!Reader x Na Baek-Jin

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” Seongje said, voice low . Baekjin didn’t speak at first, he just reached out brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. His eyes lingered on you, dark and certain. “He’s not wrong,” he said softly. “You’re breathtaking like this.”

cw: dark!seongje, noncon, forced oral, hair pulling, praise kink, degradation, slight breeding kink? #MDNI

link to part one here

“Maybe next time… I’ll bring Baekjin.”

That sentence has haunted me for a week.

Seongje said it like a threat as he walked out of the bathroom stall, leaving me on my knees, throat sore and spit-slick, the taste of him still clinging to my tongue. He didn’t look back.

Baekjin.

He said it slowly, like a threat wrapped in silk.

And ever since, my brain hasn’t stopped trying to fill in what that "next time" looks like.

And then—

Snap.

A pen hits my desk, hard enough to make me flinch.

“Shit, sorry,” Jun-tae says, voice low and half-laughing. “Didn’t mean to wake you from whatever dark place you just went to.”

I look up too fast, heat blooming up my neck.

He’s already grinning, sliding into the chair beside me.

His gaze flickers to my face.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

I nod. “Yeah.” A lie.

Jun-tae leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Haven’t seen you around much since last weekend. What’s up with that?”

I shrugged, keeping my gaze fixed on my notebook. “Nothing, really. Just been studying.”

A weak excuse, but I didn’t trust my mouth with anything closer to the truth.

Jun-tae let out a short laugh. “Studying?” He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that with a straight face.”

Before I could answer Jun-tae, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around my shoulders from behind.

“Baku!” I breathed, startled.

He leaned in with a grin, chin brushing my hair. “Hey, hey! you guys up for fried chicken later?”

Before I could respond, he added, “And don’t even think about saying no.”

I glanced between them—Jun-tae still watching me closely, Baku’s arms heavy and warm around me, both of them waiting. The attention made my chest tighten, the unspoken pressure curling in my stomach.

I swallowed. “Yeah… sure. Let’s go.”

Baku gave a satisfied hum, and I felt his grip linger just a second longer than it needed to before he let go.

"I'm so full," Hyun-tak groaned, leaning back with a dramatic sigh like he’d just survived a war.

Baku snorted, stealing one of the last fries off his plate. “You say that now, but I swear your hand’s been hovering over the basket this whole time.”

“Let him breathe,” Jun-tae said, stretching lazily with a grin. “Hyun-tak’s body’s 80% chicken at this point. We should be grateful he hasn’t started clucking.”

Sieun laughed, deep and low, the kind of sound that made people lean in just to hear it again.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I barely glanced at the others before unlocking it. One tap. Then the air left my lungs.

It was me. Staring back at myself through the screen—eyes wide, mascara streaked, lips parted like I’d just been wrecked. Because I had.

My chest tightened. My grip on the phone faltered.

FLASHBACK

“Seongje, what the fuck are you doing—delete that right now! You can’t—”

“Shut up.” His tone was flat. Razor-sharp. “You think you get to fuck around with that little pretty-boy, Baku, and not pay for it?”

He angled the screen toward me to see my own image staring back. Mascara smudged. Mouth open.

“You belong to me now,” he said. Calm. Cruel. “And if I see you near him again, hell, if I even hear his name in your breath, this photo goes to every inbox at your school.”

END FLASHBACK

"Hey."

I flinched.

Jun-tae was frowning at me, leaning across the table. "You good?"

“Yeah,” I said too quickly. “Yeah. Just spam.”

“Spam,” Baku joked, bumping my knee under the table. “Must’ve been your secret admirer confessing in Morse code.”

They laughed again, easy and bright.

I forced a sound that passed as a chuckle and shoved my phone deeper into my pocket.

But I could still feel it. The weight of Seongje’s voice. That picture burned behind my eyes. His threat.

And across the table, Baku smiled at me.

I smiled back.

Even though all I could hear was:

“You belong to me now.”

“Alright guys, I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, forcing a smile as I stood up.

“So soon?” Jun-tae asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah… sorry for being a buzz kill.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Hyun-tak said, stretching. “I was about to head out too. Want me to walk you home?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to drag you out of your way.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I smiled again, a tight one. “But thank you.”

“Alright... if you say so,” he said, still sounding unsure.

“Night, guys!” I called over my shoulder with a wave as I slipped out the door.

The moment it clicked shut behind me, the smile collapsed.

Gone.

I stood there on the street for a second, the cold air biting against my skin, my breathing suddenly too loud in the quiet night.

And then I started walking—fast. Hands shoved into my pockets, head down, heart hammering.

I was so deep in my thoughts—spiraling about that damn photo, about what Seongje could do with it—that I didn’t notice the car until it was already beside me.

The door swung open, and before I could react, hands grabbed me from behind.

Rough. Forceful.

I barely had time to scream.

“What the—fuck!” I yelled, kicking back, but I was already being shoved inside. The car door slammed shut before I could process what was happening.

Then I heard it.

“Oh, so noisy.”

That voice.

I froze.

Seongje.

He was in the front seat, half-turned in the passenger seat like this was all some casual meet-up. A cigarette dangled from his lips, lit with an audible click of his lighter. He took a long drag, exhaled slowly through his nose, and smirked like a snake watching a mouse twitch.

“Miss me?” he said, voice low and smug, as if this was all some inside joke I was too slow to catch.

I couldn’t speak.

My heart was beating too fast. My skin was ice.

He tapped ash out the cracked window and looked forward. “Let’s hit the bowling alley,” he said, like we were going for fucking ice cream.

The moment he said it, my stomach dropped.

I knew what that meant.

I knew exactly why he was taking me there.

I knew exactly who he was taking me to see.

“No—Seongje—please,” I stammered, panic rising in my throat. “I don’t want to—”

He turned his head just enough to glare at me from the corner of his eye, cigarette perched between his fingers. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Did I ask you something, babe?”

Silence.

Complete. Crushing. I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, right. I didn’t.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was talking about the weather—not about dragging someone off the street and shoving them into a car.

I pressed back against the door, fingers scrambling for the handle. It wouldn’t open.

Child lock.

He leaned his elbow on the seat, cocked his head, and smiled wider.

“Try it again,” he said. “Please.”

My hand froze.

I didn’t move.

“Smart girl,” he whispered.

And all I could think was:

Oh god!

When we pulled up to the bowling alley, the air in the car thickened.

"Alright, everyone. We're here," Seongje announced, mocking cheer in his voice, like we were on some twisted school trip.

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

My body locked up in the back seat, my fingers curled into fists against my thighs, praying he'd forget I was even there.

But of course, Seongje noticed.

He turned, annoyance flaring across his face like a switchblade. “Hey! Get the fuck out.”

His voice cracked like a slap.

That jolted me. I scrambled to open the door, fumbling with the handle like a scared animal. My feet barely hit the ground before his hand clamped around my wrist, tight.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

He yanked me behind him, dragging me across the lot like he was pulling a dog on a leash. His half-finished cigarette hung from his lips until he spat it out mid-step and ground it into the pavement with his heel—never even breaking stride.

The whole walk, I felt it—eyes on me. They were watching him drag me like property, like a joke.

We slipped through the front entrance and into the hallway down the stairs.

I knew where we were going. I didn’t want to go there.

But Seongje didn’t care what I wanted.

We reached a door—Baekjin’s office.

Seongje kicked it open like it belonged to him and shoved me inside.

The room was dim, smoke still hanging faint in the air. Baekjin sat behind the desk, calm and unmoved, while Dong-ha and Seong-mok stood nearby, mid-conversation.

Everything stopped the second they saw me.

Baekjin’s eyes met mine.

My knees gave out.

I hit the floor hard.

“Didn’t think I could scare her that easy,” Seongje muttered, grinning as he stepped over me, like I was trash in his way.

I looked up.

Baekjin was still staring.

His face was expressionless. Not angry. Not surprised.

Just interested.

“Out,” Baekjin said softly.

Seong-mok and Dong-ha didn’t ask questions. They left quickly, closing the door behind them without a sound.

And then it was just us.

Seongje leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like a wolf with a rabbit in it’s mouth.

Baekjin stood slowly, pushing back from the desk like he had all the time in the world. His movements were precise.

He circled around and stopped in front of me.

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

I stared at his shoes instead. Shiny leather.

I couldn’t breathe.

He knelt.

I flinched.

Then his hand came down grabbing my jaw with cold fingers and forcing my face upward.

"Eyes on me," he said quietly.

I met his eyes.

And immediately regretted it.

There was nothing human in them.

He tilted his head, studying me like a piece of meat someone had delivered as a present.

“What do we have here…” he murmured. “You look smaller than I expected.”

Seongje laughed behind him. “She’s fun when she’s scared.”

Baekjin didn’t respond. He just kept looking at me.

Like I was something beneath him.

Like I couldn’t escape even if I tried.

And I knew nothing good was going to happen if I tried anything.

Baekjin let go of my jaw with a slow, almost thoughtful motion, like he was deciding whether I was worth the trouble or not. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, and then he patted my cheek.

Soft. Patronizing.

Like I was something to be pitied.

Then he stood, gaze never leaving me, and slid his fingers to his belt. The click of the buckle sent a shock down my spine.

“I want to see how good your mouth really is,” Baekjin said, voice like warm silk hiding something rotten underneath.

He wasn’t smiling.

Not really.

Just watching me—calculating.

Behind him, Seongje let out a twisted little laugh, pacing like he couldn’t sit still.

“She’s got talent,” he said, grinning like a madman. “Been rating it five stars all week.”

He tilted his head toward Baekjin and clicked his tongue. “You’re gonna love it. She tries so hard when she’s scared. Starts off all shaky, but the second you praise her? She melts.”

He leaned closer to my ear from behind.

“She lives for it.”

Baekjin’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Do you?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of voice that made your skin crawl even though it never rose above a whisper.

“I think you do,” he murmured, letting the belt slide from his waistband. “Because girls like you... the ones who pretend they’re too good for this? You break so beautifully when someone tells you you’re doing a good job.”

His gaze dropped to my lips.

“You want that, don’t you? To be useful. To be told you’re perfect when you’re on your knees. Even when you’re full of shame.”

I stared at the floor, pulse racing in my throat.

“Look at her,” Seongje cackled. “You see that, right? She hates this. But she’s soaked. Probably didn’t even notice.”

He crouched beside me, his grin wide, manic, wrong. “I’d say she’s got a praise kink... but the degradation’s what really makes her squirm.”

Baekjin gave the faintest nod, like he was filing that detail away. Like I was a lab experiment reacting exactly as expected.

“This isn’t about what you want,” he said, leaning down, cold fingers brushing my jaw again. “It’s about what you're made for. And you, sweetheart?”

He bent lower, eyes locked on mine.

“You were made for this.”

I didn't move.

Not until I felt Seongje’s fingers thread into my hair from behind, yanking my head back just enough to make my eyes water.

“Come on,” he whispered against my ear, tone high and sharp like he was barely holding back a laugh. “You know the rules. Good girls don't wait to be told twice.”

“Show him,” he said louder, for Baekjin now. “Show him how well you’ve been trained.”

My hands moved before my brain caught up. My knees ached against the cold floor, and I felt heat crawling up my throat.

Baekjin didn’t stop me.

He just watched.

Like a predator watching a trapped animal make the inevitable choice.

Seongje laughed again, a short, breathless sound like he couldn’t believe how easy it was. “She’s perfect like this, isn’t she? Scared out of her mind, but still trying so hard to be good.”

Baekjin tilted his head, still watching me with that same cold curiosity. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “How humiliation makes you obedient.”

His hand brushed my cheek.

Not gentle.

Just possessive.

“You want to be useful, don’t you?” he asked. “Want to be praised. Even when you’re on your knees, you want someone to tell you you’re doing well.”

Baekjin stood over me, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes, cold remained fixed on my face. The belt dangled from his fingers, a silent threat and promise.

"Go on then," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Show me what that clever mouth of yours can really do. And don't leave out a single inch."

Behind me, Seongje laughed—low and dangerous, his voice bouncing off the walls like a warning. He fisted a hand in my hair, yanking my head back to bare the vulnerable column of my throat. Then he crouched behind me, close enough for his breath to graze my skin.

"Fuck, I love watching her choke on it," he crowed, eyes wild with sadistic glee. "Especially since she acts all high and mighty at. Makes it so much sweeter when she gives in."

Baekjin's gaze never left mine as he slowly undid his fly, the sound of the zipper seeming to echo in the charged silence. He pulled out his cock, already hard and heavy in his hand.

"Open," he ordered.

My lips parted on a shaky breath, and he took that as the invitation it was. He pressed the swollen head of his cock against my mouth, smearing the salty precum across my bottom lip.

"That's it," he encouraged, voice low and rough, like gravel crunching under tires. "Take it in. Show me how well you can follow orders."

Seongje chuckled darkly from behind me, a sound that sent chills down my spine. "Fuck, I can't wait to see her gag on it," he said, voice dripping with twisted anticipation. "She's got such a pretty throat. I bet it's going to look even better stretched around your cock."

Baekjin ignored him, his attention solely focused on my face, on the way my lips parted wider as he pressed forward, pushing his thick length past my teeth and onto my tongue.

"Relax your throat," he instructed. It was gentle. Like he wanted me to do well, to please him.

I tried. I swallowed around him

Baekjin groaned, a low, approving sound as he felt my throat constrict around his length. "That's it," he praised, voice rough with pleasure. "You're a natural at this, aren't you? Born to be on your knees, choking on cock."

Seongje let out a high, manic laugh, still gripping my hair tight enough to make my eyes water. "You see that, Baek? She fucking loves it. Pretending to be all reluctant, but her throat's sucking you in like she can't get enough."

Baekjin started to move, thrusting shallowly at first, letting me adjust to the thick intrusion stretching my mouth. His free hand came up to grip my chin, holding me in place as he began to fuck into my face with more purpose.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice tight with concentration. "I want to see your eyes when you choke on my cock."

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as he hit the back of my throat, his length pulsing, twitching against my tongue. I gagged around him, throat convulsing, but he didn't let up. If anything, he seemed spurred on by my distress, fucking my face with harder, deeper strokes.

"Fuck, she's gripping me so tight," Baekjin grunted, hips pumping faster. "Her throat's like a fucking vice."

Saliva dripped down my chin as he used my mouth, my body, for his pleasure. Drool pooled on my lap, soaking into the fabric of my skirt as he fucked my face with brutal intensity. Seongje's grip on my hair never loosened, holding me in place as Baekjin took his pleasure.

"Don't forget to breathe through your nose," Seongje mocked, voice breathless with sadistic amusement. "Wouldn't want you passing out before he's done using that talented throat of yours."

Baekjin just snorted, the sound almost drowned out by the wet, obscene noises of him pounding into my mouth. The room filled with the scent of sex and the taste of him, thick and heavy on my tongue.

"Fuck, I'm close," he growled, voice strained. "Gonna fucking cum right down your throat.”

Baekjin slammed his hips forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt in my throat as his cock jerked and pulsed. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot down my throat, choking me, forcing me to swallow.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, head thrown back in pleasure as he emptied directly into my stomach. "Take it all, you fucking cock slut."

As suddenly as it began, it was over. Baekjin pulled out, his softening cock slipping from my abused lips with a wet pop. A strand of cum connected the swollen head to my mouth before breaking, dangling obscenely on my chin.

He smiled then, a twisted mockery of a genuine smile, more like the baring of teeth than anything else. His eyes glinted with a dark, satisfied light as he looked at the mess he created.

"Beautiful," he purred, voice like honey laced with poison. "You look so perfect like this. You're really something special, aren't you?"

Seongje didn’t give me a second to catch my breath. He had me by the hair, his fingers twisted deep in the strands as he dragged me up, yanking me forward. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the metal desk that dominated the back of the office, the cold surface biting into my palms. I barely had time to catch my balance before he spun me around and lifted me onto the edge of the desk. My thighs clenched against the cool steel as he stepped between them.

"I've been waiting for this." he growled.

His voice was low, razor-sharp.

“For what?” I asked.

His hand slid up under my skirt, slow and possessive, until he hooked his fingers in my underwear and pulled them down with deliberate precision. “Waiting for you to fuck up, to give me a reason to put this pussy in its place."”

He unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he freed himself, gripping his cock at the base, spitting into his palm before stroking once.

“You ready, baby?” he asked, voice dripping with cruel affection. “already wet like a filthy little whore.”

Seongje didn’t wait for permission.

With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside me, thick and unrelenting, forcing a gasp from my throat that shattered the silence. The metal desk beneath me groaned with the force, the cold surface biting into my skin as my thighs trembled against his hips.

“Fuck,” he growled against my neck, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel like a fucking dream—tight, wet, and so fucking needy. I bet you were waiting for this, weren’t you? Waiting for me to use you like the little cum dump you are.”

His hands gripped my hips with bruising strength, slamming me back onto him again and again, each thrust harder than the last. My body jolted with the rhythm, spine arching involuntarily as pleasure twisted violently with shame.

“That’s right,” he whispered, dragging his teeth along the shell of my ear. “Take it like a good little slut. This pussy was made to be ruined.”

Behind him, I could hear a slow breath.

Baekjin.

He was lounging on the couch like he owned the room, one hand lazily stroking his cock, eyes glued to where Seongje was splitting me open on the desk.

“Fuck,” Baekjin murmured, his voice thick with lust. “She looks so fucking perfect like that—stuffed full and shaking. You breaking her in good or do you need help?”

Seongje chuckled, low and cruel. “She’s dripping around me like a bitch in heat. She’ll be cock-drunk in a few.”

I whimpered, shame burning across my cheeks as Seongje fucked me harder—deeper—his cock dragging against every spot inside me like he was mapping me from the inside out. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.

“You hear that?” he hissed into my ear. “He’s watching you. Jerking off to the way I use you. You like being put on display, you fucking whore?”

My moan gave me away.

Baekjin groaned from the couch. “Goddamn… she just clenched around you.”

“Of course she did,” Seongje spat, slapping his hips hard against mine. “She loves being degraded. Don’t you, baby? You love when we treat you like nothing more than a wet little hole.”

“Say it,” Baekjin called out, his strokes getting faster. “Say you love being used.”

Seongje wrapped a hand around my throat—not tight, just enough to make me feel the heat of his dominance. “Go on,” he growled. “Let him hear you.”

“I—I love it,” I gasped, my voice cracking. “Love being used.”

Seongje’s groan was primal. He slammed into me so deep I saw stars, his breath breaking against the side of my neck.

“Good fucking girl.” He said as he finished inside of me.

He pulled out with a filthy squelch, a trail of slick clinging to his cock as he stepped back. My body collapsed onto the metal desk—used, aching, shaking. I didn’t even get the chance to exhale before his hand gripped my jaw and turned my head toward the couch.

Baekjin was watching.

His dark eyes never blinked, his cock stroking lazily in one hand. His lips were parted slightly, breath uneven, his face was flushed with arousal.

He stood up slowly and circled the desk, his bare chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I could hear the slick rhythm of his hand as he walked—slow, teasing strokes down his length as he approached the chair opposite the desk.

He sat.

Spread his legs.

And smiled.

“Come here, baby,” he said softly. Like he was inviting me into his lap for a hug. “Climb up and sit on my cock.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t move.

He tilted his head, voice still soft. “Don’t get shy on me now, sweetheart. You’ve already let him fuck you like a cheap little toy. You gonna pretend you’ve got any dignity left?”

Behind me, Seongje laughed—cruel, sharp. “She’s too fucked out to pretend anything.”

Baekjin reached down, stroking the tip of his cock with his thumb, smearing precum over the flushed head. His voice dropped lower, breathier.

“Come on, princess,” he cooed. “Be a good girl.”

The sweetness in his tone made the filth hit harder. It felt like being stroked with too much care—like a mouse in someone’s palm.

I slid off the desk.

Stumbled.

I dropped to my knees, breathless, my legs too shaky to hold me after the way Seongje had fucked every ounce of strength out of me.

Baekjin watched me crawl to him, pupils dilated, the corners of his mouth twitching with delight.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So messy already. All stretched out and leaking all over my floor.”

I reached him—shaking, breathless.

He patted his thigh gently. “Up. That’s it. Come ride me like a good little slut.”

I climbed into his lap.

His cock pressed against my entrance.

But he didn’t thrust up.

Didn’t grip me.

He looked me in the eyes and whispered:

“You do it.”

My lips parted.

“I want you to fuck yourself on me,” he said, so gently it made my stomach flip. “Because you need it, don’t you? Need to be filled again. Need someone to remind you you’re nothing but a greedy little whore.”

I whimpered—but I obeyed.

Slowly, I sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully inside me.

He let out a soft sigh, as if I was the most relaxing thing in the world.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Nice and full again. Just like you’re supposed to be.”

His hands smoothed over my thighs, deceptively gentle as he started guiding my hips.

“Bounce for me, baby,” he said, kissing the corner of my jaw. “Let me feel how tight this filthy little cunt still is.”

And I did.

Because his voice made it impossible not to.

Each movement dragged him deeper, his soft groans filling my ear like praise turned poison.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathed. “So fucking good for us. Just a pretty little thing who likes being passed around and filled up.”

He kissed my throat.

“Such a sweet, obedient little slut.”

My moan cracked in the back of my throat as I trembled in his lap.

Baekjin’s hands tightened on my waist, his breath suddenly harsh, uneven.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned softly, voice still wrapped in silk even as his cock twitched inside me. “You feel too fucking good. This perfect pussy, all warm and stretched and used up—like it’s begging to be bred.”

My body seized at the words. And he felt it.

“Yeah,” he cooed, thrusting up gently once, twice—deeper than before, slower. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fill you up?”

His voice dipped into something darker.

“My cum inside you. Leaking down your thighs when you walk out of here.”

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders—but I didn’t stop him.

I couldn’t.

His grip tightened.

“Say thank you,” he whispered against my lips.

“T-Thank you,” I choked.

And then he came.

A deep, guttural moan spilled from his throat as his cock throbbed inside me, thick warmth pulsing into me in slow, possessive waves. He held me down—buried to the hilt—as if he wanted every drop to stay inside.

I barely registered the moment Baekjin pulled out—his cum thick and warm as it spilled out of me, dripping down my thighs and onto the floor. My body gave out, slumping boneless against him, my mind fogged and flickering at the edges.

fin

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capslocked · 1 year ago

Text

PASCAL

male reader x karina & irene

part 1 of two roses, by every other name

28k words

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

Irene’s is remarkably not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes.

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

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

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

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

“So I guess, pace yourself or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey," is how you answer, always.

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

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

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

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

And so it goes, and so it goes.

"Have a drink," someone keeps saying.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, sorta. You wait it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had any intention of absconding without her.

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

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

A real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And wouldn’t you know."

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

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

"Hm, I’m thinking."

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

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

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

Irene will finally perk up, gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tough to say.

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

And - she would, really.

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

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

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

It’ll make the cab driver clear his throat.

"What you’re saying is ‘no.’"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, do you mean Rosé?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter then, Yu Jimin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not for long, the question lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is sorta how you've always known her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're one to talk, Irene."

“Careful,” Irene warns.

"What, you gonna set me straight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember the knit of her brow.

“Do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ha."

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

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

Karina just runs her tongue across her lips, sighing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to keep her gasping, panting.

Like a woman starved for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-and vanish somewhere in Irene's mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

You both do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm… fucking cumming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She breathes, "god. Irene."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Karina wants you to look.

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

She laughs at the premise.

“I dunno, what's a girl to do?"

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

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

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

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

Irene laments and hopes in the same breath.

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

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

"Honey," is how Irene responds, leisurely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ends it so charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the girl absolutely fucking keens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking, please, god-."

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

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

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

One.

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

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

"God, I can’t, just- ah.”

“Breathe,” Irene says.

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

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

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

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

And she wants you to-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You absolutely get it.

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

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

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

Who stands any chance to resist?

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

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

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

"You can cum for me too, baby."

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

“Just cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of you know she deserves nothing less.

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

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

The thing is, with Irene: facades fade fast.

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

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

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

She simply shudders apart.

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

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

“Irene, look-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene lets out this wanton sound, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It steps out into pure necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

In and in and in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in case you missed the point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So,

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

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

A bit of color.

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

She finishes with a cough. And says again:

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

Well. She's got you on that count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I'm not the type.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not married,” you correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s probably right.

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

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

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

On Monday: the holidays are officially over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t really care.

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

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

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

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

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

She’s totally caught you staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop fucking her, halfway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking god, Irene-”

“Mhmm?” she fucking coos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight alone.

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

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

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

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

You’ll make your vows like any other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you might be projecting."

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

"An affair," you repeat, skeptical.

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

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

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

"That's the fantasy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right in her warm, wet little mouth.

Jesus, her tongue too-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her pout, right there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 10:42 pm > suggestions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:07 pm > really

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

// 11:11 pm > you're funny

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

"Something edgy," you deadpan.

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

"No," you say. “God, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

// Karina 11:17 pm > and… do what?

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

“Can you fucking leave it-”

Irene rolls her eyes.

// 11:18 pm > do you need ideas

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

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

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

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

"How, what - babe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

"You'll be good right?"

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

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

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

"And give her an extra hello from me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though, unfortunately, the suggestion falls short on delivery.

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

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

"Shut the door behind you?"

"Locking it too," you tell her.

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

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

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

She must see the confliction you're in-

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

"I- don't really-"

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

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

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

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

This isn't quite how you pictured-

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

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

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

"Yeah. That would work."

Like it's no big deal-

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

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

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

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

(You know, god help you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always traveling for this reason or that.

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

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

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

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

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

The long and short of it is:

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

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

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love that.”

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

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

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

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

She takes another spoonful of yogurt between her lips.

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

“That’s fucked up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elaborate.”

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

"Are you really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy fuck, you're-"

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

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

But instead,

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

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

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

You cum just like that:

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

You shoot clean up, all thick, hot splatter.

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

"Jesus, Karina, baby you’re-"

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

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

(Sanity is being generous, considering.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protégé, the goddamn heir-apparent:

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

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

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

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

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

Text

Fixer Upper

Max Verstappen x interior designer!Reader

Summary: Max Verstappen is the most frustrating client you’ve ever dealt with … but maybe he can make it up to you

“How about some pops of color in here?” You suggest brightly, gesturing around the stark white walls of Max Verstappen’s new Monaco penthouse.

The Dutch driver sniffs, glancing up briefly from his phone. “No thanks. I like it plain.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he does. You’ve been working with Max for two weeks now trying to decorate his new home, but so far he’s shot down every single idea you’ve proposed.

As an interior designer based in a principality known for catering to the rich and famous, you’re used to difficult clients, but Max may just take the cake. Still, you’re determined to give him the space he desires … if you can only figure out what that is.

“Alright, plain it is,” you say evenly. “But we should at least add some artwork, don’t you think? Something modern and sleek could look fantastic against these walls.”

Max doesn’t even glance up this time. “No art. Don’t like it.”

You inhale slowly. “Okay, no problem. We’ll keep it artless.” Time to switch gears. You gesture to the expansive bank of windows along one wall. “These floor-to-ceiling windows are incredible, some of the best views in Monaco. We could do some fabulous seating here to take advantage of the natural light. Maybe a chaise lounge or two angled toward the harbor ...”

“Don’t need seating.” Max is focused on his phone, thumbs flying. “I’ll just put my sim rig there.”

Your eye twitches involuntarily. His racing simulator setup — in front of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the most coveted views in the principality? Absolutely not.

“Well,” you begin delicately, “Perhaps we could find another place for your sim, one that doesn’t obstruct the views quite so much. I’m sure we could-”

“No, I want it there,” Max interrupts flatly. “I like seeing the water while I drive.” His attention doesn’t waver from the screen in his hands.

You close your eyes briefly and take a calming breath. Alright. No color, no art, and a sim smack in front of priceless views. So much for design aesthetics. Time for a new tactic.

“You must do a lot of cooking,” you say brightly, turning towards the kitchen. “This is an amazing culinary space. We could do some open shelving with sleek finishes to highlight the quartz countertops.”

Silence. Max just gives a non-committal grunt, still absorbed by his phone.

You soldier on. “Or maybe some nice warm wood cabinetry for contrast? I have some fantastic artisan contacts who could do handmade custom designs.”

“Don’t cook much,” he mutters.

Your smile tightens. “Not to worry, we can keep the kitchen minimal too.” Is there anything, anything at all, you can propose that he won’t immediately shoot down? You’re starting to doubt it.

Switching to the living area, you smooth down your dress and try again. “For the living room, I was thinking we could do built-in bookcases along the back wall there, and maybe expose some of the original brick behind for an industrial chic look ...”

Max glances up from his phone to level an unimpressed look at you. “But we’re inside. Brick would make no sense.”

You close your eyes briefly. Of course not. “My mistake, you’re absolutely right,” you say through gritted teeth. Enough pussyfooting around. Time to be direct.

You plant yourself in front of where Max sits on the couch and place your hands on your hips. “Max, I’m going to be honest. I’m having trouble getting a sense of your style and vision for this space. You’ve rejected all my ideas so far.”

He blinks up at you blandly. “I don’t like any of your ideas. This is my place and I want to do what I want.”

You resist the urge to tear your hair out in frustration. “Of course, and I want you to have exactly what you want. But in order to do that, I need you to communicate with me. Tell me what kind of look and feel you envision for your home. Modern, traditional, minimalist? What colors and textures appeal to you?”

Max just shrugs, his attention already drifting back to his phone. “I don’t know. Just make it nice.”

Oh for god’s sake. You inhale slowly through your nose. “Perhaps you could show me some inspiration photos of interiors you like?”

“Nah, don’t feel like it.”

That’s it. You’ve had it with this infuriating man. You know you shouldn’t lose your cool with a client, but you’re at the end of your rope.

“Well, I’m afraid ‘make it nice’ doesn’t give me much to go on,” you snap sarcastically. “I can’t read your mind, Max. So unless you start providing concrete input on what you actually want, I’m resigning from this job.”

You expect anger, or at least surprise at your outburst. But Max just regards you evenly for a moment, then nods. “Okay, fair enough. The truth is ...” He pauses, looking faintly embarrassed. “I just wanted an excuse to spend more time around you.”

You blink, blindsided. “I’m sorry, what?”

A slight flush rises in Max’s cheeks. “I didn’t actually care about the decor that much. I just thought if I kept saying no to all your ideas, you’d have to stay involved with the project longer.” He gives you a sheepish smile. “Guess I took the stubborn client thing too far.”

You’re dumbfounded. And, if you’re being honest, a little charmed. “Let me get this straight — you’ve been wasting my time and driving me crazy for two weeks because you … have a crush on me?”

Max winces. “When you put it like that, I sound like an idiot.”

You have to laugh. “A bit, yeah.” But you can’t help but feel a warm flutter in your stomach too. You’ve always thought Max was cute in a boyish way. Knowing he orchestrated this whole thing just to spend time with you is, admittedly, very flattering. And more than a little endearing.

Max rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be difficult on purpose. I just ...” He trails off with a helpless little shrug.

You take pity on him. Yes, leading you on a wild goose chase of rejected designs was unprofessional. But the hesitant smile he’s giving you now tugs at your heartstrings anyway.

“Well, I appreciate you coming clean,” you say gently. “How about we start fresh? I’d love to actually get your real input now on what you want.”

His smile widens, grey eyes lighting up. “Yeah?”

You can’t help but smile back. “On one condition.”

He nods eagerly. “Name it.”

“You take me to dinner.” You arch an eyebrow. “To make up for the stress you caused me over the past two weeks.”

Max lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “Deal.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I really made a mess of this, didn’t I?”

“Little bit, yeah.” You grin to soften the reproach. “Next time just ask me out for a drink. It’s a much more straightforward approach.”

“Duly noted.” He smiles sheepishly.

You move to sit next to him on the couch. “So tell me honestly, what kind of look are you picturing for this place?”

Max considers the blank canvas of a space. “Honestly, I’m open to anything you suggest. I trust your taste — I’ve seen your work before and it’s amazing.” His eyes meet yours. “But I do definitely want my sim rig with a view. That part wasn’t a lie.”

You laugh. “We can make that work.” Your gaze travels over the strong lines of his face, the mussed brown hair, the wry curve of his smile that makes your heart beat faster.

As you begin sketching possible layout options, you make a mental note to clear your schedule for dinner soon. Very soon.

***

“Well, this is … quite a space,” you say diplomatically as the hostess leads you and Max to your table.

You’re immediately assaulted by a riot of clashing colors and patterns as your gaze darts around the trendy restaurant he’s brought you to for dinner. Your trained designer’s eye picks out aesthetic atrocities everywhere you look.

An art deco mirror topped by an incongruous ultra-modern light fixture. Fussy rococo chairs paired with sleek metal tables. And dear god, is that shag carpeting?

“Yes, Le Chat Noir is very popular right now,” Max agrees, seemingly oblivious to the decor travesties surrounding you.

You hold your tongue as the hostess seats you. The haphazard decor choices are an assault on your senses, but you don’t want to seem rude on your first date with Max.

A server appears to take your drink orders. You welcome the distraction, busying yourself with the wine list. But as soon as he departs, Max leans forward, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Alright, I know that look. Out with it — what do you really think?”

You bite your lip. “What do you mean?”

He gestures broadly around. “Of all this.”

You hesitate. “The decor is certainly … interesting.”

Max grins. “I can tell you absolutely hate it.”

You wince. Damn, he’s perceptive. And here you were trying so hard to remain poker-faced.

“Sorry,” you say with an embarrassed laugh. “I was attempting to refrain from judgment, but it appears I failed.”

“No need to apologize.” He settles back in his chair. “Please, critique away. I want to hear your professional opinion.” His eyes dance with humor. “Don’t hold back.”

Well, far be it from you to turn down an invitation like that. As your drinks arrive, you take a fortifying sip of wine before launching in.

“Alright, you asked for it.” You set the glass down firmly. “This space is an absolute disaster from a design perspective. It’s like the interior decorator was blindfolded and threw darts at a wall covered in paint swatches and fabric samples. Nothing goes together at all.”

You point above your table. “That light fixture up there? Ultrasmack modern against 19th century crown molding? Make it make sense.”

Max chuckles. “Quite the mashup.”

You lean forward, on a roll now. “And this carpet!” You gesture in horror to the shag beneath your feet. “This trend needs to retire immediately. It looks like an avocado fucked a bear.”

Max nearly chokes on his drink. “A what now?”

You wave a hand. “You know what I mean. Just tragic.”

Sitting back, you take in the rest of the garish space. “The artwork over there is just hideous. And that tufted velvet on the booths makes me want to scream. Who decided olive green was an accent color that pairs well with anything?”

You turn back to Max, on a tirade now. “Honestly, nothing works. The proportions are bad, the color palette is an atrocity, the mixture of styles is absurd. It’s like the designer threw every conceivable element at the wall to see what would stick. I could have done a better job blindfolded after downing a bottle of tequila.” You finally stop for breath, cheeks flushed.

Max has an enormous grin on his face. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help smiling too. “Sorry for the outburst. Like I said, feel free to tell me to zip it.”

“Are you kidding? I could listen to you shred this place all night.” Max shakes his head, looking delighted. “I’ve never seen you so worked up. It’s adorable.”

You blush, smoothing your hair self-consciously. “Oh hush. I just have … strong opinions when it comes to interior design choices.”

“Clearly.” Max’s eyes positively dance with affection. “I love how passionate you are. And your criticisms are spot on. This place really is horrendously designed.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait, you actually agree? You’re not just humoring me?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not. My knowledge doesn’t come remotely close to yours, but even I can tell everything in here clashes hideously.” He gestures at the table. “I mean, a wooden chair back with a metal seat? Just pick one material!”

You grin, happiness blossoming in your chest. It’s such a treat to have him validate your expert opinions instead of just patronizing them like many dates would. You launch eagerly back into listing all the ways the restaurant decor offends you, with Max chiming in occasional agreement or egging you on for more.

By the time your food arrives, you’ve dissected the lighting, furniture, textiles, and color schemes within an inch of their lives. Max watches you intently the whole time, blatantly enraptured by your critiques. Your wine glass is nearly empty from all the gesticulating.

“Well, I think that covers all the ways this interior design should be illegal,” you conclude, taking a bite of your meal. “Thanks for indulging me. I know I can get carried away analyzing spaces.”

“I could listen to you trash talk bad design forever.” Max can’t seem to rip his eyes away from yours. “I love how opinionated you are. And you look so damn sexy getting all fired up about it.”

A pleasurable shiver runs through you at his heated look. Maybe ripping this restaurant to shreds wasn’t the most conventional date conversation, but it clearly impressed Max. Nothing like a shared hatred of garish decor to bring two people together.

“Well, I’m glad one of us enjoys these tirades,” you laugh. You cock your head coyly. “Maybe I could come over sometime outside of work and critique your place again now that it’s shaping up. I’m sure I can find a few more things to complain about.”

Max’s eyes darken. “I’d like that.” He leans forward with a roguish smile. “Maybe we can get out of here and you can tell me all the ways you’d redesign the bedroom in my current apartment. You know, so we can avoid making those mistakes again while you help decorate my bedroom in the penthouse.”

You nearly choke on your wine, heat flooding your face. And lower regions. Goodness, Max’s flirty side really brings out your inner vixen.

You recover and stroke his ankle lightly with your heel under the table. “I’d be happy to provide any hands-on design consultation you require.”

Max sucks in a sharp breath, eyes blazing. The temperature between you two has risen about fifty degrees in the last few seconds. Suddenly you want nothing more than to leave this horribly designed restaurant and get him alone.

Immediately.

***

“A good mattress is crucial for proper sleep and recovery,” Max declares as you walk into the upscale furniture store together. “We need to test them thoroughly.”

You allow him to lead you to the mattress section, hiding a smile. When Max asked you to come mattress shopping with him for his new bedroom, you’d naively thought it would be a quick errand. But knowing Max, you should have guessed he’d take the task of “testing” mattresses very seriously.

An eager salesperson appears. “Welcome! Are we looking for any mattress in particular today?”

“We want to try them all,” Max announces, eyeing the rows of display beds keenly.

The salesperson falters. “Er, all of them?”

“How else will we know which is best?” Max shrugs as if this is obvious.

You squeeze his arm, charmed by his matter-of-fact logic. The salesperson forces a professional smile.

“Of course, take all the time you need.” He gestures expansively at the floor models. “I’ll be right here if you have any questions.”

“Excellent.” Max wastes no time striding over to the nearest bed. He sits, then lies back experimentally. “Hmm, decent firmness.” He pats the empty space beside him. “Come try it out.”

You curl up next to him, hiding your smile at the salesperson’s raised eyebrows. When you said you’d help Max pick out a mattress, this wasn’t what you pictured. But you have to admit, lying here with him is fun.

Max frowns. “Too much motion transfer when you move.” He sits up abruptly. “Next!”

You have to smother a laugh as you follow him to the next display. This no-nonsense methodism is peak Max. Systematic and entertainingly stubborn.

At the second bed, Max immediately starfishes spread-eagle. “Well? Get over here and test it with me. It’s the only way we’ll know.” He pats the mattress insistently.

You note the salesperson observing this display with thinly veiled disapproval. But Max just looks so irresistibly eager, you can’t help but indulge him.

You crawl onto the bed and cuddle up to him happily. “Mmm, this one’s nice. Great hugability.” You pretend to grab Max in a koala hold.

He laughs. “Agreed, good hugging potential.” Wrapping his arms around you, he shifts experimentally. “But the bounce is all wrong.” He releases you and sits up. “Next!”

And so it goes for the next hour as you enthusiastically demo mattress after mattress with Max. You try them on your backs, sides, fronts, analyzing the firmness levels and motion transfer. At one point you even test out the edge support — whatever that is — with Max insisting you sit together on the very side of the mattress frame.

“Considerable sag here,” Max murmurs against your ear, his arm firmly around your waist. You have to hide your shiver at his warm breath so close. “Could be problematic.”

The salesperson looks like he’s one demo away from throwing you both out. But Max either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He cheerfully drags you from bed to bed, ticking off pros and cons on his fingers.

“Decent lumbar support, but it sleeps too hot.”

“Great responsiveness, but poor motion isolation.”

You’re having the time of your life. Testing mattresses was benign enough, but the excuse to crawl into bed with Max over and over has you both giddy. Each demo seems to involve increasingly creative configurations of your interlocked bodies as you evaluate firmness and ergonomics.

“I’m just not sure this is a good fit,” Max eventually concludes, frowning up at you from where you straddle his hips. His hands rest casually on your thighs, as if finding yourself atop a handsome man in a public place is perfectly routine mattress research.

You smother a laugh and climb off. “Valid analysis. Though some of the testing scenarios still need more data, I’d say.” You shoot him a coy look.

Max grins. “Agreed. Further testing required.”

The salesperson pointedly avoids looking at you both. “Perhaps you’d like to narrow down your top choices? I’m sure you have plenty of notes by now.” There’s a tautness to his professionalism that suggests you’ve stretched his patience to its limit.

But Max seems oblivious. “We’re not done yet! There are still at least half a dozen models we haven’t tried.” He takes your hand, pulling you toward a plush, pillow-topped display. “Now this one looks perfect for spooning. You little spoon first this time ...”

Mattress testing with Max, you’ve learned, is a delightful mix of structured analysis and shameless flirtation. You can’t remember ever having so much fun shopping. And based on Max’s boyish smile and lingering touches, the feeling is mutual.

“Too much dip in the middle,” Max tuts later, rolling you both gently across yet another mattress surface. “Though the close contact isn’t terrible.” His low voice in your ear makes you shiver.

You grin up at him coyly. “We should do an in-depth pressure point analysis next.”

Max smirks. “Crucial data to collect.”

Eventually, however, even Max’s enthusiasm starts to wane. “I think we have sufficient consumer testing results now,” he decides, pulling you up to sit beside him on the edge of a low platform bed.

You laugh. “That poor salesperson was ready to toss us out an hour ago.”

“Hey, we were conducting necessary R&D!” Max’s grey eyes twinkle. “But I am rather tired now ...”

He lies back, resting his head in your lap. You automatically begin stroking his hair and he sighs, eyes slipping closed. You take the opportunity to admire how sweet he looks, lips slightly parted and lashes fanned on his cheeks. Testing mattresses all afternoon seems to have worn him out.

You lean down to murmur in his ear. “Ready to take this mattress research home to really compare notes?”

One grey eye peeks open. “Mmm, home analysis does sound optimal.” His voice is raspy with fatigue in a way that melts you. “Wake me when it’s time to go?”

You brush a soft kiss to his forehead. “Of course.”

He nuzzles into your lap with a contented noise. Watching his breath deepen into sleep, you feel your heart overflow. There are a thousand reasons you adore Max, but these unexpectedly tender moments might top them all.

The salesperson reappears, offering you a pained smile. “So were you able to decide on a mattress today?”

You grin, fingers still carding through Max’s hair. “You know, I think we need to sleep on it a little longer.”

***

“Well, what do you think?” Max gestures with pride around his freshly competed penthouse.

You take it all in — the sleek but cozy furniture, the warm lighting, the pops of color — and smile. “It’s perfect. You have an incredible home now.”

He wraps an arm around your waist, gazing around. “I really couldn’t have done it without you. This place was a disaster before you came along.”

You lean into him happily. It’s been months since you first met Max and began working with him on decorating his new space. It was a battle at times, but you’re immensely proud of the final result.

“I’m honored I could help bring your vision to life,” you say sincerely. Though if you’re honest, the best part of this project was getting to know Max himself. The way his smile makes your heart flutter hasn’t diminished one bit.

Max turns you to face him, his expression soft. “I didn’t just get a beautifully designed home out of this. I got you.”

Your breath catches at the open affection in his eyes. Before you can respond, he dips his head and kisses you tenderly. You melt against him, the feel of his lips erasing any coherent thought.

When he finally draws back, his eyes are darker. “You know, there’s still one part of the place we haven’t officially christened yet.” He cocks his head toward the bedroom.

You bite your lip, pulse already quickening. “Is that so? Well, we should definitely perform a final inspection to confirm everything meets our standards.”

Max grins wolfishly, pulling you toward the bedroom. “Thorough testing is required.”

You laugh as he tugs you down onto the plush king mattress you’d finally agreed on after extensive “research.” The two of you bounce slightly from the momentum, causing you both to dissolve into giggles.

“Well, motion transfer still seems acceptable,” you quip. Max chuckles and silences you with another heated kiss.

You hum approvingly as his hands begin to roam your body. “Mmm, responsiveness is excellent too ...”

Clothes are quickly shed as you reacquaint yourselves with each other’s forms. When you’re finally skin-to-skin, Max sighs in satisfaction.

“I’ve been waiting months to get you in this bed.” His voice is low and gravelly in a way that makes you shiver.

“It was the longest mattress testing phase ever,” you breathe as his lips kiss down your neck.

Max laughs against your shoulder. “Worth it though, right?”

In answer, you flip him onto his back, straddling his hips. “Absolutely.”

You take your time exploring each other, hands and mouths worshiping every inch. Until late afternoon sun filters through the curtains, bathing the room in an almost ethereal glow.

When Max finally sinks into you, you moan softly at the exquisite fullness. “Oh yes, this mattress has great ergonomics,” you sigh dreamily.

Max huffs a laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. “I’ll be sure to mention that in my product review.”

You grin and shift your hips experimentally, making him groan. “The responsiveness really is top-notch.”

“We should still test a few more positions though,” Max murmurs. “Just to be thorough.”

You happily comply, indulging in acrobatic mattress testing that leaves you both blissfully satisfied and out of breath. As you lay tangled together afterwards, endorphins still flooding your systems, Max presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Well, I’d say the new bed passes inspection with flying colors,” he declares with sleepy satisfaction.

You laugh and stroke his hair. “Agreed. You chose an excellent mattress.” You snuggle closer. “Though the company in it is what I really enjoy.”

Max tightens his arms around you. “Think you can put up with me and my high-maintenance decor demands a while longer?” His voice holds a vulnerable note beneath the teasing.

Your heart swells and you cup his face. “Max Verstappen, I’ll critique mattresses and furniture with you any day. As long as at the end of it, I get to fall asleep next to you.”

His smile outshines the lowering sun. “Deal.”

***

“You know what I love most about how our place looks now?” Max murmurs, his arms wrapped around you on the couch.

You tear your eyes from the awful reality show you’re watching to glance up at him. “Hmm?”

His gaze sweeps over the living room, a small smile on his lips. “All the little touches that are just so you.”

You follow his look around the penthouse that over the past year has transformed from Max’s bachelor pad to your shared home. It’s still sleek and modern overall, but with warm accents reflecting both your styles.

And yes, you realize, your personal influence shows in the decor now that you live here full time. The mugs hung on hooks in the kitchen, the plush blankets tossed artfully on the chairs, the bowls of sea glass collected from beach walks that adorn the tables.

Your heart swells looking at the traces of yourself woven into Max’s space. “It does feel more like home now, doesn’t it?”

Max nods, dropping a kiss to your hair. “It’s perfect. I love coming back after a race and being surrounded by reminders of you.”

You snuggle deeper into his embrace, incredibly touched. “Well, I promise to keep leaving my clutter around to make you feel at home.”

He chuckles. “Please do. It’s my favorite kind of clutter.”

Smiling softly, you think back to when you first started dating Max after working on his penthouse makeover. Who could have guessed that would lead to sharing this life together?

Your gaze lands on a shelf displaying photos of the two of you, and your throat grows tight. There’s you and Max laughing on vacation, kissing right after he won his fourth world championship, curled up with hot chocolate on a ski trip. So many beautiful memories.

“It’s hard to remember what this place even looked like before,” you murmur. And not just the decor — it’s hard to recall your life before Max.

He rubs your shoulder idly, eyes faraway. “I know what you mean. It’s like you’ve always been here.” His voice holds a note of wonder.

You lift your head to meet his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Max’s eyes shine. He bends to kiss you, soft and heartfelt. Your lips curve against his.

When you reluctantly draw back, the television screen catches your eye. You cringe at the fake drama unfolding.

“Ugh, this show is terrible,” you groan. “Can we watch something else?”

Max grins and grabs the remote, flipping through channels. He eventually lands on a home renovation program you both enjoy analyzing and critiquing together. Some things never change.

You settle in eagerly as the show starts, scrutinizing the design choices. Max wraps an arm around you, idly playing with your hair as you watch.

Despite the show’s flaws, being curled up with Max like this fills you with utter contentment. You can’t imagine anything better than coming home to his smile and laugh each day.

During commercials, you fetch snacks from the kitchen, navigating the space with ease. Max trails behind to steal bites, ever drawn to food.

You swat his hand away from the chocolate you’re preparing and laugh. “Get your paws off, those are for sharing!”

Max just tugs you close and kisses the protest from your lips. You happily let him devour the sweetness from your mouth instead, the chocolate forgotten.

Finally you collapse back on the couch together, munching and critiquing the show’s poor tile work. Max throws popcorn for you to catch, his aim as impressive as his racing lines.

Your eyes droop as the evening wears on. The cozy penthouse, tasty snacks, and Max’s warmth — it’s the perfect recipe for relaxation.

When your head nods against Max’s shoulder for the third time, he chuckles and clicks the tv off. “Alright sleepyhead, time for bed.”

You make a half-hearted noise of protest but let him pull you up. Max keeps an arm securely around you as he leads the way to the bedroom, knowing you’re prone to stumbling when tired. It makes you feel so cared for.

He even helps you change into your nightgown, his hands impossibly gentle. As you finally crawl under the blankets, you let out a massive yawn.

“Night Maxie,” you mumble, already mostly asleep. He gathers you close and presses a kiss to your hair.

“Sweet dreams, liefje.” His voice is impossibly soft. You float away cradled in his warmth and the knowledge you’re home.

The next morning, you wake slowly to sunlight streaming in the windows and the smell of coffee. Stretching languorously, you take a moment just to soak it in.

Muffled sounds drift in from the kitchen signaling Max is already up and at ‘em. You smile sleepily. The man has the energy of a hyper puppy.

Before you can muster the will to leave bed, Max appears holding two mugs. “Morning schatje,” he greets with a smile. “Thought you might need some caffeine.”

You beam and make grabby hands until he passes you a mug. The rich aroma instantly perks you up.

Max slides in next to you, sipping his own coffee. His hair is adorably mussed and you gently smooth it down before cupping his face and bringing him in for a long, thorough good morning kiss.

When you finally separate, Max looks pleasingly dazed. “Well, that’s certainly one way to wake up.”

You grin cheekily and go back to your coffee. Max wraps an arm around you and you lean into his solid warmth, trading occasional lazy kisses between sips.

Sun streams over your entwined forms as you bask in contented silence. Eventually you stretch and make your way to the bathroom to start the day, dropping a kiss to Max’s hair as you pass.

You smile seeing your hairbrush by the sink, pink toothbrush next to Max’s blue one. Such small signs of your merged lives, but they mean the world.

Refreshed, you return to Max sprawled on the bed with his phone. He immediately opens his arms in clear demand for more cuddles. Laughing, you collapse into them happily.

Nuzzling into his chest, you sigh. “I know I was practically unconscious last night, but just wanted to say again how special it is having pieces of us both around the place now.”

Max’s arms tighten around you. “You being here makes it a home, not just an apartment.” His voice catches slightly. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

You lift your head to meet his gaze, your own suddenly misty. No words can encapsulate what it means to build a life and home with this incredible man.

So you tell him silently instead, with a kiss overflowing with love and promise: I’ll stay by your side as long as I’m welcome.

Judging by Max’s arm anchoring you fiercely to him, that will be a good long while. You melt into his embrace, spirits soaring.

No fancy penthouse or perfect decor could compare to what you’ve found with Max — a home rooted in love, laughter, and devotion.

One look at his tender smile and you know he feels it too. This is everything.

So you’ll happily leave your mugs around the sink and blankets on the chairs, weaving threads of yourself into his space. With each passing day, it matters less whose belongings lie where.

Because home isn’t things — it’s the man gazing at you like you’re his whole world. And you know as long as you’re together, any place will feel just right.

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stunie · 1 year ago

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“THAT WASN’T MY NAME.”

WINDBREAKER BOYS + SAYING THE WRONG NAME. ft. hayato suo, kaji ren, nirei akihiko, & sakura haruka x f!reader

content: explicit smut (18+), fellatio, overstim, choking, teasing, (kind of) brat taming, multiple rounds, mentions of creampies, usage of pet names, individual tags below.

mdni - 1.5K wc. filled request!

HAYATO SUO. very mild brat taming, usage of pet names

“Oh? That’s not like you, love.”

His gaze remains gentle, eyes intent on watching the way your cunt flutters so desperately around his length, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips to try and pull him deeper inside— but he doesn’t let you, of course.

Suo has always been a tease. He likes to get you pent up like this, get you needy and frustrated until you’re clutching onto him and whining for him to stop and give you more, but he admits that he may have gone just a little bit too far today.

He’s brought you to the point where you’re moaning his friend’s name just to pull a reaction from him, and he knows painfully well that it’s your last resort at getting under his skin— because he knows your thought processes and tricks like the back of his hand.

So the fact that it actually worked is just that much more infuriating to him.

“Thinking about someone else? How rude of you.”

The way your walls tighten around his length in response to his change in tone doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and you really couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried.

“Oh, I see.” He continues, pushing himself just an inch or two deeper- just enough to draw a lewd moan from you. “You just enjoy being put in your place, hmm? Is that it?”

The way your eyes widen at such a suggestion is almost endearing, your head quickly shaking back and forth as you protest, blurting out a jumbled mix of “of course not” and “you’re just hot when you’re mad..”

Absolutely anyone could read you like this, especially with the way you’re peering up at him so curiously through your lashes to gauge each and every reaction he might make. He already knows without you telling him that there’s nothing in that brain of yours besides your fantasy of him pounding into you at his full strength, maybe even pinning your wrists above your head while he’s at it.

“You really should have just asked me, love.” Suo’s fingers wrap gently around your neck, a part of him content with the way you perk up in anticipation from something as little as that.

“..Because I didn’t like that act of yours very much.”

He’s thrusting into you once again before you even have time to think, angling himself to slam deep inside as your arms scramble to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer as you yelp. You accidentally pull him deeper inside you like this, and Suo fails to mask the way his face contorts at the sudden tightness.

“O-oh?” His voice holds an unfamiliar breathlessness to it, “I didn’t know you were so needy today.”

“Ah- because it’s so deep!” You stammer, loud moans going straight through his ear. His unrelenting pace is so foreign to you, and you don’t know how he’s still so precise, aiming to pummel the exact spot that has you seeing stars the fastest- and you’re not sure if you can handle this much.

You let go of his shoulders, arms coming to shield your eyes as they roll back into your skull, your back arching in a futile attempt to escape the overstimulation.

“Oh— no,” Suo’s voice cuts through the air. “We won’t do that.”

He’s pinning your hands far above your head in one swift movement, frame towering over yours as he rolls his hips into you harder. “S-suo, it’s too much!” Your words come out slurred, expression contorting with how quickly you’re approaching your high.

“This is just the beginning love. We’re gonna play out all those fantasies you’ve had tonight.” His grip around your wrists tighten slightly. “So no more running from it. Okay?”

KAJI REN. neck kisses, choking (barely), usage of pet names, jealousy?

“Oh.” You turn your head to look up at your boyfriend when his thrusts come to a complete halt at the realization of what you just said. “I meant to say Kaji.”

There’s an uncharacteristically long silence from your boyfriend, the only sound in the room being your giggle as you try and wiggle your ass against his hips to rile him up even more. “Sorry,” your voice shifts to a stifled laugh. “Don’t worry though, I was just kiddin-ah!”

You’re pulled up with ease when his hand wraps around your neck, guiding you back until you’re pressed flush against his strong chest, your head falling back to rest on his shoulder.

“Think you’re funny, huh?” His thumb comes to roughly tilt your chin to the side, letting him grunt into the skin of your neck.

The new angle has you trembling, eyes widening with how much bigger he feels inside you like this. He’s stretching you out so much more than before, his fat tip nestled uncomfortably against your cervix as he holds you in place.

“Real funny, princess.” You hear his click his tongue in annoyance.

The feeling of his breath fanning against your skin has your breath hitching in your throat moments after, his lips just barely ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. “Got me reall good.” He repeats slowly, lips tantalizingly close to your skin. “I don’t wanna hear that guy’s name leaving your mouth again.”

“Prank or not.”

It’s not like kaji isn’t aware of how silly he looks right now, jealous and angry over a minor prank like this one, but he can’t help it, not with the way the name rolled off your tongue in such a sickeningly sweet way.

He wants to hear you moan his name instead. Wants to hear it again and again until he’s no longer green with jealousy.

A shiver of anticipation courses through your body when he starts trailing wet and sloppy kisses along your skin, each touch sending a wave of pleasure straight through your core. He’s rough with it, a stark contrast to the way his finger is gently circling at your clit, just the way you like it.

“A-ah!” You moan when he starts sucking at the skin, inhaling sharply when he catches a faint whiff of your perfume. “K-kaji, that feels good.”

He almost groans at the sound of his name again. “Again.” He growls, lips returning to give you another mark on the side of your neck. “Say that again.”

You were his- his only, and he was gonna make sure everybody knew that by the end of tonight.

NIREI AKIHIKO. mention of creampies

“S-sorry,” Nirei mumbles. “That was a lot, huh?”

He watches with a heavy blush across his cheeks when your fingers come to collect the cum that he’s shot directly onto your tits, his cock throbbing when you slowly drag your tongue up your hand.

“It’s okay, Sakura. Oh— wrong name.”

He blinks a couple times before his heart sinks into his stomach. His first thought was that he just heard you wrong, but there was just no way that was possible.

“..Sakura?”

His expression shifts from confusion to worry, then to a frustrated pout when you start laughing. “I’m just kidding!” You giggle, laugh trailing off to a concerned hum when his eyebrows stay deeply furrowed.

“Oh? Was that too mean, Nirei?”

You watch him closely when his hands come to pull you by the waist, your own arms coming to wrap around him, but he doesn’t let you. “You know,” he starts, and he’s grabbing both of your wrists before pinning you beneath him, “I change my mind.”

Your tits bounce a bit when your back hits the mattress, your chest still covered in his cum, and he wishes time could stop for a brief second so he could stare and admire you like this for just a little longer without looking like a total creep. It doesn’t help when you’re staring up at him like that too, your mouth still parted to pant lightly from the previous round.

You’re fucked out in the cutest way, and it’s enough to get him hard again.

“…About?” Your words trail off with a hint of uncertainty under them.

“‘M not sorry.” He whispers, groaning when his overstimulated cock slaps against your folds. “Not sorry at all anymore. Gotta shoot it inside next, or this’ll keep bothering me.”

SAKURA HARUKA. fellatio, teasing, his dick is sensitive <3

“H-huh..?”

Your eyes flicker to the way the muscles of his abs flex when he abruptly sits up, deep blush across his cheeks as he watches you bob your head up and down his length in complete and utter disbelief.

“Sorryy,” your voice is a soft and teasing whisper, and you give him that sugary-sweet smile that always kills him in an instant. “Wrong name.”

An awfully casual mistake to make, he thinks.

Sakura is absolutely dumbfounded, forcing himself to try and glare despite the way you have him breathless and trembling underneath your touch, but you’re resuming your movements only a second later, your tongue dragging up his length as if you didn’t just call him someone else’s fucking name just now.

“H-hey.” He can barely choke out a word with how good your lips feel around his dick, and he’s trying to reach forward and pull you off of him, struggling to blurt out a “S-stop that!”

But you’re suddenly taking him deeper, letting him in your throat until your nose pokes at his skin, and he groans loudly at the feeling of your throat around him.

“Ah— shit..” his mouth falls open when you moan into him, vibrations of your voice forcing his hips to jerk up against you.

“You— you just…” he’s trying, trying so hard to get a word out, but you’re such a fucking tease. Your head bobs up and down a little faster, tongue flattening to glide perfectly around his thickness, and the way his quads start trembling doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

He’s getting close.

The lewd ‘pop!’ your mouth makes when you let him go only deepens the furious blush across his cheeks, and he wishes he didn’t make the mistake of looking down and catching a glimpse of you rubbing his pre-cum off your bottom lip with your thumb.

“I was just kidding.” You smile when you notice his attention is back on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment before he’s tearing his gaze away. “But the face you made was real funny.”

His expression switches to an angry scowl— as angry as he could possibly look after you’ve reduced him to nothing but a panting, flustered mess beneath you. He’s gasping loudly as soon as your hands start to run up and down his thighs, fingertips pressing into him to get a better feel for his muscles.

It’s enough to kill him as is, but as soon as you start peppering his dick with kisses, he feels his patience crumble to nothing.

“Enough,” his voice is just above a shaky growl, nails digging deeply into the armrests besides him, “Needa be inside you— f-fuck. Right now.”

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andy-15-07 · 4 days ago

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Can you make a smutty or a hot fan fic of a VS model and an aspiring actress on an interview and she was asked who is her celebrity crush, she says the one and only Pedro and they meet at the met gala where she looks breathtaking and how it goes from there

You Had Me at Met

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1264| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

The studio lights were warm on your skin, your silk dress catching the gleam as you crossed your legs on the plush interview couch. The host smiled, sipping his coffee dramatically, and then leaned forward.

“Okay, last rapid-fire question before we wrap,celebrity crush. Don’t overthink it.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Pedro Pascal.”

The host raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean Daddy himself?”

You grinned, adjusting your neckline just slightly. “Exactly. The one and only.”

The clip went viral within hours. “VS Angel thirsts for Pedro Pascal like the rest of us,” one headline read. You chuckled, scrolling through the comments as you lounged in your hotel room. Apparently, the internet liked your taste.

What you didn’t expect was a DM three days later.

Pedro Pascal: “Just saw your interview. Should I be flattered… or warned?”

You stared at the message, heart thudding. You typed, deleted, then typed again.

You: “That depends. Are you dangerous, Mr. Pascal?”

Pedro: “Only at the Met Gala. You going?”

You smirked.

You: “Guess I’ll see you there then.”

The Met Gala was chaos dressed in couture. You stepped onto the red carpet in a sheer, glittering black gown that clung to every curve, complete with thigh-high slit and a neckline that left little to the imagination. Paparazzi screamed your name, flashes exploded around you, and the cameras caught every angle of your smirk.

But your eyes? They were scanning for him.

And there he was.

Pedro, in a tailored oxblood suit with a silky black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a tease of his chest. His hair was slightly tousled, lips pulled into that wolfish half-smile. You watched his gaze land on you across the crowd,and stay there.

You met him halfway across the gala floor, near a glass sculpture no one cared about.

“Wow,” he said, low and rough.

“Wow, yourself,” you replied, lips twitching.

He didn’t hide the way his eyes roamed your body. “You look like sin in silk.”

“And you look like the man who might finally ruin me,” you whispered back, stepping just a little closer.

His hand brushed your waist,not possessive, but promising. “You flirt like someone who knows exactly what she wants.”

“I do,” you said, voice calm. “Do you?”

Pedro chuckled under his breath, dipping his head near your ear. “Tonight? You.”

Later that night, after too many glances, drinks, and an endless amount of restrained tension, your hand found his under the table at the Met afterparty. His fingers curled over yours immediately, like they’d been waiting for the cue.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice hoarse, inches from your lips.

You squeezed his hand. “Hotel’s five minutes away.”

He paid the tab.

The door slammed shut behind you two in your suite, and before you could even shrug your coat off, his hands were on your waist, then your hips, then your jaw, pulling you into a kiss that hit you like a fever.

You gasped into his mouth, and he growled, deep and primal, backing you into the nearest wall.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second I saw you in that damn dress,” he rasped against your lips, his body pressed hot and solid against yours.

“And I’ve been thinking about this since that DM,” you whispered, fingers working on the buttons of his shirt. “I wanted you the moment you typed the word dangerous.”

He smirked against your neck. “You wanted a villain, huh?”

“I wanted you, Pedro.”

Your gown slipped off your shoulders, and his breath caught.

“Jesus,” he murmured, eyes devouring the skin he uncovered. “You’re… goddamn art.”

You grabbed his belt with one hand and his hair with the other. “Then frame me. Worship me. I don’t want slow tonight.”

Pedro groaned, mouth crashing into yours again as you kicked your heels off and let the gown fall to the floor. You weren’t wearing much beneath it. The way his eyes darkened told you he approved.

He walked you backward to the bed, stripping his shirt off as he went. You trailed your fingers down his chest, then lower, taking in every inch of him.

You climbed onto the mattress, spreading your legs just slightly as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Like what you see?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “I’ve dreamed of less than this and woken up sweating.”

“Then make it real,” you teased.

Pedro knelt at the edge of the bed, grabbing your thighs and dragging you toward him with a force that made you gasp. His mouth found the inside of your leg, teeth grazing lightly.

“You taste as good as you look, I bet,” he murmured, tongue teasing along your skin.

You arched under his touch, breath hitching. “Pedro…”

“I got you, baby,” he said, voice like gravel and honey.

His hands were steady, his mouth hot, and every word he whispered between kisses made your spine tighten. Your fingers threaded into his curls as he brought you to the edge, slow and deliberate.

When he finally pulled himself over you, fully bare, flushed and wild-eyed, he paused.

“You still sure?” he asked, voice trembling slightly.

You grinned. “Why are your pants still on, Pascal?”

That was all he needed.

The moment he was inside you, it was like electricity,rough and raw, but intimate. He kissed you everywhere,neck, collarbone, breasts,as if he were mapping you. The rhythm was fast, urgent, like the months of mutual pining had built to this singular explosion.

Your nails scratched down his back. “Harder.”

He bit your shoulder lightly, hips snapping faster. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

And when it finally hit, when your release overtook you, he held you through it, groaning your name like it was a prayer.

You collapsed together in a tangled heap, sweaty, breathless, giggling between kisses.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered into your neck.

“And you love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

The press didn’t take long to start sniffing.

It began with the accidental Instagram story you posted,a candid of a table setting and Pedro’s unmistakable hand, ring and all, resting next to your wine glass.

Then came the paparazzi shots at a Lana Del Rey concert in London,your hands intertwined as you sang along, oblivious to the cameras.

Fans started dissecting everything: outfits, tweets, political retweets. “She posts a video about women’s rights,” one thread said, “and he posts a similar video four hours later.”

“Look at the watch,” another fan wrote. “SAME WATCH. SAME HAND. SAME MAN.”

Your team begged you to deny it. Your publicist practically choked when Jimmy Fallon pulled up the picture on air.

“So, rumor has it…” he said, grinning. “You and Pedro Pascal. Holding hands. Concert. Is this just friendship now?”

You laughed, brushing your hair over your shoulder like it was all silly fun. “Oh my God, that photo. We were… vibing. Friends vibe too, you know?”

The crowd chuckled. But the glint in your eyes betrayed you.

Jimmy raised his brows. “You sure about that? Because you’re both wearing the same shirt on two different posts last week.”

You feigned shock. “Coincidence.”

He played along. “Uh-huh. Okay, Miss Coincidence.”

But hours later, backstage in your dressing room, Pedro was waiting with takeout, hoodie low over his brow.

“Still just vibing?” he teased, handing you chopsticks.

You kissed his cheek and sank into his lap. “Tell the world what they want, or keep ‘em guessing?”

He smiled against your jaw. “Let ‘em wonder. That way they can’t imagine just how good it really is.”

And God, it was so good.

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luvjaeeee · 2 months ago

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warnings : unprotected pnv (don’t do or do who am i to say), creampie, cheating. lmk if i missed any !

you knew it was wrong

cheating on your boyfriend with chris but you couldn’t help it . he did everything your boyfriend couldn’t which is why you were here , at chris’ house face smushed into his pillow with even stevens serving as background noise

“ he fuck you like this ? “ chris growls as he grabs a fistful of your hair pulling your sweaty back to meet his chest fucking you impossibly faster. your mouth drops allowing filthy whimpers to tumble out making chris’ chest fill with pride knowing he’s the only one who could make you feel like this.

“ i think we should show your little boyfriend how much of a slut you really are for me hm ?“ chris says letting your body fall forward grabbing your phone off the nightstand sliding over to record the both of you. he angles the camera so it can record where the two of you are connected, your slick glistening on camera due to the flash.

“ shit she’s drooling baby “ chris breathes out pulling out so the camera can see all your arousal. he catches the few drops that slide down your thighs onto the sheets below you two. he watches in awe as he runs his tip through your puffy folds eliciting a soft whine from you. he lines his tip up with your entrance pushing in slowly making sure the camera catches the way your cunt eagerly accepts his length, what the camera doesn’t catch is the breathy moan you let out into the pillow as he bottoms out into you. chris chuckles pulling your head back using your hair. “ what was that baby ? “ he asks rhetorically pulling all the way out and pushing back in harder this time making you belt out a louder moan.

he smirks keeping his rough pace making sure the camera catches all of your filthy moans. he moves the phone to be propped on the nightstand making sure the act was being filmed at the right angles. “ alright pretty girl , let’s show him what you can really do “ he whispers into your ear then placing a kiss under it before straightening up and plowing into you repeatedly. “ chris “ you whimper gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white. “ say it again , they can’t hear who’s making you feel this good “ he smirks fixing your arch so you could take him deeper. you let out a wrecked moan of his name again louder this time as his tip repeatedly kisses your cervix. he glances up at the camera to catch your fucked out face and the way your body jerks ever so slightly every time his tip makes contact with that spot.

“ chris , i’m- i- fuck “ you whine , your walls clenching around him. “ shit “ he moans snaking his arm around your waist to rub your clit. your body starts to tremble in his hold as you dig your nails into his forearm as you let go all over his length. his pace never falters as he rides you through your high. your moans turning into fucked out whimpers as he chases his release. “ i know , i know “ chris whispers against your ear placing light kisses on your neck and jaw his thrusts beginning to become sloppier. you let out a loud whine as you feel chris release his load inside you.

“ fuck “ he groans slowly pulling out his cum following after. chris leans over grabbing your phone showing the video yours and his release mixing together slowly leaking out of your fucked out cunt. he licks his lips bringing his fingers swirling it pushing it back into you making you whimper. “ sorry baby “ he mumbles entranced by the sight in front of him. he pulls his fingers out showing the camera and ending the video.

“ you okay ? “ he asks gently flipping you over slowly sliding his cum covered fingers into your mouth. you nod sucking y’all’s mixed release off of his fingers making him smirk.

“ good “ he replies to your nod laying next to you pulling you on top of him lulling you to sleep as he takes your phone sending him and your boyfriend the video you two had just recorded.

chase 🩷

hey man , i got something to tell you

attachment : one video

i’m fucking your girl ;)

a/n : first fic so i’m kinda nervy but lmk what you think :) & a super big thank you to @ariestrxsh for reading this for me <3

divider by : @bernardsbendystraws

#jaee writes ✰#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #chris x reader #sturniolo fanfic

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elletheactualmenace · 2 years ago

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Amazing

Pairing: 10th Doctor x Fem!reader

Summary: Uhh…No plot smut…?

Warnings: Smut, breeding kink, light hearted teasing, tit!play, fem!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

a/n: @abbygraceasd Im done!! Thanks for the request! Also first time smut writer so, uh, sorry if it’s horrible😭 Also, also The Doctor might be a little ooc. Anyways enjoy!

“You are amazing,” the Doctor mumbles against your lips. He leans his body closer to yours, stopping you from escaping his touch.

Your body is squished between The Doctor and your bedroom door. But, you aren’t mad at the situation you have found yourself in. In fact you're happy, as the Doctor moves the hand against the door to trail up and down your clothed body.

You could stay like this forever, you think as your arms wrap around his coat to the back of his neck to grasp at the hairs there. He groans as you tug.

“How was I amazing?” You tease trying to get him riled up more. He leans back slightly smirking at the question.

“You were bold, and brave and you looked so sexy in that outfit you picked out.” He leans in kissing your neck, leaving wet patches on your skin. “And don’t get me started on the touchiness. You knew what you were doing.”

You chuckle out, amused.

“Oh? And what was that?” You ask running your fingers through his brown hair. He hums as he pulls away from a kiss to your shoulder. “You wanted to get me in here.” He pauses, not sure if he should say what he's thinking.

“In you,” He finally whispers, but the second you smirk at his shyness he regrets his tone of voice.

“You’re not wrong,” You purse your lips waiting for his next move. He looks down at you for a moment, taking in your face and the parts of your body he can see at this angle. Oh, how he wants to see you under him, begging for him to cum inside you, to make a mess of you.

The Doctor can feel his already tight pants tighten. He squeezes his eyes shut as he takes a deep breath trying to calm down and take it slow. Just how he knows you like it.

“Okay, enough talking,” He decides and bends down to pick you up into his arms. You let out a gasp of amusement as he pulls you into a heated kiss. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you over to your shared bed.

“Sometimes I forget that you are strong.” You smile into the kiss. The comment causes him to pull back and give you a very offended look. You quickly apologize with a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll have you know that I am a lot tougher than any bodybuilder you can find on Earth.” The Doctor sticks his head up high with pride. “And,” He adds, “I don’t want to hear it from you, you didn’t lift a finger when I asked for help fixing the console,” He's not actually annoyed, he's just messing with you. You know because of the way he rolls his eyes with a smirk.

“Please! It was 4 am and we had been up all night because of you,” The Doctor feels his cheeks heat up at the memory. You couldn’t handle another round, but the Doctor still had loads or energy to get out. So he went to fiddle with the console, and you refused to get up from bed. So, It was a fair point on your part.

“Right…” He says with a grumpy pout. You smirk again.

“That’s what I thought-“ He cuts you off, pressing his lips against yours, letting his tongue run along your bottom lip before diving in. His tongue rolls against yours and he can taste the gum you were chewing earlier. He hums, almost moans, into your mouth as he runs his tongue along every inch of your mouth he can reach.

Your legs tighten around him. You tug on his coat attempting to get it off. And then suddenly you’re dropped onto your soft mattress, gasping for air.

Before the Doctor does anything more, he lets his coat fall to the floor. He loosens his tie, and unbuttons and pulls off his suit jacket and shirt, leaving his tie on.

Your eyes trail over his body slowly, making sure he knows you're doing it. You bite back a groan as his hands brush the bare skin on your hips. He pulls down your pants leaving you in your panties, they are tardis blue and the Doctor smirks. You roll your eyes pulling him by his tie against your lips.

This kiss is soft, slow, and you can really feel the tingle of his warm lips. It makes your stomach tighten in excitement. You can feel the build up of wet heat in your blue panties.

Lord how you want him right here right now.

“Take these off,” you mummer against him, pulling at his trousers. But the Doctor shakes his head pulling away from your reach.

“Oh, no no no,” The Doctor tuts, “I'm in charge here,” his eyes get dark with want and need. The look in his chocolate eyes makes your breath hitch. He leans in again, but this time targeting your thighs.

His mouth meets your soft skin, and he begins sucking gently, looking up at you through his lashes. He runs his hands up and under your shirt, making you squeak at his cold touch. His hands make their way up to your covered breasts. He kneads your chest with his large hands, and you finally throw your head back when you feel his wet tongue press against the fabric of your panties. The only thing separating his needy drooling mouth from your hot wet cunt is a thin piece of fabric.

“Take your top off.” The Doctor demands with a whisper. You comply ripping off your top and throwing it to the floor. The Doctor looks up with lustful eyes.

“Bra too.” You roll your eyes at him as you reach back to unclip it.

“Good.” He smirks.

The Doctor moves to grab hold of the edge of your painties with his teeth. Once he knows his grip is firm he pulls them down. He uses only teeth to pull your underwear all the way down to your feet.

You laugh at his idiotic antics and when he successfully throws your panties to the floor he smiles too.

The Doctor crawls back up your body, and stops when he meets face to face with your bare cunt.

“You look so fucking pretty right now.” You breathlessly whisper as his breath feathers over your slit.

“Mmm” He hums taking in your alluring scent. “But not as pretty as you,” he loops his arm around your thigh giving each a kiss before pulling you flush against his awaiting mouth.

The Doctor moves quickly, spreading your arousal with his tongue. Your breath gets caught in your throat as you feel his lips wrap around your clit, leaving just enough room for his tongue to poke out between his lips and swirl around your clitt.

You fight a groan as his lips suck and his tongue circles. Your body quivers and the Doctor has to use the arms around your thighs to keep you down.

He moves back down to your opening and sticks his tongue in as far as he can get it to go. A growl bubbles up in his throat at the way you squeeze around him. The slurping noises further fuel The Doctor. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go without being balls deep in your drenched hole.

He laps at your cunt a while longer before he pulls back, licking his lips of your arousal. He uses the back of his hand to wipe the excess mess on his chin. All while keeping eye contact with you. It makes your head spin, and you haven't even cum yet.

“Think you're ready for me?” The Doctor asks as he climbs up your body making sure to eye your perky nipples longer then he should.

You only whine and nod in response. The Doctor smiles leaning in to peck your soft lips.

“Say it,” He insists nipping at your neck. “Out loud,” He sighs as he feels your hands run through his hair, the gesture making him lean into your touch with a soft noise of content.

“Y-yeah ‘m ready,” You whisper just loud enough for him to pick up. He smiles, and then pries your mouth open with his tongue. Once he's in, your tongues glide against each other. Moving as softly and swiftly as silk.

The Doctor groans as he pulls back and says, “Good,” with a smirk. He then dips his long fingers into you, where just a few moments ago his mouth was. He streches your tight cunt, trying to loosen you up before he shoves himself in you.

You can feel his bulge against your leg, and you swear on every dalek you ever have and ever will come across that you can feel it growing. You whimper and reach down to undo his pants, desperate for the agonizingly sweet stretch of his cock in you.

“Okay darling,” He chuckles out at your eagerness. “Im working on it,” He tugs his pants down and with them his boxer briefs. His cock springs up, hitting his stomach in excitement.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you ramble out quickly in an attempt to get him faster.

“You need to calm down, or I won’t fuck you.” The Doctor threatens. “And I know how much you want me to.” He whispers the last part in your ear making your checks burn in embarrassment. But, you nod stilling your body, and even through your embarrassment you look up at him with desperate eyes.

The Doctor moves to line up with your entrance and you hold your breath, waiting. As his tip sinks in you. The Doctor lets out a gasp he didn’t know he had in him. And then slowly the rest of his hard cock.

The stretch stings, but it feels so good at the same time. And it is addicting. It’s like fire, so beautiful and welcoming yet it can be lethal if not used with precaution. But oh, how you wanted to swim in the fire. You both slot together like two pieces of a puzzle. So snug, so warm, and so perfect. You never want to leave, even if you end up burning yourself.

“What did I say? Amazing.” The Doctor moans out shuddering at the tight squeeze. You have limited vocabulary at the moment, but you manage to squeak out, “Another to add to-'' You get caught off guard when he pulls out of you almost fully before slamming right back into you. “T-the list, oh fu-fuck,” You studder out, finishing the thought he cut off.

He pulled out again this time faster, and he didn’t wait for as long before pushing in once again. The squelching sounds leave you a babbling mess. You're at The Doctors will. And he knows it just as much as you.

“Please, faster,” You say and The Doctor doesn’t falter in his response, “Why? Do you want me to fill you nice and full with my babies?” He asks, quickening his pace, per your request. You whimper at the idea of bearing his kids. You would be so swollen and full, and he would baby you, fuss about you.

The Doctor's own words fuel his need for you even more than he thought possible. He would love to see your stomach swollen and huge with his heir. He would love to suck on your squishy, fat, breast as he fingers you. He would love to take care of you with his mouth, to help rest your aching body.

“Yes,” You spurt out, “Please,” You choke on your saliva as you watch his body move with yours. The bead of sweat on his forehead. The way his eyebrows scrunch with every movement he makes. His hips hitting yours with enough force to break the bed if he isn’t careful.

You grab hold of his swinging tie tugging it, bringing him lips to meet yours in a passionate, loving kiss. The stretch of his dick in you leaves you whimpering and whining into his mouth.

“Mhhhm,” you moan, you try to move your hand down to your clit. Needing the extra bit of stimulation to get to the beautiful edge sooner. Before you can reach in between the two of you The Doctor snatches your hand, pulling away from your lips.

“Oh, you really are greedy,” he tuts keeping his pace. “Tell me what you want and then I might give it to you.” The Doctor's hand reaches to grope your breast and flick your nipple as he continues to push in and out of you mercilessly.

You whimper and squirm as your eyes water. Your body tingles so close yet so far from where you want to be.

“Please-,” you whine, grasping at his bare shoulders.

“Just make me c-cum,” you babble out quietly. Desperate. Needy.

“How?” The Doctor teases, making you groan in annoyance and pleasure. When you don’t respond, he stops his thrusting completely.

“W-why did you-“

“Use your words or I’ll stop.” He growled out, with his eyes glaring at you. You breathe heavily blinking to get your thoughts straight. The look on his face telling you this was just as hard for him as it is for you.

“Use your fingers,” you pause as he runs his finger against your perched nipple. He raised a brow waiting for you to continue. “On my cli-“

You don’t even have to finish the sentence before he begins pounding you, faster this time. He kiss you cheeks sloppily and whispers into your ear,

“As you wish,” he moves his hand down to your clit, wetting the tips of his fingers with your slick. He runs his fingers up to your swollen, awaiting bud.

He twirls his fingers as his cock stretches you open. He pinches your clit and pounds your cunt, and you swear you can see stars.

“You're perfect.” The Doctor states breathlessly. “So beautiful, so tight and so perfect.” Your hips thrust up to meet him as his words. His voice and body are a song you can’t stop yourself from turning up.

“I'm going to fill you up so beautifully,” he moans out quietly, his heavy balls slapping your ass.

“Fuck-“ you cry, so near your peak. His thrust only gets faster with the sounds you make. His fingers move in quicker circles. The tingle of finishing so close.

“Go on,” he prompts, dipping his head down to suck on your neck. “Cum, for me.”

His words are the final push into the pulsing pleasure. Your body shakes and twitches as he pounds you through your high. He moans softly as you pulse so tightly around him.

“Oh,” he moans, shuddering, “right there,” he grunts not far behind.

You can feel his hips falter and his pace slow. He moans so loud and so beautiful, it carries your high on longer than you thought possible.

“Doctor,” You moan into his ear.

“Milk me sweetheart,” he groans as his hips thrust slower than before. His cum spurts into you, the warmth making you whimper for the hundredth time. You pull rope after rope after rope from his cock.

“So good, so fucking goo-“ he cuts himself off with a soft moan of your name as his eyes roll back. The Doctor's breathing gets jagged as your high turns into a fading buzz.

You feel him come to a slow stop on his wobbly arms. His softened cock slowly pulls out of you. You both hiss as the loss or closeness, and The Doctor finally collapses onto the bed, right next to you. Your naked bodies pull the other one close.

You sigh, contently into his hair. His face squished against your boobs, just how he loves it. He chuckles as he helps you pull the blankets up and over your bodies.

“You're right,” He comments, his breathing slowing down. You don’t respond for a moment, trying to think of what he means.

“Well of course I am,” you scoff softly. “But, just for the sake of the conversation, what am I right about?”

“There is one more thing to add to the list,” he replies simply, nuzzling into your chest.

“What?” You joke, “Being a good fuck?”

“No,” he says slightly taken aback, but the slight smile gives his true intentions away.

“Being a good wife.” He states calmly.

You chuckle and place a kiss on his messy head of hair.

#x reader #doctor who x you #10th doctor #smut #10th doctor x reader #doctor who x reader #doctor who #tenth doctor #doctor who smut #the doctor

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sapphos-maiden · 3 months ago

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THE INNER CIRCLE CIRCUS

(Can someone please hand me some wine because this is gonna be long...)

Inner Circle Circus stans are you guys okay cuz you're telling me that a bunch of drunkards and clowns are canonically the heads of an entire court???

• Let us start with RhySAnd

The "most powerful high lord" is clearly not the smartest because which person in power in his right mind would have such an unstable court? This man has 2/3rds of his court living in misery and only utilising them when it suits his needs. The Hewn City has been given free rein to mistreat and abuse the women population as and when they like and RhySAnd as a ruler should have implemented laws long ago! Laws are the basis of social change!! And then we have the Illyrians whom Cas*ian himself considers to be expendable pawns and the inner circle even thinks they should be wiped off the face of the earth because they couldn't be courageous enough to actively try and educate them or set laws. I mean ofc if a community that has backward tradItions and doesn't comply with you... Means that they should go through ethnic cleansing, right?

• Amren

The four-foot, possibly a felon, grandma hobbit with a bob cut who can only be mean and tyrannical is the second-in-command? She literally suggested that RhySAnd be the High King and exploit the Archeron sisters by using their powers just because all of them ended up in the Night Court. Do you hear yourself oldie??? Calling someone "girl" or "child" clearly doesn't prove that she's mature even though she might have lived for over a century.

• Morrigan

Wtf is THE MORRIGAN YALL. TRUTH TELLER FROM WHAT ANGLE😃⁉️ this bit*h was giving Nesta sh*t and telling her that she should be thrown into Hewn City or Human Lands all because she was drinking and sleeping around? HMMM I WONDER WHAT MORRIGAN DOES IN HER FREE TIME. BECAUSE IT SURE AS HELL ISN'T ACTIVE WORK TO HELP THE HEWN CITY, WHICH SHE IS THE INCHARGE OF. She herself is drinking and sleeping around but once Nesta does it as a coping mechanism, it isn't classy anymore? She just shows up to Hewn City in fancy and scanty clothing every now and then just to glare at them. I wonder what the women who are still going through torture must think of her. "The Morrigan" who could have maybe helped them.

• Cassian

SJM made him Nesta's mate when he really should have been RhySAnd's. Have you seen how that man tries to defend RhySAnd. And then uses his trauma to justify each one of his wrong doings and petty acts just because Nesta asked him to respect her boundaries. Literally threw a tantrum and then stalked her like a creep. Overgrown manchild istg.

• Azriel

I don't have much to say about him because he just seems like a victim of manipulation to me tbh. I wonder if he'll actually have the guts to stand up against RhySAnd's manipulation, something which Cassian seems to treat as his religion. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt though I clearly don't understand how someone can be quiet all the time and actively ignore every wrongdoing.

• Feyre

The moment she learns to read... Voila! We've got a new high lady!!! Girl please get off your ass and try and help your people in the slums of Velaris who are going through the same sh*t that you once endured. Go help the Illyrian women who can never fly but whose wings you flaunt. But no she gotta paint, build her fifth mansion and then make Nesta earn her love and be redeemed so that she can live freely.

Phew- that was long. I gotta go on a vacation and revive my mental peace after reading the bs in ACOTAR.

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theseinfernalangels · 7 days ago

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The Morning After — Dain Aetos

Synopsis: Hangovers, hookups, and a nice, Dain-shaped bedwarmer. Surely this won’t get awkward?

Includes: FINALLY some Dainya lore, suggestiveness, they were both wasted (please be careful with your alcohol!), drugs, first year chaos, crack. Takes place before Fourth Wing.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re awake earlier than your body is used to. Maybe it’s the fact that your limbs are sore and heavy. Maybe it’s the way your head is spinning, and your throat is dry.

No. It’s actually the way you’re not alone in your bed.

Correction: Not your bed. Your blankets are gray, and these are black. You have no fucking clue where you are.

You should be on edge. Really, you should. However, the warmth of whoever is next to you, plus a strong, grounding arm circled around your waist, keeps you from wanting to move. Warm, but not stuffy. Tight, but not restraining. It feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, but from who?

You’re not exactly at the best angle to look up — your head is tucked under their chin, more or less approaching the crook of their neck — so you close your eyes again and think back to last night, trying to track every single blurry moment in your memory.

You were in someone else’s room yesterday, with your squad and some other section-mates who you hardly interact with outside of training. It must’ve been Quinn’s, then, since she’s the most likely to want to have people over at night. What else was there?

Lots of laughter. A game or two of poker. Probably some churam. Cherry wine…and a lot of it.

You were sitting next to…someone, who kept to their own space and didn’t even try to touch you until you were out in the hallway, a light hand at your back to guide you through the halls until you were pressed against a door. Patient hands, stilling gently against your ribs until you gave a whispered okay, slightly chapped lips stained to hell with wine finding yours instantly.

It all blurs completely from there, besides their eyes. Warm brown that glints like polished bronze in the mage lights.

Wait. No.

You go still, fighting the urge to jerk upwards.

Holy gods.

I think I just fucked Dain Aetos.

A dry rumble catches your attention. “Good morning to you, too,” Fíoch yawns. “Sounds like you had an eventful evening.”

Without any precedent or warning, you feel him take a nosedive right into your memories, which you can barely see for yourself. For a moment, he’s quiet, but then your head is filled with cackling laughter.

“Oh, yes,” he purrs. You can almost imagine him wiping an imaginary tear from his eyes with his tail. “Eventful indeed.”

“Shut up!” Your face grows hot. “What the hell do I do? I can’t just leave.”

“You’re asking a dragon how to escape the morning after?” Fíoch snorts. “Anam, I truly love you, but I’m afraid you’re not getting out of this one.”

Against your better judgement, you let out a quiet groan of exasperation and then immediately regret it when you catch the noise of a sharp inhale from above.

“Fuck.”

Heat floods down your back. Well, there goes your plans of a quiet escape.

The arm around you tenses and then goes still, as if he’s only finally realizing exactly what he’s holding on to.

Dain slowly retracts his arm and leans back, enough that he can see your face but keep close, and makes a faint choking noise. Embarrassment, maybe?

You beat him to the punch. “This…is kind of awkward.”

Dain, in classic Aetos manner, clears his throat and schools his face into something more neutral — but there’s no hiding the pink that rises to his pretty cheekbones.

“Holt,” he manages, keeping his gaze trained firmly on the wall behind you. “Did we…?”

You look down at yourself, clad only in your underwear and a baggy shirt — his shirt. It’s soft, probably cotton and some fabric softener that makes it feel more like a blanket than a shirt against the tops of your thighs. You want to make a face, but you can’t; it’s warm, soft, and it smells good. No one in their right mind would complain about that.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “I think so.”

Dain’s face contorts into something familiar: strict, controlled, level. The sight should reassure you, seeing as it’s the only thing you really know in Dain’s regard, but it doesn’t. Instead, an uncomfortable prickle ripples up the back of your neck as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t.”

He halts and closes his mouth. You just meet his eyes and shake your head, suppressing the urge to flinch at the stinging feeling.

“Don’t do that.”

He blinks, the usual restraint in his eyes becoming…hesitant. “Do what?”

“That,” you emphasize. “You know, the thing you do whenever you lose control over a situation and don’t know what to do. You start pretending. I don’t like it. It won’t make the situation any less embarrassing for either of us.”

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t have to, really. He just looks away for a moment before his features go slack, back to a man half-caught in sleep rather than someone alert and on the prowl.

You like him better like this. Less uptight.

“Well,” he says after a moment. “At least you’re honest.”

Your lips curl into a wry smile. “I always am.”

The silence becomes predictably loud. After all, what are you supposed to say after sleeping with someone you barely like? With someone you barely know?

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For this, I mean. If it makes you uncomfortable at all, I get it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. We were both wasted, and probably a little high.”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk quirking at the edge of his mouth. “A little? I think we hotboxed Quinn’s room. She’ll need to keep her windows open all day, everyday to get the remnants out.”

A part of you still can’t believe Dain was even there. Of course, he’s a First-Year, too, so he’s allowed to be just as reckless — and, given the way you’ve seen his father speak to him, he probably needs it. But Dain Aetos? Getting drunk and high and then sleeping with a girl who he ignores most of the time? The you from August would hardly believe it.

He shifts a little and sits up slowly, half-dragging you with him with a hand at your back. He glances back down at what you suppose is your messy form, probably not much unlike how you normally look. It usually makes him roll his eyes, the way you can be so unkempt sometimes in comparison to his pristine condition.

Now, though, he just watches.

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

He blinks, as if coming out of a trance.

“Sorry,” he stammers — so unlike the Dain you’re used to. “It’s just— I’ve never seen you with your hair down.”

At the mention, you reach up and drag your fingers through the messy strands, definitely tangled from last night’s endeavors. You should’ve cut it before Parapet, really, but you can’t bring yourself to let a pair of scissors touch it. If Basgiath could get away in stealing your humanity from you, you could at least keep the hair.

“Is that a bad thing?” you ask, glancing around for the usual scraps of leather you use to tie it back. One sits on Dain’s bedside table, but the other is nowhere in sight. You’ll have to make due.

“No,” Dain says, blush painting his cheeks red. “It looks…nice.”

You snort and tie your hair back and finally look back at him, his eyes still averted and trained down on his fidgeting hands. This side of him is better, you decide. Awkward. Honest. Less uptight and more human — which, to be fair, is dangerous in a place like this, but no less better for your spirit.

More silence. More staring on your part. When did you lose your usual gift of chatter so easily?

“Say something,” Fíoch prods. “It doesn’t have to sound intelligent. Just rid yourselves of the unease and you’ll be out shortly.”

Fucking dragons and their fucking smart advice.

“Here,” you sigh. “Are we okay, Aetos? Still have a truce from mutual dislikement?”

He turns back towards you, eyebrows furrowing with a flash of something in his eyes. “I’ve never disliked you. But, sure.”

No stinging at the back of your neck. It’s the truth.

Well. Now it’s your turn to become red in the face. You’ve probably hurt his feelings.

Fíoch doesn’t help. “Smooth.”

“Uh…” You smooth a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean it like—“

“You want me to walk you back to your room?” he interrupts. “It’d be bad form to make you go alone so early.”

You can’t decide whether you want to scold yourself or to lean down and scream into your hands. First, you wake up in his bed. Second, you basically insult him, and now he wants to walk you back? Good grief. Once you’re alone, you’ll definitely need to slam your face into a window.

But it’s kind of him, at least, that he doesn’t want you to look like an absolute loser sneaking around in the dark. Even though your room is nearby, a walk of shame is still a walk of shame, and in your case…yeah. Shame doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“That’d be nice,” you concede. “Thanks, Aetos.”

You manage to haul yourself out of his bed (He must be good — when the hell did your legs get so sore?) and track down your discarded clothes that lay messily on the floor. Dain, for his part, turns away (thank every god) as you pull your pants up your legs, and before you can make a snide remark about privacy, you catch a glimpse of him that makes your breath hitch.

With Dain turned away, you get the most perfect view of his back profile, and, fuck if you’re not praising Amari Herself for taking Her time on him. He’s lean, sure, but he’s still broad, and beyond the pale scars that stand out against the tanned skin of his back, you can see his muscles ripple as he reaches for a clean shirt from his drawer.

Right. Clothes on.

You grab his shirt, warm from your own heat, and begin to fold it neatly. “You didn’t have to look away, you know. You’ve already seen me naked.”

From his side, you hear an exasperated sigh. You snicker at his answer. “It’s called being respectful, Holt. I know you’d do the same for me.”

You suppress the urge to tease him further and continue folding. “Fair. It’d be the right thing to do.”

Dain peeks over his shoulder and fully faces you once he sees you wiping your hands on your pants. You’re still probably disheveled, but at least you have actual clothes on.

“I won’t say anything about this,” he tells you. “I know you probably wouldn’t want people to know we slept together.”

“That’s fine,” you reassure him. “I don’t think anyone would care much, but it would save me from teasing.”

He flicks his wrist and unlocks his door. “Teasing?”

“You know.” You drift closer to him and mentally chide yourself (Seriously. Why does he smell so good?). “I don’t want people to think I’m trying to fuck my way into some social standing.”

He pauses, a shadow of unease passing over his face — probably from your crudeness. “Because of my father?”

At least he’s not dumb. “Yeah. Sorry to phrase it like that, but it’s the truth.”

You can’t help the little shiver that passes through you at his response as he ushers you through the door. “It always is when it’s you, huh?”

If only Dain knew the irony. Like his, your signet’s been classified, but only for its strange sensitivity. Maybe if you were mediocre, he wouldn’t even make comments like that.

“I try.” You brush it off with a shrug. “I’m not a fan of liars.”

“That makes two of us.” He falls into step next to you, and it takes every ounce of your restraint to keep from calling him out right in the open hallway. No one else is awake, save for a few Third-Years coming off duty, but if you pointed out his need for pretending in front of everyone, that comment from earlier about not disliking you would soon be replaced by a few sharp glares.

You could take it from anyone else. Not Dain, though.

You come to a halt in front of your door, not too far from his own, and lean against the wooden frame.

“Thank you,” you tell him earnestly. “Seriously. I know this probably feels embarrassing for you.”

His brows just furrow. “Not really. Let’s just forget about it, yeah? I won’t tell, and you won’t tell.”

A half-hearted smile curves your lips as you try and disguise a wince. “Deal. See you, Aetos.”

He returns your smile and turns to walk briskly back to his room. You stride into your own room and close the door softly before leaning back against it and sliding to the floor slowly, as if the gravity of the situation was getting to you, too.

“Not really.”

Heat flares at the back of your neck. You’re not sure which is worse in your book: The fact that he’s embarrassed by what happened last night, the fact that he lied, or the fact that you’re slightly upset about it.

You know he’s never really liked you, no matter how much he claims to not dislike you. It must be a part of him, you think. He’s so uptight sometimes, and you’re so…loose, like a summer wind with no direction or command to it. You’re so different from one another, he couldn’t possibly ever actually like you, and you don’t care if he does.

The sting at your neck becomes hotter. Shit. Even lying to yourself has become impossible. Fíoch would tell you to be proud of yourself. Your mothers would scold you for even considering that as an option.

With an unceremonious groan, you tilt your head back until it hits the wood of the door with a quiet thud.

Why can’t he just stop being…him? Why can’t Dain Aetos just fuck right off and be like every other guy here, faceless and nameless and unimportant to you in every sense but a few? He hasn’t done much in the realm of helping you, so he really shouldn’t stick out to you…yet he does.

Tides of embarrassment flood you. This isn’t like you. You don’t get side-railed just because you woke up in bed with a guy.

But he’s not just a guy. He’s Dain. And, unfortunately for you, you like Dain, no matter how much you don’t really want to. No other guy here would go through the trouble of making you comfortable and then walking you back to save you the shame, and you can’t tell if that’s awesome or terrible.

“Not that it matters,” Fíoch butts in, “but I, personally, am glad he did that. Now your inner conflict won’t be so loud and obvious whenever he comes into your line of sight.”

Your head falls forward, into your knees. “That doesn’t help me.”

The dragon chuckles. “I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to keep your head in line for whenever that male happens to be around you.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Naturally, Anam. Naturally.”

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

You know every truth, every answer, every secret that floats through the halls carried by whispering winds, but nothing exists to tell you how Dain sprawls on his bed with his face buried in a pillow.

You. He got drunk and ended up sleeping with you, of all people.

On one hand, he should be thankful. You’re one of the only people in his proximity that doesn’t flat-out avoid him like the plague. You’re easy to be around, funny, and honest. Maybe to a fault, but you’re honest all the same.

But you’re so dangerous. You weren’t raised to be a soldier. He can hardly be in the same room with you without unconsciously keeping an eye out for you, lest you fall into danger accidentally. Gods, he can’t even keep his mind straight around you; your scent clings to his sheets — jasmine, amber, and sex — and it takes everything in him not to groan out loud, to roll over and fist the sheets and—

Fuck. He shouldn’t. You don’t even like him. You said it yourself. Mutual dislikement. That’s not even a word, yet he’s clinging to it like a desperate, starving creature. You don’t like him, and he shouldn’t like you, but the reality of it all, plus memories of last night, has him tempted to come crawling back for more.

He won’t, of course. You’re too good for that — for him. Too good for drunken hookups and guys like him who blush every time your eyes meet.

Yet you both still did it. Yet you woke up, didn’t try to run, called him out on his bullshit, folded his fucking shirt, and let him walk you back to your room.

Dain cracks one eye open and turns to look back at his bedside table. Your forgotten hair tie lies right on top of his beaten, dog-eared copy of the Codex like a bruise on pale skin. It doesn’t belong in here with him, but that didn’t stop him from taking it.

Why? To remember? To try and see if you’ll come back to look for it, just for another excuse to see you with your hair down?

Gods, he’s a mess. But at least you don’t know the truth about him. You already have seen him at one of his most vulnerable places, even if the memories are blurred, but if you were to see him like this…

Well. His dignity would be doomed, to say the least.

Taglist: @wonderstruckbyyou, @jessicalee22likestowrite, @freezerbride18, @ineednewdaggers, @suspicious-stain-in-spain, @kienhawon, @goldenmagnolias, @bi-incog-btch, @gracie-rosee, @lxnvmvrzx

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#fourth wing #the empyrean #iron flame #onyx storm #dain aetos #dain aetos imagine #dain aetos x reader #dain aetos x oc #dain & anya #anya holt #fourth wing imagine #empyrean fic

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seospicybin · 9 months ago

Text

TEST DRIVE.

Changbin x reader. (s,f)

Chapters: #1 / #2

Synopsis: Changbin made a perfect plan on how to spend a day with you only for the weather to ruin it. (4,1k words)

Author's note: Just a quick fic of sweet and sexy boyfriend biker!changbin that will make you go 😳🥰☺️💗💘💓❤ or it could be just me.

Changbin has crafted the perfect day for the two of you. He plans to take you on a morning ride, watching the sunrise as he cruises down the highway, followed by breakfast at your favorite diner, and then a scenic ride to a nearby town to explore new places together.

However, the weather has different plans for both of you.

Rain pours steadily outside, and the gray sky casts a gloomy shadow in your bedroom. Yet, it creates the perfect atmosphere for snuggling under the covers.

What starts as lazy morning cuddles quickly turns into something more heated, and before you know it, the duvet is thrown off the bed, and both of you are completely naked.

Even in the dim light, Changbin looks magnificent. Every muscle in his body flexes under your touch, hot and firm against your skin. As he kneels on the bed, holding your legs by the knees, you get the perfect view of him in all his glory.

Slowly, he runs his hands down the inside of your thighs, and you can’t help but part your legs for him, exposing yourself completely. His eyes darken with lust as they drop to your wetness, and he swallows hard, the sight clearly affecting him.

“Horny eyes,” you tease with a sly smile.

Changbin doesn’t even try to hide where his gaze is. His hands stroke up and down your legs as he softly mutters, “You’re gorgeous… beautiful. I still can’t believe you.”

One thing about Changbin is he never says things he doesn’t mean. His voice carries pure admiration, and it sends a flutter through your chest.

You let out a shaky moan as he starts to push into you, slow and steady. The sensation makes your breath catch, and when he thrusts forward, your head nearly bumps into the headboard.

His hand immediately flies to cradle your head. “Are you okay?”

You laugh softly. “Yeah.”

He grins, eyes playful. “I'm sorry.”

“No. Don't be sorry.” You grip his biceps, feeling the power behind them. “Do that again.”

Changbin might seem tough on the outside, but you know how gentle he really is. Beneath that exterior is someone who moves with care, making sure every motion is filled with intensity and purpose. He lifts your hips slightly off the bed, angling just right to send waves of pleasure through you.

All your previous lovers with their below average sex games are distant memories now that you're experiencing the intense pleasure of lying under Changbin. The way he moves, deliberate yet passionate, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before.

“This is what we should be doing at six in the morning,” you murmur with a breathy smile, your hands drifting to your chest to tease your own nipples for extra sensation.

The rain taps softly on the window, but the rhythmic slapping of his hips against you quickly drowns it out. He lifts one of your ankles to rest on his shoulder, leaning in as he thrusts deeper, his gaze locked on your face.

“I think I’m going to die,” you moan dramatically, your body trembling beneath him.

He smirks, that cocky look only making him more attractive. He keeps the pace steady, driving you higher and higher toward your peak.

You reach out to touch him, but your arms are shaking too much, finally falling back above your head as you surrender to the pleasure.

“Don’t stop, please,” you beg, breathless.

“I won’t,” he whispers, lowering himself so his body presses against yours. He kisses your skin, trailing from your breasts to your mouth, kissing you with intensity.

“Do you know what I want right now?” you ask, your voice soft as his lips hover near yours.

He smirks again, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, baby.”

You wind your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “I want your cum all over me.”

His eyes widen slightly, clearly enjoying your request. “Yeah? You want that?”

“Yes,” you murmur, your voice laced with desire.

That’s all he needs to hear. Changbin moves faster now, his thrusts growing more urgent as he chases his own release.

"Ou, yes, please."

“Give it to me.”

“Cum all over me.” you continously moan, watching as he teeters on the edge, his breathing becoming ragged.

With a low groan, he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty for just a moment. He grips his cock, pumping it as his eyes stay locked on you, your body open and ready for him.

The first hot streak of his release splashes across your chest, followed by more across your breasts and stomach. You gasp, a satisfied smile spreading across your face as you take in the sight of him, powerful and spent. You reach for him, pulling him down for a deep, lingering kiss.

In the hazy aftermath, you whisper in his ear, “Do you know what I want now?”

He chuckles softly. “Coffee?”

You laugh, nodding. “Yeah.”

“We’ll get you cleaned up first,” he says, glancing down at the mess he’s made on your skin. “I’ll start the shower.”

He kisses you once more before getting off the bed, his strong back flexing as he walks toward the bathroom. Despite the rain, this morning is perfect, and you smile to yourself, enjoying the best morning sex and the best view you could ever ask for.

Even though the rain has stopped, Changbin figures it’s too late to follow through with his original plan, so the two of you decide to go out for lunch instead, making the most of the clear skies while the sun is still shining. He’s already downstairs, warming up the engine of his bike, which has been drenched in rain all morning.

You step outside, slinging your bag across your chest, and immediately catch sight of him. His figure, relaxed but commanding as he checks his bike, makes your heart skip a beat.

"Can you stop looking so hot?" you ask, teasing him with a playful smirk.

Changbin looks up from his bike, puzzled. “What?”

You gesture with your head toward a group of girls hanging out by their car across the parking lot. They’re giggling, clearly eyeing him, and one of them even dares to wave.

“Sorry, ladies, he’s taken,” you call out possessively, shooting them a glare that could cut through steel.

Changbin can't help but chuckle. You look so cute right now, fiercely protective and full of sass. He quickly strides over and presses a kiss to your lips—not just for your sake, but to prove a point. He’s yours, and he’s proud of it.

But apparently, it’s not enough. As he swings a leg over his bike, the girls call out, "Call me!" with exaggerated confidence.

You roll your eyes, but Changbin just shakes his head, revving the engine as the two of you ride off. He’s used to the attention, but it means nothing when you’re the one by his side.

Since you only had a light breakfast, you decide to go all out for lunch. The two of you order plenty of food, and Changbin already knows he’ll probably end up finishing most of your meal for you. But it doesn’t bother him at all—he loves watching you enjoy yourself, and your joyful smile makes him happier than anything else.

“Is it good?” he asks, his voice soft as he watches you take another big bite.

You nod excitedly, cheeks full of food. “Mm-mmh.”

He reaches across the table, gently pinching your cheek. “Eat well, baby.”

After lunch, you both hop back on the bike and take a short ride to the pier, the same place where he took you on your first date. The two of you grab ice cream and sit by the water, watching the waves lazily lap against the shore, even though dark clouds occasionally pass by, blocking the sun.

Out of nowhere, you ask, “Do you think we’d still be together if I hadn’t said hi and told you you’re cute?”

The question catches him off guard. He hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you mention it, the thought of a life without you makes his chest tighten. If he hadn’t responded to you at the traffic lights, his life would be completely different. He might still be single, riding around aimlessly, not knowing the kind of happiness you’ve brought into his life.

Changbin playfully grins. “I’d find you and tell you you’re cute.”

You burst out laughing, and he can’t help but smile with you. He doesn’t even want to think about the other possibilities—what could’ve been if you hadn’t crossed paths. Just the thought alone makes his heart ache.

Looking up at the darkening sky, Changbin notices the shift in the weather. “I think it’s going to rain again,” he comments as he climbs back onto the bike.

Instead of hopping on behind him like you usually do, you circle around and straddle him from the front, holding onto his shoulders and facing him. The sudden move catches him off guard, and he nearly struggles to keep the bike balanced for a moment.

After parking the bike more securely, he wraps his hands around your waist, steadying you. “Is this how we’re going to ride now?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You flash him a sly grin, your arms looping around his broad shoulders. “Uh-huh, yes.”

Changbin chuckles, pulling you closer, his hands instinctively gripping the back of your thighs, lifting you higher. “I like it, but it might be a bit… distracting.”

“Distracting how?” you ask innocently, placing soft kisses along his jaw and then on his lips, teasing him further.

He smiles against your lips, his hands continuously rubbing the sides of your thighs, but he can’t help himself—his fingers squeeze your ass gently, sending a shiver down your spine. “Utterly distracting,” he murmurs.

Without you, his days wouldn’t be nearly as colorful. You’ve brought so much joy and warmth into his life, and he’s grateful for every moment with you. He cups your jaw tenderly and leans in, kissing you deeply. It starts soft and romantic, but quickly turns more heated, more intense. You both know you’re making a scene for anyone nearby, but neither of you seems to care.

When he finally pulls away, it’s with great reluctance. He presses one last kiss to your lips, lingering there for a moment longer before whispering, “We’d better head home before the rain hits.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Okay,” you agree, your voice soft and full of affection.

As you finally climb off and settle onto the back of the bike, the sky above rumbles quietly. Changbin revs the engine once more, and the two of you take off, racing against the rain, hearts full and content.

It’s never a dull moment with you.

As Changbin rides through the city streets, you can’t help but let your hands wander, feeling the solid contours of his body. When the lights turn red, he offers his hand to you, letting you hold it until it’s time to ride again.

Every so often, you give in to your playful thoughts and squeeze his chest muscles. He chuckles and gently brings your hands back around his waist, only for you to catch him off guard and do it again. His soft groan in response only encourages you further.

When Changbin finally pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, he turns off the engine, but you don’t move. You cling to his back, refusing to get off the bike.

“Let’s go,” he coaxes gently, rubbing your arm with his gloved hand.

“No,” you mutter, your helmet still on, your voice slightly muffled.

“Okay, then we’re going to stay here all night,” he sighs, leaning back against you as if to settle in. His tone is playful, but you can feel the warmth of his body and the comfort in just being close.

After a moment, he taps the visor of your helmet. “You,” he says softly, “off the bike.”

You shake your head, firmly planted against his back.

With a sigh of mock defeat, Changbin gets off the bike. He then grabs you by the waist and effortlessly lifts you off, setting you on the ground.

“Let’s get inside before it rains,” he says, taking your hand as the first drops start to fall.

He’s right, of course. By the time you both reach the lobby, the rain is coming down in earnest. You pause to collect your mail and packages, and without asking, Changbin picks up a few of them to carry.

“What are these?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Just a few things I bought online,” you reply casually, pressing the button for your floor in the elevator.

“You bought a lot,” he comments, sounding almost surprised, but quickly adds, “Not that it’s bad, just... a lot.”

“Because... I have money to spend,” you say with a proud smile.

Once inside your apartment, Changbin sets everything down on the table and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returns to the living room, he watches you rip open the first package. The contents look unfamiliar to him—small, sleek items.

“What are those?” he asks, genuinely intrigued.

“Lip liners,” you explain, heading to your vanity to try one out. When you come back, your lips are painted in a soft, pale pink.

You sit on his lap, leaning close and pursing your lips at him. “What do you think?”

Changbin gazes at you, taking in the subtle change. “It looks good on you,” he says honestly, his hand finding its way to your waist.

Your smile widens as you lean in, your lips still puckered for a kiss. He obliges, giving you a soft, closed-mouth kiss, his hand gently cupping your jaw.

When you pull back, he grins. “How does it look on me now?”

You laugh, noticing the faint transfer of your lipstick onto his lips. “Even better,” you tease, giving him another quick peck.

You continue to open more packages—makeup, skincare products, hair accessories—until you reach the final box. As soon as you crack it open, a fragrant smell fills the room.

“Oh! We should try one of these tonight,” you gasp, holding up a bath bomb.

Changbin looks at it, unfamiliar. “What’s that?”

“Bath bombs!” you say, excitement evident in your voice as you hand him the box.

Without waiting for him to respond, you’re already heading toward the bathroom. “You pick which one we use, and I’ll get the bath ready.”

The bath bomb turns the water a soft pink, filling the bathroom with a sweet, citrusy scent. You slip into the tub first, and Changbin follows, carefully lowering himself in to avoid splashing too much water. He leans back against your chest, and your arms automatically wrap around his waist. You kiss the back of his neck, then rest your hand across his broad chest.

“I love that you’re big,” you murmur as you gently scoop water and let it drip over his chest.

“And why is that?” he asks, his hand rubbing your thigh under the water.

“Because there’s a lot of you I can hold,” you reply softly, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek.

This moment feels different to Changbin. He’s had relationships before, but none like this. It's obvious that he admires you and he doesn't shy away from showing that to you but what makes you different from the others is that you reciprocate the same to him. With you, he feels just as admired, cared for, and fully himself. It’s a kind of intimacy he’s never experienced, and it’s both comforting and exhilarating.

“My big boy,” you sigh happily, turning his head so you can kiss him. He relaxes into your embrace, feeling completely at ease as you hold him, the warmth of the water and your closeness enveloping him.

After a moment of quiet, you speak up. “Baby, I want you to answer some questions.”

“Okay,” he replies, his voice soft and relaxed.

“I’m going to say a statement, and you’re going to rate it. One to ten,” you explain.

“Alright,” he agrees, curious but ready to play along.

“For example, when I say ‘She’s a 10 but she smokes,’ you rate it based on your personal preference. Got it?”

“Easy. Two,” he answers without hesitation.

You smile, appreciating how quick he is to play along. “Okay, first one: She’s a 10 but she’s a fangirl of a book character.”

Changbin thinks for a second. “Still a 10. No problem with that.”

You nod approvingly. “She’s a 10 but she spends a lot of money on makeup.”

His eyebrow quirks up, but his answer is confident. “Still a 10.”

“Why?” you challenge, already knowing why.

“She spends her money on things that make her happy,” he says simply, “and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

You grin. “She’s a 10 but she can be moody.”

“Everyone gets moody sometimes,” he replies, growing more confident. “Still a 10.”

“She’s a 10 but she’s a picky eater.”

Changbin groans because he's actually don't like picky eaters and you're one of them. However, he tolerates you because he likes you, he only needs to encourage you to try some food you don't like.

“Dinner might be a struggle but... 10.”

You tilt your head to look at him with narrowed eyes, "You don’t sound so sure."

"Okay, maybe... 9?" He honestly shares with a wince.

You don't respond to his corrected answer and continue with the next question. “She’s a 10 but she’s obsessed with you and wants to touch you all the time.”

This makes Changbin smile wide. He knows exactly who you’re talking about because you're doing it to him right now.

“Eleven,” he says without hesitation. “You can touch me all you want.”

You chuckle at that. “Who says I’m talking about me?”

“Oh, sure, yeah, they're not about you,” he teases, pulling you in for another kiss.

As the night deepens, the soft patter of rain turns into a roaring thunderstorm. The sound is a rhythmic lull, a backdrop to the warm comfort of the bed you and Changbin share. Neither of you bother with clothes, opting to snuggle close under the thick covers, seeking the shared heat of each other’s skin.

You lay on top of him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he rests on his back. His head is turned to the side, offering you the perfect view of his exposed neck. You take full advantage, peppering his skin with delicate kisses, starting from his collarbone and working your way up.

"You smell amazing," you whisper between kisses, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of him.

Changbin’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a soft sigh, his hand gripping your waist while you lightly nibble on the shell of his ear. He groans, the sound deep in his chest, as you touch one of his sensitive spots. His body responds to your every touch, and you can’t help but giggle, feeling a rush of affection for him.

"I want to snort you," you tease, your lips brushing against his ear before making a slow, deliberate trail down his front.

In the darkness of the room, you feel his muscles tense under your kisses. You burrow further under the duvet, making your way down his torso. Your lips finally meet his hardening member, and you feel his breath hitch in response.

"Oh, baby..." he sighs, his voice raspy and full of need.

He can’t see you beneath the covers, but that only heightens his other senses. The soft press of your lips, the heat of your breath—it all becomes magnified. You kiss and lick along his length, your tongue tracing every vein and curve, driving him to the edge of his control.

His hips lift off the mattress as your mouth finally wraps around him, inch by inch, until you take him fully. His breath is ragged now, every sigh and groan evidence of the pleasure coursing through him.

"Baby..." he moans, his hand finding the back of your head, encouraging you as you move with purpose.

You work him with your hand and mouth in sync, savoring the way his body responds to your touch. The muffled sound of the rain outside, combined with the wet, sloppy sounds of your movements, fills the room.

When you slow your pace, pulling away, you replace your mouth with your hand, keeping the stimulation steady. You re-emerge from under the duvet, the soft glow from the storm outside casting shadows across your naked form.

Changbin’s eyes darken with lust as you smile down at him, your hair tousled and lips swollen.

"There’s my beautiful girl," he whispers, his hand resting on your waist as you straddle him.

"Did you like that?" you ask coyly, though his whimpers have already given you the answer.

His hands slide up your sides, brushing past your ribs as he looks up at you. "Come here," he rasps, his voice low, "let me kiss that sweet mouth of yours."

You lean in, letting your face hover just above his. He cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips.

"This mouth," he murmurs, "it knows how to make me feel so good."

He pulls you down into a kiss, hard and deep, his lips moving against yours with raw hunger. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his body, leaving no space between you.

"Baby," you breathe, pulling away slightly, your lips still brushing against his. "I'm not done yet."

His brow arches, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Oh?" he asks, his voice laced with curiosity.

You sit up again, your hand resting on his chest as the other slips between your bodies, your fingers finding his cock. Slowly, you rub him along your slick folds, coating him with your essence, teasing him with every movement.

Changbin groans, his hands gripping your thighs as you position him at your entrance. You slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to his size.

"Always taking me so well," he mutters, his voice thick with desire as his hands tighten around your waist.

You gasp, your body trembling as you roll your hips, the sensation of him filling you making you moan softly. The two of you find a rhythm, your movements slow and deliberate, savoring every moment.

"How are you so good, hmm?" Changbin grunts, his hands roaming your body, squeezing your thighs, your waist, your breasts. "How do you always feel so good?"

You clench around him on purpose, earning another low groan from him. His hands find your rear, guiding your movements as you begin to pick up the pace, bouncing on him now.

The sound of your skin slapping together mixes with the rain outside, creating a symphony of pleasure.

"Keep going, baby," he encourages, his voice strained with need. "Keep going."

Your nails dig into his chest as you ride him faster, your head tilting back as the pleasure builds. You’re close, and so is he. He grabs your neck, forcing you to look at him, his eyes locked on yours.

"You're going to make me cum, right baby?" he growls.

"Yeah," you whisper, breathless, a smile tugging at your lips.

"That’s right, baby. That’s my girl," he murmurs, pulling you down for a heated kiss, your lips meeting in a frenzy of passion.

Your bodies move in perfect sync, working together to chase that final release. Changbin bucks his hips up into you, matching your rhythm, his grip on you tightening as he feels you begin to tremble above him.

"So close," he groans. "Come on, baby, cum with me."

Your body responds, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you cry out, your walls tightening around him. Changbin lets himself go, his hips thrusting up into you as he cums, his release spilling inside you. You collapse onto his chest, both of you breathless, your bodies covered in a sheen of sweat.

Changbin’s arms wrap around you, his fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

"Absolute 10," he whispers, his voice filled with affection.

You look up at him, a tired but happy smile on your face. "Huh?"

"I don’t care if she’s a fangirl, a picky eater, or impulsively spends her money on makeup," Changbin says, his smile growing as he gazes at you. "She’s an absolute 10."

You lean in, kissing him softly, pouring all your love and adoration into that single kiss. He kisses you back just as tenderly, letting you know how much he adores you in return.

Despite the day’s plans being derailed, Changbin knows it’s perfect. He’s spent it with his perfect 10—you.

Support my works by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @jebetwo @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo

#stray kids smut #skz smut #Changbin smut #Changbin x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut #test drive series

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year ago

Text

"A tour of my room :)"

"Is it on? The red light is flashing so..... Hi! It's so nice to meet you whoever you are... My name is Y/n and..... This is my room! Red gave me permission to record this video after they told me what a camera is. My head still hurts a little from all the crying I had to do to convince them to let me keep this- but I'm okay! What should I show you first?....hm...."

You take a quick look of your surroundings - the hollow ping of metal hitting the poles of your bed catching your ear, steering your gaze towards your weighted wrists.

"My bracelets! Red gave them to me my first night home. The leash is to make sure I don't wander off. I used to do that a lot actually. It's long enough I can comfortably walk around the kitchen, the bathroom, and Red's room. Those are pretty much all the places I need to go. If I pull my bed away from the wall, I can almost touch the front-"

Knock- knock- knock-

Only three... Not them....

.....

"Moving on! As you can see under me, this is my bed. I don't use it much since Red likes when I sleep with them. If you look really close riiight there - you can see Red carved our names into the headboard. They've carved our named into a lot of things we own. I think it's their favorite hobby."

You point upwards at your caretaker's beautiful craftsmanship. Heavy pounds channels through the walls - the frame of your bed imitating the knocks at the front door as it taps your bedroom wall in an that dreaded sound-

Knock, knock, knock-

"Over here is my dresser, where I keep most of my things."

Sliding off the edge of the bed, you recenter your new camera towards your dresser. You knew Red cleaned while you were asleep so there wasn't much on top of the furniture besides a stuffed fox they gifted you your first night home, and a spool of wool rendered useless due to sharp tears in the fabric. There were some picture frames as well, but those were more for Red than anything. The less you had to see your face the better

"I really wanted to try knitting like Red does, but my claws always tear the wool. Next to that is Mr. Rabbit. Red said they got him when they were little and it helped them feel less scared - so they gave it to me to make me free better. I don't want to hurt him so he sleeps here. Above my dresser is the list of rules Red has for me. It's really short - because they said I'm a good person. Red is still teaching me how to read, but i still remember what they told me-"

You pick up the camera, angling it up at the tapestry as you speak

"No eating on the couch-"

"Clean your teeth after every meal."

"Ignore any voices that are not Red's."

"The only time you're allowed to enter the basement is if your teeth start to feel itchy."

"And lastly.... Do not open the front door unless you hear the special knock we created together."

The last one is easy to follow.

"Help! Please, somebody- help! My boyfriend is hurt, I can't stop the bleeding. We were attacked some maniac in this... fucked up mask. Please - open the fucking door!"

You walk to the opposite side of the room, facing away from the window.

"Red.... Red doesn't let me do a lot of things. They were so mad at me when they found me cleaning the storage closet, but their mood changed so fast when they saw I found this... They said it's a music player. I like when they play music from their phone. They said when I'm too scared to watch t.v in the living room to drown out the noises I can just play one of these these...re....reco...."

Knock.

"Go away!"

Go away, go away- Why can't they just leave you alone. Why can't they understand it's better this way? Whatever Red will do.... It's better than..... Red. Where's Red? Why aren't they home yet? You're scared. Scared of what you'll do. Where is Red? Red - Red, please come home. I'm so hungry.

Dinner... Dinner is right outside, but you're a good person - just like they said. You'll wait for Red. They'll probably be home at any second - cries that loud could be heard for miles in a place like this. You just have to wait.

"I.....I guess I just put the record in here, then. Red is gonna be so proud of me for doing this by myself. Thank you for everything you do for me, Red..... I hope you all liked my tour!"

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere x willing reader #tw yandere #monster reader #yandere scenarios

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stylesonfilms · 6 months ago

Text

ink & innocence - 21

word count: 8.8k

sorry for the wait, hope you guys enjoy!

The next day, though Harry had to be cooped up at the shop once more, he made sure to bring Aspen along. The girl sat perched by the front desk, swaying in her chair as Niall and Zayn kept her company while her boyfriend worked on another large last minute walk-in piece.

Aspen hadn't minded tagging along to the shop today. In fact, she liked being around Harry's world, seeing the environment he was so comfortable in. It was different from her own, rougher around the edges, but it fascinated her. The steady hum of the tattoo machines, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air—it was all so uniquely him.

She sat at the front desk, her legs crossed at the ankle as she absentmindedly flipped through one of the shop's design books. Every now and then, her eyes drifted toward Harry's station where he was focused on a client, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense with concentration. He looked good when he worked, brows drawn together, tongue occasionally swiping across his bottom lip in focus. She felt warmth rise in her cheeks just watching him.

Zayn and Niall were keeping her company in the meantime, the two of them going back and forth in their usual banter, making Aspen giggle behind her hand.

"You know, I think I'd look real good with a full sleeve," Niall mused, stretching his arm out in front of him and squinting as if he were already picturing it.

Zayn snorted, shaking his head. "You're too indecisive. You'd get halfway through and regret it."

Aspen giggled as Niall shot Zayn an exaggerated glare. "Oi! I could pull it off." He turned to Aspen for backup. "Don't you think I'd look good with a sleeve?"

Aspen tilted her head, feigning deep thought before giving a shy little shrug. "I think it would suit you... maybe."

Zayn barked out a laugh, pointing at Niall. "Even Aspen doesn't sound convinced."

Niall groaned, slumping back dramatically in his seat, which only made Aspen giggle more. The conversation carried on lightheartedly, small jokes exchanged between them as she grew more comfortable with their dynamic.

"Okay, fine," Niall huffed. "No sleeve. But what about, like, a single bold piece? Something cool and mysterious. Maybe a dagger? A wolf? A dragon?"

Zayn raised a brow. "You sound like every dude who walks in here asking for their 'first ink' and then chickens out when the needle actually touches their skin."

Aspen covered her mouth as she laughed, her shoulders shaking. "Do people really do that?"

"More often than you'd think," Zayn smirked, leaning against the counter. "You should see some of the excuses we get. 'Oh, I forgot I had a meeting.' 'Oh, my girlfriend doesn't like tattoos.' 'Oh, I think I left my oven on at home.'"

Aspen giggled harder, imagining the scene unfolding.

Niall pointed at Zayn accusingly. "Listen, I may be many things, but a coward is not one of them. If I commit, I commit."

Zayn gave him a skeptical look. "That so?"

"Absolutely."

Aspen, still smiling, tapped a finger against the open design book in front of her. "Well... if you had to pick one right now, what would it be?"

Niall leaned over, scanning the page, before pointing to a classic anchor design. "That. Timeless. Rugged. Manly."

Zayn snorted. "Basic."

"Oh, come on!" Niall groaned. "I thought we were past judging people for classic ink choices!"

Aspen bit her lip to keep from laughing too hard, enjoying the easy back-and-forth between them. She liked this—being included, feeling like she belonged in their little world.

Her eyes flickered over to Harry again, watching the way he moved, the way he gently tilted his client's arm to get a better angle, the way he was so deeply focused. It still amazed her, how skilled he was, how much he cared about his craft. He made everything seem effortless.

She didn't even realize she was staring until Niall leaned closer and whispered, "You're drooling."

Aspen's face burned as she snapped her gaze back to him. "I—I am not!"

Niall grinned, nudging her arm. "S'fine, love, we get it. Your boyfriend's hot."

Zayn smirked, adding, "At least you're subtle about it."

Aspen groaned, burying her face in her hands as they both chuckled at her expense.

"Fine, fine," she muttered, shaking her head with a shy smile. "Let's change the subject."

"Aw, but this was getting good," Niall teased, but he relented when she shot him a playful glare.

Aspen took a sip from her water bottle, settling herself again before her curiosity got the better of her.

Aspen absentmindedly traced patterns along the condensation of her water bottle, the soft hum of tattoo machines filling the shop as she let the words roll off her tongue without much thought. "So... where were you guys the other day?"

She wasn't asking with suspicion—just curiosity. It was normal for them all to be busy, especially Harry and Zayn, but with both of them disappearing on the same day, she had assumed they had been working at the shop together.

Zayn, who had been scrolling on his phone, stilled almost imperceptibly. It was brief, barely noticeable, before he smoothly resumed, tapping his thumb against the screen in thought.

Niall, however, was as easygoing as ever, giving a nonchalant shrug. "Dunno. They weren't at the shop, I—"

Before he could finish, Zayn subtly nudged him under the counter, just enough to make Niall pause. The interruption was swift, casual, and Aspen didn't catch on to its meaning.

Niall, never one to be easily flustered, let out an easy chuckle. "Oh, wait, nah. I got my days mixed up," he corrected smoothly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Yeah, they were definitely here. You know how it is—busy day, tons of walk-ins. I wasn't here much, though. Just popped in for a bit."

Aspen nodded, easily accepting the answer. It made sense. Niall was always in and out, never one to stay planted in one place unless he had a reason to.

Zayn leaned back against the counter, arms crossed as he picked up the explanation. "Yeah, long ass day. Harry and I had some big pieces to do, so we were stuck here forever. Back-to-back appointments. Barely had time to eat, let alone breathe." His voice was smooth, perfectly composed, and it wasn't unusual for him and Harry to take on big projects.

Aspen didn't even think to question it further. In fact, she felt a little guilty for asking—if they'd had such a long day, she didn't want to seem like she was prying.

She stole a glance at Harry across the room. He was still deep in his work, head tilted in concentration, jaw set as he dragged the tattoo machine carefully over his client's skin. He looked so at home in his element.

She smiled softly to herself, brushing away any lingering thoughts. Harry had never given her a reason to doubt him, and besides, if something was wrong, he would tell her.

"Well, as long as you weren't getting into trouble," she teased lightly, taking a sip of her water.

Niall grinned, dramatically clutching his chest. "Me? Trouble? Never."

Zayn smirked, taking a slow sip of his drink, the picture of amusement but offering no further comment.

Aspen giggled at their antics, letting the conversation drift into something else, not noticing the fleeting glance Zayn and Niall exchanged. If she had, maybe she would've realized there was more to the story than they were letting on.

Aspen leaned forward slightly in her chair, resting her elbow on the desk as she idly twirled the cap of her water bottle between her fingers. The conversation had shifted naturally, moving from their usual banter to something a little more personal.

"So, what's the plan for you two, then?" Niall grinned, wiggling his brows between her and Zayn. "Aspen, you finally got yourself a big, brooding tattoo artist. What's next?"

Aspen blushed, the warmth creeping up her neck. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I don't know... we're just taking things as they come."

"Boring answer," Niall teased, leaning back in his chair. "Come on, give me something. Future plans? Marriage? White picket fence? Maybe some tattooed babies running around?"

Aspen nearly choked on her water, her face burning even hotter. "Niall!" she squeaked, eyes wide.

Zayn barked out a laugh, slapping a hand against the counter. "Too soon, man," he smirked. "Let 'em breathe."

"I'm just saying! You two are disgustingly cute." Niall stretched his arms behind his head. "If Harry wasn't already obsessed with you, I'd be worried."

Aspen tried to play off her embarrassment, but she couldn't stop the way her lips curled into a soft smile. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her bottle again, and when she stole another glance across the room, she caught Harry's gaze.

He was already looking at her.

It was brief, just a flicker of his eyes before he turned his attention back to his work, but it was enough to send a pleasant warmth blooming in Aspen's chest.

Niall was still talking, something about how he was destined to be the world's best godfather whenever Harry and Aspen decided to have kids (which, in Aspen's opinion, was way too early to even think about), but she was only half-listening.

Because every time she glanced toward Harry, she caught him doing the same.

And every time their eyes met, it sent little flutters through her stomach.

"So what about you guys?" she asked, eager to shift the conversation away from herself. "What's your plan for the future?"

Zayn shrugged, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Haven't thought about it much. Business is good. I don't see myself doing anything else anytime soon."

"Fair," Aspen nodded. "And you, Niall?"

"Oh, I'm gonna be rich," Niall declared, pointing at himself with full confidence. "But like, stupid rich. Don't ask me how yet. Maybe I'll invent something. Or marry into money. Either way, I'll be set."

Aspen laughed, shaking her head. "Solid plan."

"Exactly," Niall grinned. "And speaking of plans... Aspen, be real with me—are you gonna stay with this guy forever, or what?"

Aspen opened her mouth to respond, but she didn't have an answer.

Forever?

Her gaze flickered back toward Harry. She wasn't even sure if he was listening to their conversation, but she knew that if she was being honest with herself... the idea of forever with him didn't seem so scary.

She just smiled, a little shy, a little uncertain.

"We'll see," she murmured.

And from across the room, Harry glanced up once more—just in time to catch her looking at him again.

Aspen shifted in her seat, her fingers absentmindedly twisting the cap of her water bottle as she debated whether or not to ask the question sitting at the tip of her tongue. She wasn't usually the type to pry, but curiosity had a way of gnawing at her when it came to Harry—especially when it came to the parts of his life he didn't bring up often.

"Can I ask you guys something?" she finally murmured, glancing between Niall and Zayn.

Zayn quirked a brow, while Niall leaned in like she was about to spill the most interesting gossip he'd ever heard. "Course you can, sweetheart," Niall grinned. "What's on your mind?"

She hesitated for a moment before voicing what she'd been wondering. "Has Harry ever talked about... past relationships? Like, has he ever been in love before?"

Niall and Zayn exchanged a look, one Aspen couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't amusement, nor was it discomfort—it was something in between, like they were deciding how much they should say.

"Depends on what you mean by 'in love,'" Zayn finally said, tapping his fingers against the counter. "If you're asking if he's had girlfriends before, then yeah, he's had a few. If you're asking if he's ever been in love? That's a different question entirely."

Aspen frowned slightly. "So... has he?"

Zayn sighed, tilting his head as he considered his answer. "I don't think so," he admitted. "Not the way you mean. Harry's had flings, some more serious than others, but he's never been the type to settle down. Not because he couldn't, just... he never found anyone he wanted to."

Aspen processed that quietly, her fingers still tracing idle patterns on her bottle. It wasn't a bad answer. If anything, it only made her feel more special—like she was different.

Still, she wasn't quite done with her questions.

"What about the way he talks about me?" she asked softly, suddenly feeling a little shy about the inquiry. "Does he... ever bring me up?"

Niall let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back. "God, Aspen, you have no idea," he whined. "The man does not shut up about you."

Aspen's eyes widened. "He does?"

"Constantly," Zayn smirked. "It's almost embarrassing, really. We could be talking about literally anything, and he'll find a way to bring you into the conversation. 'Aspen would love this.' 'Aspen was reading this book the other day.' 'Aspen said the funniest thing.' It's ridiculous."

Aspen's face heated instantly, her heart swelling at the revelation. She'd known Harry cared about her—he wasn't shy in the way he showed his affection—but hearing that he talked about her so often when she wasn't around made her feel warm in a way she couldn't quite describe.

"Yeah," Niall added, grinning. "And don't even get me started on the way he talks about you when he's drunk."

Aspen's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, he gets all sappy," Niall said, waving a hand. "Like, real soft. Talks about how much he likes you, how you make him feel different than anyone else ever has. It's kinda sweet, actually, if you ignore the fact that he sounds like a lovesick idiot."

Aspen's heart did a little flip in her chest. "He really says that?"

"Every damn time," Zayn confirmed, shaking his head. "And if you ask me, that's saying a lot. Harry doesn't open up easily. But with you? I think he's completely gone."

Aspen chewed on her bottom lip, trying to suppress the giddy smile threatening to take over her face. She'd known Harry felt something strong for her, but hearing it from his friends, from the people who knew him best, made it feel even more real.

After a moment, she gathered her thoughts enough to ask her next question. "Has he ever told you guys why he never got serious with anyone before?"

Niall and Zayn exchanged another glance before Zayn answered. "He's never given us a straightforward reason," he admitted. "But I think it has to do with trust. Harry's not the kind of guy who lets people in easily. He's seen too many people turn their backs when things got hard, so he stopped letting them get close in the first place."

Aspen frowned slightly, her heart aching at the thought. She knew Harry had his walls, knew he carried burdens he didn't always talk about. But the idea that he'd spent so much of his life keeping people at arm's length made her want to hold onto him even tighter.

"Well," she said softly, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter, "I hope he knows he doesn't have to worry about that with me."

Zayn studied her for a moment before nodding, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I think he does," he murmured. "And I think that's why you're different."

Aspen exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, feeling an overwhelming sense of warmth spread through her chest. Maybe she was different. Maybe, despite everything, Harry had finally found someone he was willing to let in.

And maybe—just maybe—she was willing to let him in, too.

As Harry worked, the rhythmic hum of the tattoo machine filled the space around him, the buzz familiar and grounding. His hand was steady, movements precise as he filled in the last bit of shading on his client’s forearm. It was muscle memory by now, the way he worked—careful, methodical, ensuring every line was perfect. But despite how deep he was in his craft, his attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Aspen.

Every now and then, between dipping his needle into ink and wiping away excess, his gaze would flicker toward the front of the shop where she sat. She was perched on the chair, her legs tucked under her, absently twirling the cap of her water bottle between her fingers as she listened to whatever nonsense Niall and Zayn were spewing. She was smiling, her cheeks soft with warmth, and fuck—Harry swore he could feel that smile in his damn chest.

It was different, having her here. Not in a bad way—quite the opposite, really. It was grounding, a quiet reassurance that she was becoming a part of this life of his. A life he never thought he’d want to share so openly with someone.

His fingers tightened around the tattoo machine slightly. That thought—it was dangerous. Because there were parts of his life she couldn’t know. Not yet.

He swallowed, forcing his focus back on the piece he was working on. The secrecy—it wasn’t about not trusting her. He did. More than he cared to admit. But there were things in his world that were better left in the dark. Things that weren’t meant for someone like her—soft, kind, untouched by the shit he and Zayn were tangled up in.

Maybe one day, he’d tell her. But not now. Not when he could still shield her from it.

He exhaled, shaking off the heaviness pressing against his ribs, and refocused on finishing up.

Fifteen minutes later, he wiped down the tattoo one last time, nodding in satisfaction before wrapping it up. “Alright, man,” he said to his client, standing and stretching out his arms. “You’re all set. Just follow the aftercare instructions, and you’ll be golden.”

After handling payment and bidding the guy goodbye, Harry finally took a breath. His break had been long overdue.

As he walked over to the front of the shop, the scent of food hit him first. His brows lifted slightly in surprise as he spotted Aspen setting out plates in front of Niall and Zayn, her movements careful and deliberate as she made sure everyone had what they needed. His own plate was set aside for him, waiting.

His heart clenched at the sight.

She had cooked for them?

Something about that simple act of care made something deep in him ache.

Before he made his way over to grab his plate, he veered slightly, walking past Niall and—without hesitation—snagging a bite right off his plate.

“Oi!” Niall protested, pulling his plate away. “What the hell, mate? You've got your own!”

Harry chewed, smirking as he handed Niall back his fork. “I know,” he said easily with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “but if m'lady made it, I want it all.”

Aspen, who had just taken a seat, turned a deep shade of red at his words, her fingers curling in her lap as she ducked her head slightly.

Niall groaned, rolling his eyes as he snatched his plate back. “Christ, you two are disgusting.”

Harry grinned, but didn’t respond, instead making his way over to his own plate. Before sitting down, he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against Aspen’s cheek from behind.

She stilled for a second, then exhaled, shoulders loosening as a shy little smile played on her lips.

Harry took his seat next to her, grabbing his fork as he dug in. The second he took his first bite, he let out a hum of approval. “Fuck, baby. This is good.”

“She’s got skills,” Zayn agreed, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Could open up a restaurant or some shit.”

Aspen’s cheeks were still pink as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s really not that big of a deal…”

“It is when all we usually eat is takeout,” Niall chimed in. “This is the best thing I’ve had all week.”

Harry chewed thoughtfully, tapping his fork against his plate before swallowing. “Dunno,” he mused, his lips curling into a slow, cheeky smirk. “I’ve had somethin’ better this week.”

Niall snorted. “Mate, there’s no way you’ve eaten anything better than this. We’ve all been living off gas station snacks and whatever the hell Zayn throws together when he remembers food exists.”

Harry simply leaned back in his chair, draping his arm over the back of Aspen’s. His smirk deepened as he tilted his head slightly toward her, voice dropping just enough to make her stomach twist. “Wasn’t talkin’ about the food.”

Aspen nearly choked on her bite of rice.

Her wide eyes snapped up to him, cheeks instantly burning as she realized exactly what he was implying. Her fingers curled against the napkin in her lap as she shot him a scandalized look, her lips parting slightly in disbelief.

Zayn, always one to catch on quickly, just chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Niall, on the other hand, took an extra second before groaning in exaggerated disgust. “Christ, Harry. I did not need that mental image while I’m eating.”

Harry only grinned, winking at Aspen before casually picking his fork back up like he hadn’t just made her want to shrink into the floor.

Aspen, flustered beyond belief, pressed her lips together, glancing down at her plate as if it might save her from the warmth spreading all the way to her ears. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered, nudging his knee with hers beneath the table.

Harry let out a low chuckle, nudging her back. “But you like me anyway.”

She didn’t dignify that with an answer—mostly because it was true. And he damn well knew it.

Harry smirked, nudging Aspen lightly with his knee under the table. “Guess that means you’ll have to start cooking for us more often, yeah?”

Aspen rolled her eyes playfully but didn’t argue. Instead, she focused on eating her own food, her lips twitching slightly as the conversation between them carried on.

The energy was easy, lighthearted. They talked about everything and nothing—Niall complaining about a client who wouldn’t stop moving while getting tattooed, Zayn discussing the new pieces he and Harry had lined up, Aspen giggling at their banter.

As the laughter settled, the four of them fell into easy conversation, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the quiet lulls between their words. Harry sat comfortably next to Aspen, his arm draped lazily along the back of her chair, occasionally letting his fingers brush the ends of her hair. It was subtle—so subtle that if someone wasn’t looking, they wouldn’t notice—but Aspen felt every touch, every slight movement of his fingers, and it made her stomach twist in a way she wasn’t used to.

Zayn was the first to steer the conversation into something deeper, leaning back in his chair as he chewed. “So, what’s the plan for the future?” He raised a brow, glancing between them. “Y’know, since we’re all clearly on different paths here. You lot got it all figured out?”

Niall snorted. “Figure out what? That I’ll probably be covered head to toe in ink before I turn thirty and still be eating this girl’s cooking?” He gestured to Aspen with his fork, grinning. “Because if that’s the future, I’m pretty happy with it.”

Aspen smiled, warmth spreading in her chest at the compliment. “You act like I’ll be cooking for you forever,” she teased.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart, don’t do me like that. You’d miss me if I stopped showing up to steal your food.”

Harry rolled his eyes, smirking as he took a sip of his drink. “You’re like a stray cat. Feed you once, and you never leave.”

Zayn chuckled. “That explains why he practically lives at the shop.”

Niall threw up his hands in mock offense. “You lot love having me around, don’t even try to deny it.”

Aspen giggled, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the question Zayn had asked. “But, um, I don’t really know yet,” she admitted softly. “I mean, I have ideas. I love books, so maybe something with that… but it’s hard to say.”

Harry glanced at her, taking in the slight uncertainty in her voice. He could tell she thought about it—probably more than she let on—but she wasn’t one to be loud about her ambitions. She kept them tucked away, only revealing them in small doses, and for some reason, that made him want to hear them even more.

“What about you?” Aspen nudged Harry’s arm lightly.

He took a slow bite, chewing as he considered his answer. “Dunno,” he said finally. “Tattooin’ is what I love. Keeps me steady, keeps me busy. But…” He paused, swirling his fork against his plate. “I guess I wouldn’t mind somethin’ more down the road.”

“More?” Aspen tilted her head, intrigued.

Harry glanced at her, a small smirk playing at his lips. “What? You think I wanna be slingin’ ink forever?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You’re really good at it.”

His chest swelled slightly at the compliment, but he only shrugged. “Yeah, but sometimes… I think about what it’d be like to settle down a bit.”

That made Aspen pause, her fork hovering mid-air. “Settle down?”

Harry’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was something softer in his eyes now. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Someday.”

Aspen lowered her gaze, heat crawling up her neck. The thought of Harry—this inked-up, reckless, sometimes smug but always caring man—talking about settling down was almost impossible to picture. But at the same time… it wasn’t.

“What about you?” Harry’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

She blinked up at him, then quickly shook her head. “I—I don’t know,” she murmured. “I never really thought about it.”

Harry hummed, studying her carefully before offering her a teasing grin. “Guess I’ll have to change that, then.”

Aspen’s heart stuttered in her chest, and before she could even process his words, Niall groaned dramatically.

“Christ, you two are disgustingly cute. Can we eat in peace without watchin’ you make heart eyes at each other?”

Zayn chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re just jealous.”

Niall scoffed. “Jealous my ass. I like my peace. Not my fault these two make it impossible.”

Zayn smirked as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Speaking of impossible,” he started, glancing over at Niall with a knowing glint in his eye. “Didn’t you go on that date the other week? The one with that girl you wouldn’t shut up about?”

Aspen perked up immediately, turning her attention to Niall, who suddenly looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. She had never heard anything about Niall dating, and now she was curious.

“Oh?” Aspen tilted her head, eyes bright with interest. “Who’s this mystery girl?”

Niall groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Why do you always have to bring shit up, man?” he grumbled at Zayn before exhaling dramatically. “It was just a date. Nothin’ serious.”

“That’s not what you were saying last week,” Zayn shot back smugly.

Aspen turned fully in her chair, leaning in closer with excitement. “Come on, tell me! I need details.”

Harry snorted beside her, clearly enjoying Niall’s misery as he took another bite of his food.

Niall gave them all an exasperated look before slumping back in his seat. “Her name’s Elena. Met her at a café—well, more like she bumped into me and spilled coffee all over my jeans.” He chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “She was all flustered and apologetic, tryin’ to clean me up, and I was just standin’ there like an idiot. But we got talkin’, and I don’t know… she was easy to talk to.”

Aspen smiled at the way his voice softened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to sound so fond but couldn’t help it. “That sounds cute,” she mused. “So? How was the date?”

Niall shrugged. “It was good. Took her to dinner, talked a lot. She’s studying psychology, so she’s always analyzin’ people. Pretty sure she was psychoanalyzin’ me the whole time.”

Zayn chuckled. “That’s probably not hard.”

Niall shot him a look before continuing. “Anyway, she’s nice. Sweet. Smart as hell. But I dunno, she’s busy with school, and I’m always at the shop. We haven’t really talked much since.”

Aspen frowned slightly, sensing that there was more to it than just being busy. “Do you like her?”

Niall hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… yeah, I guess.”

Zayn scoffed. “You more than ‘guess.’ You texted her three days straight after the date.”

Aspen gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, Niall!”

Niall groaned again, dropping his head against the table. “I hate you all.”

Harry, who had been relatively quiet, finally smirked and chimed in. “So, what’s stoppin’ you? If you like her, ask her out again.”

Niall lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “You make it sound so easy.”

Aspen tapped her fingers against the table thoughtfully before an idea struck her. “Wait! What if I helped?”

Niall narrowed his eyes. “Help how?”

“Well,” Aspen began, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “you said she’s in psychology, right? I actually have a class with her. We’re not super close or anything, but I could… I don’t know, maybe put in a good word for you?”

Zayn barked out a laugh. “Oh, this is gold.”

Niall groaned for what seemed like the hundredth time, dragging his hands down his face. “Jesus. This is humiliatin’.”

“It’s not humiliating!” Aspen argued. “Think of it as… giving you a little push in the right direction.”

Harry chuckled beside her, shaking his head. “That’s dangerous, mate. Aspen’s got a way of getting what she wants.”

Aspen elbowed him playfully but turned back to Niall with an encouraging smile. “I’ll be subtle, I promise. Just casual, ‘Oh, Niall’s such a great guy’ kind of stuff.”

Niall sighed dramatically. “If this backfires, I’m blamin’ you.”

Aspen grinned. “Deal.”

Zayn smirked. “This is the most entertaining lunch I’ve had in weeks.”

As they continued eating, the conversation naturally flowed into playful teasing and joking, but Aspen made a mental note to follow through on her promise. If there was a chance she could help Niall get the push he needed, she’d gladly take it.

Aspen, still burning from Harry’s words, buried her face in her hands. Harry only grinned wider, reaching over to steal another bite from Niall’s plate, completely unbothered.

As the conversation carried on, Aspen couldn’t help but steal glances at Harry—at the way he fit so easily into the dynamic, at the way he teased and laughed and looked at her like she was something he wanted to keep close.

And for a little while, Harry let himself sink into it.

No stress, no secrets.

Just this. Her.

He’d hold onto it for as long as he could.

Harry sat back in his chair, absently twirling his fork between his fingers as conversation carried on around him. The food was good—great, actually, because Aspen had made it—but if he was being honest, he wasn’t fully present. His mind kept slipping, getting caught up in memories that were much more intoxicating than anything else in the room.

He’d been doing his best to keep himself engaged, nodding along when Niall teased Zayn about something, adding in a comment here and there, but all it took was one glance at Aspen, one moment of catching the soft curve of her lips as she smiled, or the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, and he was gone again.

His grip tightened slightly on his fork as his mind drifted back to that night in his office. He could still feel her, taste her, the phantom sensation of her lips and tongue making his stomach coil with heat. The way she had looked at him—wide-eyed, eager, completely wrapped up in him—had nearly ruined him. He’d had plenty of hookups before, but none of them stuck in his head like this, none of them made him crave more than just the physical. But Aspen? She was burned into his mind, into his fucking soul.

And the bathroom. Christ.

He swallowed hard, taking a sip of his drink to keep himself grounded, but it didn’t help much. He could still see the way she’d knelt for him, how shy she had been but how determined, how she’d hesitated but only for a moment before she found her rhythm. The contrast between her softness and the way she had wrecked him had his head spinning even now. He’d never been so completely fucking whipped for someone, never felt this all-consuming urge to take and give all at once. The way she’d looked up at him through her lashes, her fingers barely able to wrap around him, her lips stretched as far as they could go—it had been enough to make him lose all control.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself subtly as he forced himself to refocus. He had to get a grip. It wouldn’t do him any favors to sit there getting lost in his own head while they were all supposed to be enjoying a meal. He glanced over at Aspen, catching the way she was laughing at something Niall said, completely unaware of the way she had him tied in knots.

She had no idea what she did to him.

Harry exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before speaking up, his voice deliberately casual. “Hey, babe,” he said, shifting his attention to Aspen. “Think you could help me move a few things around in my office?”

Aspen blinked, surprised by the sudden request. “Oh,” she said softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, of course.”

Harry smirked, pleased with her easy agreement. Truthfully, there wasn’t much that needed moving, but with Niall and Zayn getting caught up with clients, he had a perfect excuse to steal her away for a few moments. He needed a break, and more than that, he wanted to be alone with her—just her.

“Tryin’ to get her alone, are we?” Niall teased, wiggling his brows as he stood from the table to grab his supplies.

Zayn chuckled, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Smooth, mate.”

Harry rolled his eyes, standing as well before placing a firm hand at Aspen’s lower back, guiding her toward the hall leading to his office. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

Aspen followed quietly, her heart picking up its pace just from the warmth of his palm against her. There was something about the way he touched her—casual yet possessive, like he was always reminding her that she was his. She tried not to overthink it, but the way her stomach fluttered made it impossible.

The moment they stepped into his office, Harry shut the door behind them, leaning against it for a second as he took her in. She looked soft under the dim lighting, her features gentle but curious, and for a split second, he forgot why he even made up the excuse in the first place.

“So… what are we moving?” Aspen asked, glancing around the office.

Harry tilted his head slightly, dragging his lip ring between his teeth as he considered her. Then, with a slow grin, he shrugged. “Dunno,” he admitted. “Might’ve just wanted to get you alone.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed instantly. “Harry,” she scolded, but there was no real bite to it.

“What?” He smirked, stepping closer, his hands finding her hips with ease. “Can’t a man want some time with his girl?”

Aspen’s breath hitched, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest to create the smallest bit of distance, but Harry only squeezed her hips gently, pulling her in just enough to make her heart race.

“You—” She swallowed, trying to compose herself. “You could’ve just said that instead of pretending you needed help moving things.”

Harry hummed, dipping his head to brush his nose against hers. “Mm. Could’ve,” he mused. “But this way was more fun.”

Aspen’s lips parted slightly, her resolve slipping just from the heat of his proximity. He had this effect on her—one look, one touch, and she was undone.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” she murmured.

Harry grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek before pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “Good,” he said simply. “Because you do the same to me.”

Aspen barely had a second to process his words before Harry closed the distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. His hands moved from her hips to her waist, fingers pressing firmly against the fabric of her top as he pulled her even closer. She melted into him instantly, her own hands slipping up to cup his face, thumbs grazing along his jawline as she sighed softly against his lips.

It started slow, sweet, like they had all the time in the world to explore each other. Harry kissed her with an intensity that sent warmth spilling through her veins, his lips moving over hers with a tenderness that contradicted the way his fingers flexed against her waist. It had been a long day, a long week, and this was what they needed—just the two of them, no distractions, no rushed moments stolen between the chaos of their lives.

But as much as Harry wanted to savor this, his self-control started slipping the second Aspen let out the softest whimper against his mouth. His grip tightened, his lips parting to deepen the kiss, tongue swiping against hers in a way that had her knees weakening beneath her. Aspen clung to him, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as she let herself drown in him.

Harry groaned softly, one hand leaving her waist to tangle in her hair, angling her head just how he wanted as he took his time tasting her. The soft scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body pressed against his—it was overwhelming in the best way. He could stay like this forever, but then Aspen pressed just a bit closer, her body molding against his like she was meant to be there, and Harry nearly lost it.

His lips moved from hers, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down to the soft skin of her neck. Aspen gasped, tilting her head to give him more access as his teeth scraped lightly against her pulse point. He smiled against her skin when he felt her shiver, his other hand gripping her waist even tighter.

“Harry,” she whispered, voice breathy, and it sent a shudder down his spine.

It took everything in him to pull back, his forehead resting against hers as he caught his breath. His chest rose and fell heavily, his grip on her tightening before he forced himself to let go completely.

Aspen blinked up at him, lips swollen and eyes dazed. “Why’d you stop?” she asked softly, her voice laced with curiosity and the faintest hint of disappointment.

Harry chuckled, his hands finding her hips once more as he gave her a gentle squeeze. “Because, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth, “if I keep going, I’m gonna start something I can’t finish.”

Aspen’s face turned a deep shade of red at his words, and she quickly dropped her gaze. “Oh,” she squeaked out in a breath, suddenly very interested in the buttons on his shirt.

Harry grinned, loving the way she got all shy on him. “Cute,” he mused, nudging her chin up with his fingers so she’d look at him again. “C’mon, little mouse. Have a seat.”

Aspen obeyed, settling onto the small sofa against the wall, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she tried to recover from the heat still lingering in her veins.

Harry grabbed his sketchbook from the desk before sitting beside her, his arm draped along the back of the couch as he flipped to a fresh page. “I needed a break anyway,” he murmured, tapping his pencil against the paper.

Aspen peeked at him, still feeling a little breathless. “What are you gonna draw?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

Harry smirked, eyes flicking to hers before looking back at the blank page. “Dunno yet,” he admitted. “Maybe you.”

Aspen’s heart skipped at that, but she only tilted her head slightly, a confused smile pulling at her lips. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

Harry stilled for a moment, debating whether he should keep it to himself or let her in on the little secret he had been holding onto for months. A small smirk played at the corner of his lips as he exhaled, deciding that maybe it was time.

Instead of answering right away, he flipped through his sketchbook, fingers dragging over the edges of the pages as he searched for something specific. Aspen watched curiously, her brows knitting together when she noticed how careful he was being, almost hesitant.

And then he turned the book toward her.

Aspen blinked. Her lips parted slightly as her gaze landed on the first drawing—a sketch of her, sitting beneath a tree, completely lost in her book. The details were so precise, so tenderly drawn, she could almost feel the sunlight filtering through the leaves above her, just like it had been that day during their camping trip.

Her throat tightened. “Is this…?”

“The first time I sketched you,” Harry finished for her, voice softer than usual. “Back at the campsite.”

Aspen reached out, her fingers barely grazing the page as she stared at it, taking in every detail. “You… you drew this back then?” Her voice was breathy, almost disbelieving.

Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. You just… I dunno, you looked so peaceful sitting there. I couldn’t help it.”

Aspen’s chest ached in the best way possible. She turned the page, revealing another sketch of her—this one of her standing by Zayn’s car, arms crossed, deep in thought. And then another of her sitting at the tattoo shop, nose buried in a book, oblivious to everything around her. There were so many.

Page after page, she found herself staring at different versions of herself through Harry’s eyes. Some were quick, rough sketches, as if he had drawn them in a hurry before the image slipped from his mind. Others were detailed, shaded with such care that they looked almost lifelike.

She swallowed thickly, emotions swelling in her chest as she reached another drawing—one that looked fresher, the graphite still bold and untouched by time. It was her, curled up on the couch, wearing the oversized hoodie she had stolen from Harry the other night.

“I drew that one a couple nights ago,” Harry admitted, watching her reaction closely. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Aspen’s fingers trembled slightly as she turned to face him. “You never told me,” she whispered.

Harry held her gaze, his usual cocky demeanor slipping into something more vulnerable. “Didn’t think I needed to,” he murmured. “You’re just… always on my mind, I guess.”

Aspen’s heart stuttered in her chest. The weight of his words settled deep in her bones, making it hard to breathe for a moment. She didn’t know what to say, so instead, she reached out and laced her fingers through his, squeezing his hand in silent understanding.

Harry let out a breath and flipped to the back of the sketchbook. “That’s not the only thing I’ve been working on,” he admitted, flipping past a few blank pages before stopping at something else entirely.

Aspen frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as she realized it wasn’t another sketch—it was handwriting. Lyrics.

She tilted her head, reading the words on the page.

"Sweet creature, had another talk about where it’s going wrong… but we’re still young, we don’t know where we’re going, but we know where we belong…”

Aspen’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Harry… this is—”

Harry cut her off with a nervous chuckle, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah, I’ve been dabbling with the guitar,” he admitted. “Words just kinda… flow sometimes.”

Aspen traced the title with her fingertips, her heart swelling at the sight of it. Sweet Creature.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Harry smirked, but there was a softness behind it. “Who else would it be about?”

Aspen bit her lip, a deep warmth spreading through her chest. She wanted to ask him to play it for her, but something about the way he was looking at her—like he wasn’t quite ready to share it completely—made her hold back.

Instead, she turned the page, revealing another song title scribbled onto the next sheet.

"Meet Me in the Hallway."

Aspen’s brows knitted together as she read through the lyrics, the weight of the words pressing down on her chest. There was something haunting about them, something aching, as if each line bled with regret. The melody was absent, but she could feel it in the rhythm of the syllables, in the spaces between the words where silence spoke just as loudly.

Her fingers traced over the ink, eyes scanning over the phrase again and again.

"Just let me know I'll be at the door, at the door Hoping you'll come around Just let me know I'll be on the floor, on the floor Maybe we'll work it out..."

She swallowed thickly, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak. “This one feels…” she trailed off, trying to pinpoint the exact emotion clawing at her chest.

Harry, who had been watching her reaction closely, answered before she could. His voice was quiet, low. “Guilty?”

Aspen’s head snapped up, and when their eyes met, she understood immediately. This wasn’t just a song. It was them.

It was all the nights she had spent wondering what she had done wrong, why he had looked at her like she was both too much and not enough all at once. It was every moment he had pushed her away despite the way his body betrayed him, lingering too close, brushing against her like he couldn't help himself.

It was the space he had put between them, and the silence that had suffocated her when she hadn't understood why.

Aspen’s chest tightened, her fingers curling around the edge of the sketchbook. She had never asked him about those days, about why he had acted the way he had. Some part of her had been too afraid of the answer.

And yet, here it was—laid bare in ink and paper, more honest than he had ever been aloud.

“Harry…” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he ran a hand through his curls. “I know,” he murmured, his eyes flickering away for a second before coming back to her. “I fucked up back then.”

Aspen sucked in a shaky breath. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Harry cut in, firmer this time. His jaw tensed, his fingers gripping the fabric of his jeans. “I need to. Because I know how I treated you before, and I don’t ever want you t'think for a second that it was because of you.”

Aspen’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She searched his face, her own emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She had spent so long convincing herself that she had imagined the tension, that she had misread the way his eyes had lingered on her, the way he had always seemed to fight against something when he was near her.

And now, hearing him say it outright, the confirmation was almost too much.

“I don’t think that anymore,” she admitted, her voice soft, reassuring. “Not now.”

Harry let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as if he had been holding onto something heavy for too long. His fingers inched toward hers, hesitant at first, until Aspen reached for him on her own, closing the distance.

His skin was warm, rough at the fingertips, and yet he held her hand with a gentleness that made her chest ache.

Aspen studied him for a long moment, taking in the little signs of his discomfort—the way his knee bounced slightly, the way his thumb rubbed absentmindedly over her knuckles, as if grounding himself. She could see the vulnerability in his face, the unspoken weight behind his words.

Slowly, a small smile pulled at her lips. “I think it’s beautiful,” she murmured. “Both of them.”

Harry’s eyes flickered up to meet hers, searching for any trace of dishonesty. “Yeah?”

Aspen nodded. “Yeah.”

For a second, he just stared at her, and then something in him seemed to settle. His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and a small, genuine smile spread across his lips.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Didn’t plan on showing you these t'day,” he admitted, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his tone.

Aspen squeezed his hand, her heart swelling with something deep and warm. “I’m glad you did.”

They sat there, fingers intertwined, the sketchbook still resting between them like a silent bridge to all the things they had never said. And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

Because for once, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t suffocating.

It was simply them.

A quiet stillness settled between them, warm and familiar, as Aspen gently traced the edges of the sketchbook with her fingertips. The weight of everything they had just shared lingered in the air, unspoken yet understood. Harry, still holding her hand, let his thumb lazily graze over her knuckles, grounding himself in the moment. He wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of her learning about his songs, or if it was simply the way she looked at him—like he was something good, something worth knowing—but a sense of peace washed over him.

Without thinking, he shifted closer, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. Aspen let out a quiet breath of surprise but didn’t resist, instinctively tucking herself against him. Her cheek pressed softly against his shoulder, and Harry relished the feeling of her fitting so perfectly against him.

For a moment, they sat like that, just breathing in each other’s presence.

Then, Harry tilted his head down, brushing his lips against her temple. It was slow, lingering, like he wanted to imprint himself into her skin. “Didn’t know how much I needed this,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something tender.

Aspen smiled, her fingers finding the hem of his sleeve and lightly toying with the fabric. “Needed what?” she asked softly.

Harry pressed another kiss against her hair, his lips barely leaving her skin as he whispered, “You. Just you, sugar.”

Aspen felt her chest tighten in the best way, a warmth spreading through her limbs at his words. She turned slightly in his hold, looking up at him with those soft, doe-like eyes of hers. The affection in them made something deep in his chest clench, a feeling so strong it nearly stole his breath.

Without hesitation, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, lazy kiss. It wasn’t rushed or filled with desperation—it was something deeper, something sweeter. His lips moved against hers with a careful kind of reverence, as if every kiss was meant to tell her all the things he struggled to put into words.

Aspen sighed against his mouth, her hand sliding up to rest against his chest, fingers curling slightly into his shirt. She felt his heartbeat beneath her palm—steady, strong, real.

Harry couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, pulling her impossibly closer. “God, you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered between kisses, voice hushed like he was speaking a secret only for her.

Aspen’s cheeks warmed, and she buried her face against his neck, a quiet giggle escaping her lips. “You always say that.”

Harry chuckled, nuzzling against her. “’Cause it’s true.”

She hummed in response, her fingers drawing small patterns against his chest. The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t awkward or uncertain. It was filled with the quiet kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

But then Harry, feeling the way she melted into him, feeling the way her presence made everything better, suddenly had the overwhelming urge to say it out loud.

The words formed on his tongue before he could second-guess himself.

“I love you.”

Aspen stiffened slightly against him, her breath catching.

Harry felt his heart stutter, a rare flicker of nervousness crawling up his spine. He hadn’t planned on saying it—not yet, not now—but the moment had felt too right to hold it back. And now, waiting for her response, he felt completely, utterly exposed.

Aspen slowly pulled back just enough to look up at him, her wide eyes searching his face as if trying to determine if she had heard him correctly.

Harry held her gaze, unwavering. He didn’t regret saying it. Harry was more so nervous if he had said it too soon, or if it was too much right now.

Aspen’s lips parted slightly, her throat working as she swallowed. She looked so soft—so pure in the way she was taking in his words, like she wanted to tuck them away somewhere safe.

Then, almost shyly, she ducked her head, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that made Harry’s chest tighten. Her fingers played with the hem of his sleeve again, fidgeting. And then, in the quietest, sweetest voice, she whispered, “I love you too.”

Harry swore his heart stopped for a second.

A slow, breathy chuckle left his lips, pure relief flooding through him. “Yeah?” he murmured, tipping her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him again.

Aspen nodded, still impossibly shy, but her eyes held no hesitation. “Yeah.”

Harry felt something shift inside him, something settle. He leaned down, pressing another lingering kiss to her lips, his grip around her tightening like he never wanted to let go.

“Sweetest thing,” he whispered against her mouth.

Aspen smiled against his lips, and when they pulled away, she nestled back into his side, her fingers tracing absentminded shapes against his arm.

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, hearts steady and full.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

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